Wednesday, December 2, 2009

i am the red, purple leaf autumn tree,

like some petal that feels like its time to fall,

but doesn't want to go out like the others.

i am a cannonball to the ground,

a three second fall,

eyes closed, body balled up,

and at the end of this last rebellious act,

there sits i, brown and curled.

motionless, sitting there with those that went out in a bang,

and those who just went out.


there we sit together, you and i.

two browning petals.

i jumped the gun and through a selfish act of enlightening,

i acted the out in vain.

my lesson was a waste.


i am the red stripes on the side of that fast moving car.

it looked like a ferrari 250 gto,

mother's necklace pearl white and down the side two candy cane pin stripes.

i am that vinyl red line moving at two hundred miles an hour

and as we go around that corner, i am the meaningless decal that slams broadside,

straight into that plum tree.


i am vigilant, and all seeing,

and in seconds i may mean nothing.


Friday, October 9, 2009

scatter-minded

walk outside my room, into the commons.

its a double wide dream lobby.

two peach flavored floral sheets,

once covered two beds, now cover two muck couches.

no one sits in these seats, and they are lonely.


there is a tv in the center lobby,

household turned wall-less kitchen living space duo,

living area duo slowly forgotten turned walkthrough,

add nice vinyl tile, checkered green and white

transform walkthrough into kitchen lobby combo.

nifty the way this type of thing works.


add three additions to double wide dream world.

private bathroom in two of the third,

add mock-up common toilet room for the remainder of rooms.

six room double wide monster.

paint it blue, and we now have the place in which  i reside.


old landing road,

where drunks and fall-backs crash land.


and i wonder what will become of my two quasi-roomies.

the ones that don't take kindly to me,

because i rolled in my first night, binky in my mouth,

luggage in hands.

those two in the front, who are constantly bickering.

shes pregnant by the way. 

cigarette smoking two-hundred-forty-pounds of one half bickering couple she is.

the other half is an institutionalized poke in the side.

the kind of annoyance that hits you the wrong way.


he is the drunk guy at the end of the bar you wish to give a wide berth,

and my five foot short fuck self has no interest in living with one of those people.


but what i do wonder is, 

what will become of those two, who argue every night,

about football and life.

they're going to have a baby i'm assuming. 

but is this weekly rental spot really the spot to raise a child?


more so, will my landlord, this man's so-called family

will he kick this guy to the street.


night one, walk in binky in mouth, pacifier pacifying only me,

making the others more concerned.

here comes mr. one half of bickering couple bouncing into my closed-door

no knock, but an entrance.

find me with this bunk-bed support beam on my back in an awkward position

"let me show you something"

i respond, "just a moment man, i'm in the middle of making my bed"

he grimaces. 


he leads me through the green checkered lobby to the bathroom,

i notice his limp, 

i notice a picture of a flower, frame screwed to the wall.

he shows me the bathroom that has only one light,

and tells me not to pee on the walls or fuck up anything because,

my landlord, 

my savior for week forty of fifty-two

is like family to him, and he'll defend him likewise.


what a threat.

more so, what a greeting.

don't pee on the wall boy, or you might just get knocked the fuck out.

now because of that,

i don't piss in that bathroom,

nor do i sleep well at night.

thanks tall douche-bag with bickering girlfriend/wife.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

i want to listen to this music until my ears bleed. boomp boomp boomp hihat boomp. add in a progression of piano and female vocals. melt and sway. ponder. ponder this  and that. think, but do not over embellish. when these headphones come off the world is exactly as i left it. wait. ixnae that, the world is not my responsibility, but rather yours. the world is your responsibility world. when you're littering the air with noise pollution, it is your fault. when the cement on the side walk cracks, and grass grows through, optimists see the life and beauty, the nihilist see the further breakdown. the meaningless in the cement.


cement by the way isn't meaningless. the word is rather concrete, with no abstraction at all really. the purpose of concrete in, rather a short duration of time and space isn't so meaningless, but eventually all these slabs placed here and there will end up being some man made rock that houses the few and strong clusters of kentucky blue grass, crab grass, colonial bent grass. poking through.


poking through like the dead air that fills my headphones every three odd minutes and breaks my anti-silence. comparing grass through cement to life through headphones. meaningless. meaningful. i learned something here today.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

is it any wonder i can't sleep

i'm getting booted from my home. wrong. grim, graham, grum. wrong


this is not your house

therefore to be booted from your house

you must be in your domicile 


it's only been a week. 

keeping this bed warm for six hours of the days

but grim isn't welcome in this nest.

like some annoying fly landing on the tv screen.


but now i must go.

and it couldn't happen soon enough.

pick up the bag, place a shirt in.

too slow, better place in three.

and when the wrinkles start to show,

it adds to the package.


discontent should go hand in hand with discomfort.

discomfort should go hand in hand with dismay. 

dismay should go hand in hand with wrinkly shirts and shit.


pack up the bags faster grim, 

because you have intruded

in a nest of a lion.

matriarch. patriarch by her side.


and if you don't pack up those bags, and disappear

you'll be eaten,

unlike the rest of the people in your position.


but i guess our parents homes all represent different caves

with different beasts.

this beast in this cage here,

it should be left alone

fur unruffled.


survival of the fittest

and when there isn't a fucking tent,

and you think the cave you recognize your smell in 

is safe,

it's fucking not.


as quickly as inhabitants go, new ones come. 

the fear here is that maybe grim isn't 

a fast moving inhabitant that meander in and out.

that is the fear.

but grim comes,

graham lives,

and when i am gone, 

grum will be no more.


i am anticipate that no more.

maybe that my life

after death

will be much more acceptable.


until then, get the hell out of this nest,

may you have the resources or not to do so,

just do it.

Monday, September 14, 2009

just a pile of dumb rocks


SDC10334
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
I am ever so mortified with the growing pressure being put on our celebrities.
FUCK
i feel we should stand up and defend those that define us if they will be used for our examples as to what we wear and how we invest
SHIT
it is outdated and old-fashioned to follow the ways of weighted words
PUSSY DICK
with ever increasing rates of globalization, a unitarian world shouldn't hold such a heavy value on our action and words
PISS
if we are going to place this much importance on a tennis ballers reaction to shoddy calls
HOE
and cry out against egotistical artists after they just released songs about their egos
BITCH
shouldn't we just become a censored nation?
GOD DAMMIT
china does it. speak too much and you might disappear. fuckin eh, uganda might too
COCKSUCKER
are we so caught up in superficial rhetoric that we suffer aneurisms at unconventional outbursts
CUNT
we dropped bombs and seeded our own terrorists in a nation far away
KILL BABY RAPING BALL SUCKER KILL
we killed people....
DINGLE PUSS BERRY
and still we make more mention over a temper tantrum
HOLY FUCK
maybe, just maybe the corporate world likes these things??
SHIT-EATER
the same companies that tell us to teabag our president because he's black
COCK-MONGER
i will defend you celebrities, who speak up instead of out.
MORALS CAN BLOW MY BALLS
along with the rest of this conservative "face"
FUCKING PANSY
listen to drake and wayne: do you, because imma do me.
MR. MEDIA FUCKWAD
keep your opinion to yourself
MR. LOOSE-ASS CELEBRITY
you sold your soul to the media world, but don't let it do you.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

pass on dotted


hunan mountains
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
Big loss, no immediate gain.
This kind of cliff to look down,
and with no way to communicate this fear,
one can only meander about the straightest line possible.
One heard a quote once,
broken and shallow.

"If we are facing the right direction, we must only keep walking."

And when that line curves,
an arch throws off the heel-to-toes rhythm,
one has only the option of continuing, or,
one could sit down.

But this sitting, slothing,
it's not lounging.
It is not rest,
nor cradling arms of comfort.
It is restlessness.
It is a purgatory,
a limbo with no walls.
Or even dirty white walls with a shoe's sole outline.

And the more one eases this disrest,
the further in one will fall,
head-over-heel into a hell,
credit dependent.

Why am I credit dependent?

Monday, August 24, 2009

so many black heads


so many black heads
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
this is a weird feeling,
a sort of impasse.
the acknowledgement of the impossibility
to make things just work out,
although it's what's on my mind.

ideas on how to make things work,
rationalizations on how to patch things up.
look to the left, inspect the problem areas with
some tools and a magnifying glass.
a little tuning here,
making the flower smell a wee bit more fragrant and
vois-la~

a broken connection rekindled.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

umph


DSC_0493
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
wake up and smoke.
an eight milligram buzz.
it leaves a taste in my mouth,
a hole in my face acts as a vent,
blowing out hot air and stench.

wake up, got that part down.
waking up not in pain,
not so good at that part.
so, i wake up and smoke.

today i cant say i woke up well,
a quick roll, and i forget my invincibility left.
a feeing of mortality.
sciatic plant meltdown.

dammit, i'm only a little one,
still too young to worry about this.
how old will i be,
when i fall over and cant get up?

twenty-two.

Friday, August 21, 2009

My Girl


S5000030
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
My girl.
She's strung out. The kind of girl you find some strange erotic fantasy playing out with. The girl who's wrecked by a world. Disillusioned. Living life not with a care, but a care-less attitude. Falling forward, knee locking then bending then locking every hammering step onward. Neck held higher than her head. My girl, with her brown hair still wet and knotted. She doesn't make plans, but loves having some. They get her out of bed in the morning, add filler to the time between eating and REM. She wears little clothing. She is little, so they fit. My girl with her fair skin and occasional mole. Colored black and purple, dressed in white and lavender. She smells of eucalyptus. Her shoulders stay back, bosom stays at attention. This girl i call my own, the one living within these words and no where beyond, my intangible valkyrie, her hands run across the outside of my fingers when i type. My girl. My deep black bags hammocked beneath her eyes. Milia and green. Oil based painted on face. She smokes cigarettes and makes me cough. My virtual sidekick. Mine. My girl.

Monday, August 17, 2009

why so mr. zen


legs_for_meat
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
writing. writing is an act of immortality.
the way a word is said, from moment to moment varies, but a written word will remain written the same, unless of course language changes. but even of the classical english translated, the meanings are understood.
writing is an act of selfish immortality. my words are better than yours, and in my elitist skill i develop, i will just show you and everyone else.
in writing i may create, recreate or destroy. i may categorize or i may debunk. it's my freewill, and as long as i decide to holster this gun, i will remain better than you.
with writing comes the ability to be classical, or to be romantic. i can break down my meaning, word for word, reading between the lines. as an artist would paint, i'll write letter after letter, stroke for stroke, and really see what it all means. i can be lazy with my prose though and look only at what i've done, not what i've come from. the ability to see the meaning, or the it.
i've waved no rights to sit here and proclaim beauty in this, nor have i surrendered any freedom to describe its underlying form. i just sit. inside or outside, the ten thousand things in front of me or behind. i just sit, and i just write.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

要不要?可能没有用


SDC10161
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
i need coffee. i need one million endogenous free-flying jets relaying signals to small synapse in the brain. i really need that jolt, that sidewinder impact, blowing rock debris and later on heart failure right at me. so i take a sip.

i need that big bank account, the 3.4% interest, and AIG insuring my life savings. i need that three mortgage, big house, two car garage, yacht and beloved children going off to school. i really need that grey hair, ten extra pounds and soon cumulative heart failure [possibly diabetes] to kill me at the age of 55, so i get a loan for school.

i need a big ship to get somewhere. i need it now. i need humility and a big yellow rug. yellow turns to brown over time, and even an off-grey. i really need a clue. but with my jumping from place, i've yet to find one.

we run around, like dogs. even the said so cats run around like dogs. like some black lab dalmatian mutt or something. i see these things now. these people who do as they want (the cats) and those who need to be commanded (dogs). scratching at that, digging a bone and pissing on a fire hydrant here or there, just for later, a scratch scratch and rescratch find us some familiarity.

allow me to explain myself. of course... period. i need that stimulant rush in the morning. my buzz, my fix, the vex that invigorates. i dont feel the urge to go on without.
i need that big bank account really, as much as i need hardees or arby's for that matter. the quaint carl's jr. tall hat and star combo. but i need it, or else i won't be able to buy my fancy things on my credit card. my fifty-two inch plasma flat screen. BOOM

Monday, August 3, 2009

i really don't know where this piece goes.


S5000232
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
"The lady on the end over there... do you see her?"
"Excuse me?" A pause, a quick glimpse to the right and an umm. "Which one?"
This gentlemen next to me wore a brown suit. So 1950's. So why are you talking to me older freaky man. Who is he? God, his mustache looks horrible.
"Over there, there is a woman, wearing red and black. Do you see, she has a huge handbag?"
All i saw was the hobo at the end of the aisle, he had a red and black grocery bag. The new kind of grocery bags you get, where you pay two dollars to have some fabric that will be used for only grocery use over and over. It was black with a red logo. GR Beebee's. The black was faded, holes scattered here and there, but the red was as crisp as ever.
"She's a hottie right?"
I look over at this guy, his bushy mustache. His bad teeth and scrubbily facial hair. Obviously a vagrant. Nice clothing though, but not so nice hygiene. Ever get some Christmas gift with a really nice looking wrap-job around it - shiny blue glistening wrapping paper kind of thing - and you open it up to find a dollar store gift card? Same thing.
"God, please help me," he says, "she's got my blood boiling." He reaches over and pats my knee as he laughs. He's really starting to trip me out over here. He leans back over to he side of the aisle and fiddles with a broken cellphone. When I got a glimpse of his eye, i saw his pupils were huge. Big black balls sitting on top of some hazel green rings. My stop is soon, but not soon enough. He leans back forward, signalling he wants to speak again. I lean in.
"You don't think she's gorgeous?"
"Umm, I'm not seeing it."
The hobo at the end shifts around a little, and notice us gawking at him. It's not alright to stare, and I lean back and put my chin to my chest. Incoming sigh and exhale.
From the other end of the car comes a shout and the hobo stands up. The guy across from me flinches and balls into a fetal position on his subway seat. The few heads still in the car look over at this guy sitting across from me, but not at the hobo.
"Compliments to a pretty lady!" he yells back. "I just thought she was pretty," he smirked and curled his head into his protective ball.
Finally my stop arrives and the guy at the other end of the car, with his black and red tote exit to the right.

---------------------------------

I can't believe some people. If I were a woman as pretty as her, I'd love the attention. I fidget, it's normal. Thinking thinking think. Thought! Oh, he was a nice boy. I should've given him my number before he got of the train. Where is this train going? I don't understand though, why didn't he think that lady was pretty. I mean, I can understand that the handbag was a little gaudy, but that woman was fine. Bet she can cook too. Where's my stop? Logan, Wyoming, Hunting Park. 1, to the 3, four five and Fairmount! Seven more stops. The floor is amusing. Speckled gum and rubber shoes streaks. I gotta get off this train. This train. Trains. Samuel L. Jackson, god I love black people!

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

kerchief


DSC_0569
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
we're going to try something here. i'm going to start typing and try not to stop. though timid i am, and embarrassed by such work, i must persevere and write on. let me start what is so fresh on my mind. a blonde haired beauty that has no respect for it. in other words, lillith. in other words storm-demon riding the wind, blinding the young and castrating the elder. weak suffered, strong suffered. the controlling controlled, and the controlled revolted, only perpetuating the controlling. the other jbr. the cuter one, the one who makes people melt. when jaclyn walks into a room, people notice. but do they notice her, or herself? point taken if point be made. the long red carpet, unrolling and rerolling with every step she takes. jaclyn, belly made beautiful, tribal made triangular. the only thing i can say at this point is that if you see what i see, you would see what i mean.

a windy night in downtown philadelphia. around the corner from the dunkin donuts on the corner of some street and broad. a dark alley decorated by GOD oddly enough to fit the gotham created by Kane. and on this street, there is a relfection of the neon flash as the lights above blink on and off. waste, not waste. and floating above this lucid reflection, there was a piece of the baltimore sun, blowing header over footer in the breeze. but it didn't matter. no one saw this, no one knew, and no one cared. no one cared how the bankrupt newspaper company's final issue came to rest in the city of brotherly love. no one cared nor did it matter.

Friday, July 24, 2009

SDC10608


SDC10608
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
A flashing series of lights here say go.
Blue, yellow, red, green then go.
Three seconds you count,
six if you want to show mercy.

Feed the fish through the machine,
a blade rises, splitting one whole into three parts.
One part spine, two parts meat.
Icy sockeye salmon minutes before were in big bins,
totes holding thousand or two pounds of fishy a commodity.
Slimy sockeye salmon minutes before were swimming,
befuddled in a pool of filth and blood.

This place is genocide.
Extermination in action,
capitalism at its best.
And I sit and become a drone of the system,
a grunt of the establishment.
A system i try now not to support.

Maybe later the same bureaucracy will create genocide on me,
sell my fleshy and meaty sides to a hungry group of piggies.
Around the world, they will partake in the pleasurable experience.
As salmon is filleted and sculpted into delicacy,
Grim a-la-mode will be served.
Caucasian with rice and a touch of lemon with butter.

A light will blink,
blue, yellow, red, then green and go.
A driver will feed an icy me into a machine,
a mechanism to debone me and remove my innards.
A single slice with split one whole into three;
one part spine, two parts fleshy homo sapien.
Latin for "wise man."

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

a long time between this and that, but this is this and that was that.


SDC10482
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
One fish, two fish, red fish, yellow fish. There isn't a single blue fish, and the Doctor would be upset. But when one fish becomes one thousand fish, and that thousand becomes two, and the red fish start to mix with the yellow fish, who could even care?

Wrap the the thumb with two band aids, trust the acetametaphin and ibuprophen, then cut. Stand on the line, stand and ponder eternity, or time, space or even breakfast. Bacon. Eggs. Deluxe. But what is breakfast when the first meal of the day is at midnight and its something like tacos?

Cut one fish, two fish, three hours and five hundred fish have miraculously gone past with two fresh slices taken away from each.

Ponder that sleep deprivation, I know I am as I write this. Think about those around you, critique their cuts as your immortalize your own. "My cut is so grand, his is shit on the bottom of a horseshoe." Watch as they correct the cut you made. Oh, humility. My dad mentioned something about that when we sat about the breakfast table in high school. Tacos for breakfast today/tonight/whenever. Tacos for breakfast/dinner/lunch/whatever.

Think of those plans you made. Better yet, think of the plans your planning when you get this massive paycheck they mentioned. Feel that sudden rush. Cut one fish, two fish, three fish consecutively. Mr. Kazakhstan said he wants to cut more, let him have a few. Cut two more then give him one. Five minutes later, tucker out, give him twelve in a row. Mr. Kazakhstan said he wants you to cut more, let him have a rest.

This is the front line, the line we've no option but to hold, and no one told us to do so except for the natural condition... hive-mind. The bug-condition I call it. Industrialization at its best. Like some early Ford factory, a bunch of migrant workers from various places coming together for one common goal. Management says the fish. We wee folk say the moola. Is the use of my left hand an accountable sacrifice

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Flying my daze away


SDC10252
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
Enter this wetland area where no man can walk. Flying over it, feeling like now you're truly in the thicket. Anchorage was in the middle of the woods. Naknek, this town of two hundred, is buried in nothingness. Listening to the hum of the engine, as you would listen to the hum of a harley.. listening to this hum is hypnotic. I hear the tape recordings my mom would leave me as a child. The ones that were used for falling asleep without sucking a thumb. The little induced state where my best friend, a lucky star would come and fly me around. I imagine the sound of her voice as we bank in the turbulent air. I close my eyes as the tape directs. I close them, and relax my arms and legs as we fall through the clouds. The greens of the landcape, the green of best-friend-star-nebula. The green of the blood moving through my eyelids.
Suddenly, I'm not reminded of this star, but my attachment back home. My little one. The love, the cake. The lovecake. I am reminded of her, but she is busy doing her, living my future four hours before I can. My toes tense up and the plane falls steadily towards the ground. A controlled free-fall to the fly fest below. Pick up my cup as I open these tired eyes and chew off my stress. Crunch the ice between my throbbing teeth. Chew the cup. Chew the cola too, but it falls out my mouth and speckles my sweater. We make another bank. And I think about purples and greens. I think of fairy girls bopping about. The Scottish horse fairy. The drowning horse in the river that all men with kind hearts try to save. The same horse nays and drags the quasi-heros body beneath the surface. Drowns the helpless humane human and goes about his day. The horse that steals men away. The fairy that murders. I close my eyes, think of the star. The horse shaped star. I think of lovecake.
I close these eyes of mine, i ponder divinity and death. The plane nears the ground and the nostalgia of anchored life leaves. Be it focus, be it game-face. Maybe even the high and adderall. Close these eyes and think of the succubus horse. Reactive mind bomb he said. Reactive mind bomb she left. Shouldn't have called maybe. Maybe it was her focus, her game-face. Maybe it was her high or the adderall, but the conversation stood stagnant, and I felt more alone. The hypnotic voice of my mother left me. The hum of the plane's engine left and we end the taxi. The damn best-friend-star-buddy-leading-me-away-from-sucking-my-thumb-as-a-little-child left. And alone as I call, I am left.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

drunkard walk on


SDC10192
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
spent some time drunk the other day. about 16 hours.. it was interesting at least. start a frantic night (the dusk period where the sun makes you think it'll be dark soon, but you know he's just a punk)... start this frantic night with a closed liquor store and brilliant comrade along with lefted comrade are feeling antsy. is it the pot? is it those pills? dark shadows only get so dark when the light always shines down on them.
around the corner we went, trotting along to the beat of some blow out speaker cell phone. i think the song was from the 80's. i think the singer died of coke abuse. hit the corner of spenard and benway. recoil to the sight of something new, unseen in such a place. recoil to an ambulance flashing lights and multiple policemen. wait... why shudder back us? we're no vagabonds. no griswald, but definitely on the lighter side of the force, and the force is strong with these ones.
finally destination beautiful has arrived. rather we arrived on hand and foot, as we mimicked the meese. hold open the door and fall into five by five box of four hundred different bottles. brown. green. a lot of green. more so than yellow, the color of porn in china.
head to the secret passge in the back, pull the lever and fall through the floor. damn crafty korean expats in alaska... at least the slide was enjoyable. better than our political conversations. better than ice cream eating contests where all the female contestants are naked, and all the men are blindfolded, unable to see the voluptuous bosoms. destination arrival now, unexpected pit of death. unexpected refridgerator full of arbor mist and MD2020. banana delicacy. strawberry orange bomb. sip sip and before we could escape the pit of doom, we're drunken for 3.99, a price suitable for both kings and pauper.

damn meeses


SDC10348
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
i see you mr. head bob, bobbin your head to the beat. it's okay with me, you can bob your head, even when it's horrible and unrhythmic. you can continue on, moving off-beat, shaking my bus seat. shaking it so methodically that a frequency so bad ass make the stars align and the deflate like old sun baked basketballs. venus, mercury, earth and then flat tire. the earthquake in sichuan wasn't really a seismic disruption that collapsed more than half the metropolitan area. it wasn't plate-tectonics that took a quarter million lives in one week. it was actually some twerp on the 301 to downtown that decided it would be enjoyable to get his groove on, stick in some ear buds and bob his cranium to Abba Gold.

Monday, June 15, 2009

day....smthn


SDC10194
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
day four
a bit cool for my liking
or i am still chilly from last night.
shorts, t-shirt, alaska...
three words that dont complement each other.

hit me in the face,
the blunt hit harder
and all i did was strike up a friendly drunken conversation
topic: religion
reason: to these daze still unknown,
suspected terrorist cell dubbed grim hellion
grim.

tk put his head down.
taller that a god,
darker than hershey special dark
my camera felt dumb as it left two people out of the picture.
tk raises his head
hit him in the face,
the blunt hit faster.

go on spontaneous thought,
binge binge re-binge...
then purge.

a day of sitting is always something to be admired
unless you've no ability to walk,
for that, i lack empathy, but understand your envy.
ouch.
ouch.

ouch.

lakers and magic
ulu blades flying daggers
flaying hide
and here i sit basement side purple painted wallflower,
ignoring the outside.
sit sit and for billy's/holmes/simpleton-texan/ sake,
re-sit.

read a book.
read the web.
recuperate and rape...
the fridge got raped.

we went walking,
but the post dramatic stress from such a carnal fridge ordeal..
well, it made me forget.
bum. lover of those lazy days.

tomorrow will be big.
but no bigger than other days

Sunday, June 14, 2009

alaska day three


SDC10011
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
day three
hanging low and strong.
and all because america is america
no matter what part of america you go to.
no confusion when everyone is worried about kate and jon

china has different cultures, customs, characters
each place, a different story,
every location, a piece of the puzzle, but oh so different.

but come to the american land,
come to the melting pot
see the faces of two hundred odd nation states,
and feel like main st. here is main st. there.

the churches are all too gaudy,
the restaurants all too few.
eating is the key to mans' heart
religion is the key to mans' hatred.

in alaska the green is super green,
the trees are super trees,
and even the water glistens better,
though it looks like a dell running WoW.

took a walk to the edge of anchorage
anchored to the edge the mounty state,
anchored to the edge of the americas
took a walk to the edge and realized the edge..
well, it resembles the center

and all over america it feels the same,
clean american air is american air,
not delaware nor maryland's.
neither texas nor cali's.
just us grade a air.

but here there is a difference.
those who live in the city,
those who bop to their own beat,
they cant really bop to any other beat but
the only beat to bop.
translation: the hobo's here dont got a goddamn escape plan

Saturday, June 13, 2009

alaska day two


SDC10083
Originally uploaded by faultyplans
eleven eleven rolled me out of bed,
made a wish to pass back out,
my wish didn't come true.

called the father to aleve his worry,
called the dad to ask for guidance.

they say it's cold with cold showers in naknek,
i think about that as i take my warm shower.
i think about chinas cold winter,
china's no HVAC heating
china's chilling shower.
i think about that as i take my warm shower.

up and about, time to walk,
but material and music is on my mind.
clouded by this, we walk
destination: capitalist wastebasket
translation: Walmart
Sam walton would be proud i mentioned the all-american name
especially in the last american frontier.
the final american frontier.

continue on this walk to the woods
destination now: east bound
i mentioned diablo 2
he walks to the east, always the east.

arrive to 'roger woods,' current destination
arrive to misleading development
community of mass-populace
private gated community with no guards.

goose lake thrills mild the tension
paddle boat mayhem killed the high
mosquito mayhem killed the cool

the right sided comrade was upset his shorts weren't skeeter repellant
right sided brilliant comrade was upset
left sided scitzo swallowed sweet "i told you so's"

return to this home, the hostel
there, it was quiet
smelling of swedish pan fried chicken
smelling of pasta and salmon fillets.
must escape... the content, full belly grew inpatient
whens the next meal arriving sir?

to the park to meet the merry men of marijuana
they weren't around, therefore drunken was the next goal
destination: arrival, earlier than expected.

sitting drunk there
and sudden appearance of simpleton texan
he's called billy,
i call him holmes.
but thats what i call all the faces.

wasting away in the middle of the disk golf course
golf clap, golf clap and re-golf clap
stop for a moment to let the mosquittos catch up
and while we waited for our blood sucking buddies to finish their meals
we watched the drakes and other mallards meander about

that far mountain,
peaked with its sno-cap candy covering
looks tastey
so i divise my plan on how to eat the landscape.
left sided comrade complains eating isn't enough,
sitting is where it's at.

the glimmer from the lake,
majestic and polluted
population control some call it.
peda cries blasphemy!

tecken arrvies.
tecken leaves.
our sudanese friend
our comrade in cannabis culture

the night before he took us to the point
a cape.
a place.

the american west.
the final frontier.
the... list continues
and here, where the eagles dare,
we smoked.

sudanese refugees meander about
pushing pebbles around with his air ones and true religion pants.
air one: $100 (a conservative guess)
true religion: $250 a pair.
true americans, real consumers.

sudanese boy said, "you could shoot them down"
american paranoia raged, "terrorist!"
sudanese boy said, "you could shoot them down they are so low"
i said, "thats what i want to do for a living"
i meant flying.

where the airplane flew low,
we fired fake rifles into the air.
those pricks flying that plane didn't want to play imagination.
business is business
and work kills kids.
even in the final frontier,

alaska, where the orphaned boy drew the flag.
alaska, where the sun never sets while graham is looking.

that sun... that jerk.
until tomorrow i think
mr. yellow dwarf said not so fast.


until tomorrow...