This is Only A Test

It isn’t working well, her terse comments and lack attention. Who would have known that that mess of an individual would pull me in so utterly. It’s fine I suppose that I would succumb to this, there aren’t many things that pull me in so completely, well, there isn’t really anything that I put this sort of effort into. I think what it is, is that I see that I will succeed in the end and I am entirely confident in my abilities for once. I cannot quite put it to words but she has inspired a meaning to my actions. Thoughts that cannot be quelled by drink, work, nor sleep. It is fully encompassing and it makes me wonder if I am a sane man any longer, but it is but a minor concern. Ah, women! To be so scorned because of the power they hold over us! Forget, forget, forget. And then, in the dead of night you are struck awake by nothing and your mind is of one track, running in circles. Another drink, please. I am tired, please forgive me, I must retire and ruminate on my thoughts. They are now scattered and half forgotten.


Tactless Autobiography Continued…

Ink and blood, pens and swords. The ink is stained to the paper and the blood lets from the body. Then the pen is discarded and the sword is grasped. Blood will flow through the tributaries of our youth and feed the placid river of our history. It all seems harmonious and the river slowly burgeons over the levy. Our foolishness has been left unsutured not out of ignorance but out of complacence. We will continue to write and die. And we will know which is right, but we will always have the desire for swift acquisition.

I suppose all there is to be said is that we have all of the answers and the power to reconcile every action and deed of mankind but we lack the general will to act. A malaise, a fear, or a desire. These all make us remember ourselves. Which is not to be trivialized, in fact, triumphed. But not as an individual bought and sold on the market of skills or worth, as an individual known to make mistakes and to take chances. Because we all have to learn who we are and what everything else is even though it is an impossible but fruitful task.

too late

Tactless Autobiography continued…

It is time to forge a new path in the woods. It is everyone’s responsibility to to do so. Living within the false constraints on social belief has yielded paltry results in the understanding of ourselves. This is why people are drawn to the abstract. They yearn to understand what cant be understood because the abstract is solely in the possession of the creator. The beholder can draw their own conclusions and that will be just as significant to them. It is when these impressions are pushed upon others that the novelty of the mind is destroyed.

We live within a structure that can only sustain the physical body. The mind is assaulted, we carry advertisements in our pockets and we see so little.

* * *

It is hard to focus when feeling happy. Everything feels like an opportunity and the little things ease your mind. This is a good state for falling asleep. To question ourselves realistically we cannot be happy. You must dwell and delve deeper into yourself. It might start out as a rumination on a larger subject but it will turn inwards and envelop you. And then my drink begins to taste too sweet and my back stiffens. Twisting in my seat I try to assuage my mind that all will be right. It knows better, it knows that tomorrow brings more of the same punctuated with slivers of pleasure and nails of tedium. The rest passes by like an amorphous cloud troubling no one.

* * *

My stomach knots and it is all I can think of. A man cannot be free of fanciful irons unless his stomach is made of such.

When I sleep I dream, as of late, of all the horrible possibilities that could arise in my life. Sometimes I find myself sincerely questioning the reality of these dreams. I can become confused, which is why I must live on a day to day basis. And the only dreams that I can relish are those when I’m conscious and taking flight from the reality that is crashing down about me.

Hemingway said art was better appreciated on an empty stomach, I sit here bloated struggling to write. When you are hungry there are options but when you are full there is only the present

* * *

I am listening to the birds speak, it is pleasant. I can imagine what the say, it is up to me since there is no one to interpret. Their banter and quips flow seamlessly into the evening air. I suppose it is why I always like traveling in a foreign country. I can’t understand what they are saying so it either becomes warm white noise or the focus of my whimsy. I suppose that is the essence of art, creation from the unknown. But, to put the pen to paper or the fingers to the guitar and actually be able to create the accurate expression from within is reserved for the determined.

And then you do and you analyze it. And at the point of victory your defeat is complete. You feel like a gnarled root burgeoning through the earth. You want to be seen but all is at wonder as to why you aren’t buried. The mind begins to become loud, thoughts scatter like dust, and your left with desolation. Wondering why it is that you do anythings because no matter how you try to convey yourself it will never be accurate. The only way that you can reconcile the idea of being unknown is that it is probably for the better.

I look at a dusty shot glass and take a sip of beer. Twisting my spine I stretch and exhale. I feel better I think because I have begun to forget what I was thinking about. I stop moving with the world and I feel at ease.

* * *

I am all I condemn and everything I stand for. I will fall for nothing because it is mine, but sacrifice nothing because that is what I believe in. To see clearly is to be blind to reality and see nothing but the moment. Then you will regret your misunderstanding of the blight.

* * *

To journey within one’s mind if like wandering through the woods. Not because you can get lost, which is quite possible, but because it is beautiful for its inconsistencies. The gnarled branch, the twisted root, or the tarnished rock. None of it typifies beauty alone but when thrown together in a raw mass it mixes better than any compound Man could wish to concoct.

And then you come out of it and are shocked into the reality of society. Cursed by right angles and balanced images. If something sticks out like a sore thumb it will be removed. The only places damaged goods can exist are amongst themselves. For then, there is some semblance of unity. A sickening unity of outcasts and refuse. Shunned away from what society aspires to but is too weak to actually create. Akin to when the body rejects a substance that it cannot tolerate even if it happens to be a medicine.

There are those who completely forfeit society, at least on most principles, and look for a higher meaning, one that may or may not be there. I admire their idealism but abhor them for their faith. Blind faith is a succubus waiting to destroy you at your weakest moment then dress itself as your savior.

But there will always be Art to remind us of why we should not be complacent. It can remind us of subjects thought over a thousand times and ones never supposed. Art in its glory always has to be a critique of the status quo.

* * *

Every morning as I gaze into the mirror I see a crueler face. My face has become fraught with aggressive lines and hateful gazes. Like a soldier who wakes up one morning and realizes all the harm that has been cause and suddenly takes personal responsibility. It is soul shattering to realize that simply for existing as a human you have to bare the weight of innumerable atrocities. How does a soul reconcile itself with all that our collective has done. Mere distraction.

eye am surrounded

Tactless Autobiography

To toil endlessly to what end. The creations and machination of the external world are for everyone. If you were to never create there will be someone else to fill the void. All external successes are irrelevant in terms of novelty. The only true unique change someone can make is to themselves. However, we are forever enamored by false appreciations for pointless tasks done correctly and we are shamed when we fail these benign tasks. It is not that I think all life is unimportant but that the stress in life is put on the meaningless. That the introspective is looked at as a roustabout and the diligent worker is not seen for what he is. A lout. If we all were given the opportunity to truly see ourselves we would realize there are much more important things than certainty. It is always better to have a question than an answer. But to truly think on this brings a coldness to my core that makes me want to shrink away from this conscious madness. It is like a storm within my mind that has no eye and is erratic throughout. But now I must try to relax and forget this delusional enlightenment and quell my thoughts with a drink. I cannot abide my thoughts firing so wildly, I yearn for a calm sea where I can see the horizon to which I sail instead of this savage and vacuous destruction that comes from all directions.


* * *


We are at a crisis of consciousness. We rely too heavily on the facts of a reality we can’t understand. It is thoughts like these when I take easement in the whimsy of striking out into the country and coming across an Inn at the side of the road. Full of odd characters and mysterious corners. The idea of it envelops me like a heavy blanket on a cold night. To be released from this arduous life of monotony. I feel the Empire of Oppression sink its talons into me and then, the days drift into what?

I must remain as I am, look up and see the sky for what it is. The day is filled with a suffocating heat so engulfing that you remember Nature’s dominion is absolute. Yet you feel that you only need to ask for a breeze and it will come. And as the breeze licks your skin the world becomes clear and the phantoms fade from the edges of your eyes.


* * *


I sit here in complete quietude, my solace is the darkness that envelops me, but still I yearn for the light. Shafts of light dance by as cars pass and the blissful patter of the rain is momentarily interrupted with the hissing of the tires. I feel the essence of their driver’s state of mind blissfully ignorant of the individual listening to them pass.


Having finally lost myself I wander the halls, only then does the orange eye flicker. It is a menacing gaze that is telling me to fall deeper, so I look away. As I return to recline I become enraptured by my thoughts. The powers of the mind unleashed at night when there is minimal stimuli to evoke distraction. It is then that the madness behind your eyelids becomes my reality.


I am swallowed whole, intact, but alone and at mercy to the whims of another. The only way that I can wrest control back is to tame the beast with music. It takes time, it always does, but I will regain control. Then I am tired, so very tired that I must retire and enjoy the emptiness of my mind.


Taking the Specs, the Specs to see.


Oh, how the world has become so mundane,

And thoughts are ever dimmed.

As the long toothed maw of Time sits teething.

Youth will be remembered like the fallen rain,

Mourned by the howling wind.



God damn, writing poetry makes me grumpy.howling rain



Limerick (again, sorry, I’ll move on eventually)

I once knew a girl that was a mime.

I liked that she was quiet all the time.

I could be crude and crass,

And all around quite and ass.

But, I favored her best when she was supine.

supine mime

Limerick (to get myself back in the groove)

I once knew a girl a bit out of her head.

And was non-compliant with her meds.

From morning to night,

She could be quite a fright.

But she was worth every penny in bed.

condemned street walker


He wiped his brow as he looked out from the old castle wall towards the Spanish border. His shirt was unbuttoned most of the way exposing his thin dark chest. He gazed at the horizon where the lush green fields melted into the blue sky. Jackson had just arrived in this unknown town, it was mid August. He could smell the dry earth as he inhaled. Well dressed people walked quietly in and out of what he perceived to be a cathedral, it struck him as odd that such an old build would have such modern looking glass doors. His bottle of water was quite warm to the touch. He took a seat at the feet of the statue of Santa Isabel.

santa isabel

With a sigh a took a long slow look around the courtyard contemplating what to do next. There had been several dark bars he had passed on the way up to the old town. Hardly a murmur escaped their recesses. It was foolish to be out in the midday sun, it was obvious that that was the reason it was so quiet in the streets. Only foreigners were so ignorant as to pass the hot afternoon out of doors. His pocket rattled lightly with change as he got to his feet. He moved the coins between his fingers in his pocket and decided he had enough to grab a beer or two at one of the bars.

The stark white wall accented with sea blue trim forced him to squint as he walked down the narrow streets. Garbage littered the sides of the streets and danced in the light breeze. A feral cat laying in the shade of the stoop lazily watched Jackson as he passed. There was a gallon water bottle cut in half with water in it left on the stoop for the creature. Around the corner he came back into the the small plaza with a fountain in the center he had passed through on his way up. The fountain had ivy slowing climbing up it towards the sun.

feral cat

There was a slight motion to his right, there was an old man sitting with his forearms on his knees on a stoop. He was thin and looked older than his age. He wore a loose tweed jacket and a newsboy cap pull tightly down upon his head. His beard was rough and grizzled. In the corner of the stoop a lone bottle of beer sat barely escaping the sun. The man followed Jackson almost imperceptibly with his eyes, he seemed to exude a sort of raw humanity by simply occupying that spot on the stoop.

Jackson stumbled over a curb as he examined the man. With a quick glance Jackson looked to see if the man had noticed, he surely had. The man grabbed his beer and took a sip. It was a clever move that aptly covered up the man’s smirk. Jackson laughed at himself and looked around for something to fix his vision upon for a distraction. Across the plaza from the man an orange and black sign hung on a door that read, “Se Venda”. Through the combination of his limited Spanish and the familiarity of the sign’s design he assumed it was Portuguese for “For Sale”. He walked over, trying to look casual and tried the door. It opened.

Inside held a strong musk of dust and wood. Old wooden furniture was strewn about in the darkened room. In the corner next to the balcony there was a bed bare of linens, Jackson crossed the room and opened the curtain. A flood of light swept in, he recoiled slightly at the shock the the sun. He shaded the window with just the sheer curtain. A lone wooden chair sat next to the fireplace. Jackson took a seat heavily, he was exhausted he hadn’t eaten in over a day and had slept terribly every night for as long as he could remember. With a deep sigh he placed his head into his closed fists. His thoughts began to wander erratically through what had been and what wouldn’t be. A creak came from the doorway. With a look up he saw the man from the stoop standing in the door way with his hat in his hands.

sorrowing chair

“You’re too young to be sorrowing like that, son,” the man said with a light accent.

Jackson briskly rubbed his eyes, stood up, and crossed over to the man offering his hand.

“Sorry, no, I’m just extremely exhausted,” replied Jackson as the two men shook hands.

The man looked at him knowingly.

“My friend lived here for fifty years,” the man mused.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll go,” said Jackson with his eyes downcast.

“No, no, that’s not my intent. My friend lived here for fifty years, it was her parents before hers. She had to put it up for sale when she lost her job.”

“That’s too bad, I’m sorry. Where is she at, anyways. I shouldn’t have just barged in like that.”

“It’s okay, she died about a year ago, the house is owned by the city now. Take a seat, please.”

Jackson sat back down in the chair and the man took a seat on the bed.

“You have been thinking, I saw you pass by twice. Both times seeing, but without expression,” said the man.

“Yeah, I suppose I have. I’m not sure what about, if anything. Or maybe it’s everything. What’s the difference really. Either way you’re stuck solving nothing,” replied Jackson.

“Perhaps, but thinking about everything can help you to draw connections between things that are important. Sometimes pointing you in a direction.”

“I dunno, I have been alone for a long time now. All I do lately is ruminate about myself and the world and I don’t see anyway of changing anything.”

“But, you’re still wrestling with the thought of how to affect that change. That is important in itself.”

Jackson shifted in his chair, “I guess the problem I see with myself is that, now, yes, I do still think about whether or not I can affect change. Whereas I used to contemplate how I could affect change. I’m worried I’m becoming complacent. For example, I don’t know if you’re religious.”

“Yes, I’m Catholic.”

“Well, this is not meant to be rude. I have recently thought how much easier it would be to become religious. Have something to follow. I’m no leader, I’m alone. I can’t lead nothing.”

“God can help, yes, in many ways. Whether or not you attended church does not mean you can’t be spiritual. I could argue the virtues of turning to God, I won’t. You are in a personal crisis. You lack identity.”

Jackson rubbed his face with the palm of his hands.

“Excuse me one moment,” and the man slipped out the door to return a minute later. He was holding two bottles in his hand. “Here,” and handed Jackson a cool bottle of beer.

In the Hood

John had got up late and neglected to pack the night before, he had a restless night. His dreams were of him wandering through a dark and foreign house. His friend, Sam, was finally out of the Marines and was back in town for good. He was excited to see him as well as his brother who was back for a few weeks for his Summer break from school. The three of them were to go rock climbing and it was a perfect day for it. The sun had long been coming in through the windows and he sighed to himself. He still felt the heaviness under his eyes as he got out of bed and went to go shower. John was out of the house a bit after ten, he was supposed to have left at over a half hour earlier.

At Sam’s house John gave him a call and let him know he was outside waiting. He was outside a couple minutes later.

“Hey, man, good to see ya!” smiled John.

“Hey, what’s up?” responded Sam.

And the two of them had a short embrace, loaded up the car and left.

“Sorry about being so late, could you give my brother a call and let him know we should be there in about a half hour?” asked John.

“Yeah, sure.”

Traffic was not too bad and they arrived in the neighborhood about when he predicted.

“Okay, we’re close. Wanna let me know which house?” and John handed his phone to Sam with the directions pulled up.

“You don’t know where is it?” asked Sam.

“No, I haven’t been here yet, he’s been house-sitting for a friend for the past week.”

“Ah,” and he looked down at the phone, “take a left here and it should be the house at the end of the block on the left.”

They drove slowly down the street, it was a nice neighborhood. Most all of the houses owned a newer model luxury SUV, John had felt a bit like a sore thumb in his scratched and dented Honda. All the houses looked to have been build within the last decade. The homes weren’t of the cookie-cutter type they had a sort of new age character to them.

“There,” Sam pointed, “that’s the house number.”

John backed the car in slowly next to a deep blue Mercedes SUV.

“God damn, finally, I’ll give him a call,” said John.

“Hey, Charles, were finally here. Sorry about being so damn late,” said John.

“Yeah, just come on in. The door’s open, I’ll be ready in a couple minutes,” his brother, replied sounding a little exasperated.

“Okay,” John hung up the phone. “He said just head in he’ll be a couple minutes.”

The two of them got out, went to the door and peered inside. It was dark and fairly sparse in furniture. John furrowed his brows and looked skeptically back in. He knew that his brother liked to play games with him. He always had since he was a little boy, always scaring him and finding little ways to goad him. He was a typical older brother.

“Should we go in?” asked Sam hesitantly.

“Yeah, I guess.”

The two stepped into the dimly lit house. The only items in the living roof were a large TV and a baby stroller sitting alone in the middle of the room. The house was quite nice with dark wood floors and a kitchen that was topped with warm colored granite, accentuated with modern appliances. A set of french doors gave way to a beautiful view of a deep sea of well manicured green.


“I bet this place cost a bit. Now where the hell is Charles,” mumbled John.

“Hey, come on let’s go!” shouted Sam in no particular direction trying to get Charles’ attention. There was no response.

“I hate how he always does this,” growled John, “come on, please let’s go we’re already running late and I know you have to be back early!” There was still no response.

“I don’t like this,” said Sam.

“Me either, let’s go.”

They both left the house and went back to the car, John called up his brother again.

“Hey, man, let’s go I know I’m running late but come on,” pleaded John. All he got back was a garbled response. He hung up his phone and called again and it went straight to voice mail.

“God damn it! I am so sick of this!” shouted John, “He just didn’t respond… Let’s just go back in and find him.”

They went back inside again to a silent house and started looking for Charles. Around the corner they found the bathroom.

“Hey isn’t this your brother’s Ipad?” asked Sam.

“Looks like it, it’s the same case,” John unlocked it and looked at the number pad, “I can’t remember the pin.”

“We should just steal it since he hiding from us,” said Sam.

“Yeah, hopefully he’ll notice it missing soon.”

Sam grabbed the Ipad and the two of them walked back into the living room. John knelt down next to the brand new LED TV that was sitting on the floor. He lifted up the TV slightly to test its weight.

“Man this is a nice TV and they are so ligh-” John froze and stared past Sam. Sam looked at him quizzically, shifted his eyes to the left and slowly turned round.

Through the french doors they could see a man crouched down gardening with his back to them. Without a word the friends left the house briskly and silently. They jumped into the car and drove away quickly, and pulled over a few blocks away. Laughter broke out between the two of them. John’s hands shook slightly from the rush of adrenaline. His phone buzzed, it was his brother.

“Where are you?” Charles asked severely.

“Oh, man, what kind of car is park outside the house?”

“I dunno some kind of older minivan.”

“Shit, uh, anyways can you send me the address again I think it’s wrong.”

“Hold on, I’ll check what I texted you.”

John waited while his brother confirmed the address to him.

“Wait it’s Street not Place? Are you sure?” demanded John.


“Oh my God, I’m right around the corner. I’ll be right there.” John looked over at Sam, shaking his head. Sam was shaking the Ipad back at him.

“Oh, fuck!” shouted John. “We have to put it back, ah hell!”

They drove back towards the house and parked around the corner from the scene of the crime.

“I’ll keep the engine running, leave the door open so we can be out of here quick,” instructed John.

“Am I putting it back in the house? Christ, I’m just gonna put it on his doorstep,” Sam mused.

“Good, fine.”

Sam walked rapidly to the front door while whipping his head to any perceived movement or sound. As he bent over to set the Ipad down, the door opened. The man towered over him, his eyes were narrowed taking stock of the situation. Sam the stocky former Marine looked up meekly.

“Um, here,” handed the Ipad to the man and heel-toed away.

man in door

Sam swung himself into the car and said, “I gave it to him.”


“Just drive.”

John drove about a two-hundred feet and pulled into a driveway with a minivan.

“We’re here.”

Boisterous Boating

The three friends had had a fun afternoon and had just left a bar after a few drinks to head home. Sean, had been able to borrow his sister’s old speedboat for the afternoon and they had decided to go out for a ride and get some drinks in town. It had been a beautiful afternoon, quite warm but still quiet on the lake. Sean, Christian, and Jeff had tossed back a few beers on the way into town. After the few drinks at the bar they were at their peak of joviality. They walked back towards the boat passed many young children who were screaming and yelling on the beach while their parents looked idly on and either murmured amongst each other or toyed with their phones.

The three friends were being louder than necessary about most every action and boisterously mocking their surroundings. Whether it be a plump man tanning in a Speedo while blasting AC/DC or a woman loudly cackling on her phone. They pushed each other down the dock towards the boat, the three of them a were inflicted with a sobering moment when they observed that one of the rails of the boat had been smashed off by the dock.

The dock was high and the low riding boat had been lashed loosely by three half-drunks who were looking to double that feeling.


“Ah, shit,” said Christian.

“It’s not a big deal, you wanna just hold it for the ride back? It’s an old boat anyways, my sister serious doesn’t care about this boat,” said Sean.

“Yeah,” replied Christian and hopped into the boat and grabbed hold of the railing and restrained it to the bow of the boat.

“Jeff, can you untie the boat while I get it started?” requested Sean.

“Sure,” replied Jeff and went about his task.

Sean struggled with the motor for a minute or so, then it roared to a high idle and then dropped suspiciously low, but it kept sputtering. Jeff jumped into the boat, his job done and Sean motored the boat backwards. The wind blew softly and the waves had gotten bit choppy since they had left the boat, which was assuredly why the boat had become so battered. Christian decided it was as good of a time as any to grab a beer for the trip back and in so doing lost hold of the rail. It quickly dove into the water and bent in half.

“Fuck,” shouted Christian and lunged towards the rail and left the open beer to it’s own devices.

Sean having seen what had happened sprang into action. He shouted at Christian to hold the railing in place and grabbed a screw driver and started to undo the remaining stays of the rail. There was a sudden cough from the rear of the boat, the motor had died. The winds picked up and the boat was now dead and drifting towards the dock with wanton alacrity.

“Get the motor started!” shouted Sean to Jeff.

Christian was struggling to hold on the rail which was producing an absurd amount of drag. The water was funneling up his half submerged arms and into his lap. Jeff dropped into the pilot’s seat and as his right hand reached for the ignition the seat detached itself from the deck of the boat sending him reeling backwards. He lay on his back like a turtle with his legs in the air and his shorts drawn up about his hips.


“Oh, god damn it…” sighed Sean as he furiously unfastened the last few screws letting them fall as they may.

Christian’s eyes were now trained on the rapidly approaching dock that was on level with his head. He contemplated removing an arm to brace against the impact but the strength of the current that was doubling back the rail would surely crush a lone hand, he’d have to wait until the last moment. Suddenly Christian spun to the deck, rail in hand, Sean had finished removing the screws and was now busy straddling Jeff and cranking on the ignition. A cloud of black smoke erupted from the outboard as it roared to life.

Christian lay in a pool of beer, his crotch soaked. He dutifully clutched the remnants of the rail. Jeff was still on his back, laughing hysterically. Sean stood now erect with one hand on the steering wheel surveying the damage. A loose screw had caught itself in his beard. Some onlookers watched them silently with their hands on their hips.