old journals and the nostalgia they muster up...

I found an old journal from college and came across some intresting pieces of prose... i wish i had never stopped writing in journals they dont crash like computers..... this prose had a really intresting sketch of my lower back piece... and upon reflection is the first ruff sketch of my lower back piece that i share with my brother nicholas.

DATE SOMETIME SOPHMORE YEAR

When the rodeo has displaced all of its cowboys
and its broncos are addicted to electricity,
the west is being held hostage.
When all the wild horses only run free under metal hoods
and use peteroleum for energy,
The trees have all been slayed to make space
for colonists longing to be celebrites
and tourists who want to forget about their lives for a while,
The ransom is the way things used to be....

Call me Mr. Pitiful, Baby thats my name....

Its been a while since i have blogged, but thats not what i would like to waste my time writing about... For my eyes are heavy as my stiff fingers awkwardly try to dance with these keys and make clarity of my static heart... I feel lately my life has been like a vicious game of hangman.... I have exasperated all of my vowels without a clue of a decent consonant to choose...
Anxious for sleep, my lips protrude like a child who hasnt gotten his way. Otis Redding soulfully seranades my weary soul and drowns out the runaway train of my thoughts...... Can i get a witness..... Sometimes i feel bad for feeling bad... I feel like skeletons envy my bones, failing to realize that i am just as bare, frail, and naked.... I often feel like a positve skeptic with red roses wishing that God had made them blue....Many people have said that when i write i sound very vulnerable and sad... I don't know what it is about scratching down syllables that makes me feel blue, or why i can relate to the inner turmoil of Morrissey's lyrics, or why one of my favorite quotes of all time is "everything was beautiful and nothing hurt" by Kurt Vonnegut.... These things are typically reserved for recluses.. Of which i am certainly not.... I am no Holden Caulfield, Kurt Cobain, or Andy Warhol... But what i do know oh witness of my rambling is that i love that i would rather hear sad songs on the radio ....... You can call me Mr. Pitiful... or you can call me honest... As my beautiful brother Nicholas has been quoted to say " vunerablity is a shade that looks good on everybody........

Speaking words of wisdon... Let it Be.....

Theirs a definite point in everyone’s day when one must decide to embrace the way that they feel...You know those feelings that you try to shake off as if they were a stalker desperately clamoring for your attention....No matter how many times you ignore it the feeling just keeps creeping around like a feline on a hunting excursion for mice.... For some this feeling that warrants their sweet embrace is consuming a Double Whopper over picking at a salad…. Perhaps it is whether to waste away leaving an indentation on your couch or going for a motivating jog.... Regardless of the analogy you get the point which brings me to what it is that I am clinging to… the idea that I am clinching is my lethargy and the notion that Liz is sprinting through my mind like a runny nose in December. I cannot force myself to grade another (excuse my honesty here "poorly written essay") on technological advancements and their impact on the 20th century… just as I cannot force Liz off of my dome…. Alas, i will allow my mind to wander like a nomad.... For as the Beatles once so poignantly said “Let it Be”……….

No more pencils no more books.....

I cast a look of discernment like a shadow
On scholars eager for summer to break them into a million pieces
Emancipating their encumbered lives from routines and bells
Their eyes are eager to stare down questions and make them snitch
As shaky hands try to revive deceased trees with lead answers
Fingernails fall prey to sharp teeth drunk on nervousness
Squeaky desks alarm the timid walls of the classroom
That bold and brave boys
And gallant and gutsy girls
Can do more than we give them credit for.

I didn't even have to use my AK... Today was a good day..

Graciously we crammed our long skeletons on my narrow bed.. Inching closer to each other like magnets to metal.. Our bodies bordered each other like a new but familiar territory. Our imperialistic itch rallied to intoxicate our instincts to explore and conquer those boundaries. Our fingers served as flags...And even though our digits moved without a compass our sense of direction never wavered. Void of Generals with their old and outdated strategies. We waged our battles without the inhibitions of an older generation. But fought with the carelessness and vigor that is associated with our youth.

cooler than freddie jackson sipping a milkshake in a snowstorm

I haven't blogged in over a month for reasons to mudane to enven attempt to pawn off as poetic. Right now i am laying in my room staring at a pleothera of old vinyl records, sprawled out on the carpet of my bedroom, they remind me of a time i have never known personally. Words and beats beckon a first hand account of an unfamilar but adorable time.... My body aches as my scared skin coexists with thousands of goosebumps that remind me that i am glad that winter is a fond but distant memory. Today i was home sick from the hallowed halls of my school, stricken with what i beleive to be a twenty four hour bug of some sort... i hate that i hate calling out sick from work... My grandfather worked fourty years as a police officer and in that time did not take one sick day off... My father worked overtime every week at times even after grueling rounds of kemotherapy... So here i sit wrapped in blankets wondering if men are getting increasingly weaker than the strapping generations that came before us.. With their tales of walking to school in the snow without shoes uphill both ways.....being tough in our generation is owning a cell phone without internet, or using a dial up modem instead of having a cable modem....Ohh how things change......

The modern prehistorics

What you is isn't what you are
Your faith isn't what you believe...
like a heretic....
Your size isn't how you look
like a model.....
Your words defy your lips
like Benedict Arnold......
Your originality is an imitation
like a photocopy..
For eager skeletons,
who are anxious to clap
their bones together
for a modern savior
in this prehistoric age..


We are the modern prehistorics