never to be finished

DSC01047
Originally uploaded by faultyplans

i see you girl.
i want you girl.
your dirty blonde brown.
it's soft,
you already know,
but i want to tell you anyway.

when i see you,
and your recent imperfections,
i feel like that beauty of yours,
decided to give me a handicap,
a headstart.

NOW, i can have you.
i'm not that great to begin with.
as for theory and rhetoric go,
i got you beat, bitch.

but as far as real life,
that shit that matters for survival,
i am in awe of your strut and swagger.

women feel the potential for motherhood,
even before there is a soul in that womb,
but the men,
us men,
we don't get it until that baby screams for life.

until that mark made you human,
there was no chance,
there was no feeling of hope.
and now there is the idea of us.
*UNREVISED/UNFINISHED*

authority complex

i had a love of my life

she was five foot five

black hair and brown eyes.

a touch of american blue

and jovial chinese red

with a dash of my white

made her an abc delight

practice

for the life of me, i've sat here, unable to write

write. right? wrong. type.

for the life of me, i've sat here for three long months

barking orders at child stars, 

unable to initiate the sequence of digit movements that starts a digital movement.

i've two muses, neither want a thing to do with me.

now my cave, my long hallway that housed six heads and five beds,

and now my fucking cave unequivocally blocks this transient flow.

i could type angry insults, but the world is already convoluted.

i could draw bobbing heads and waving arms as they extend 

from a lustful mara.

i could, but i won't. surely will not.

these prose are shallow.

like the nurse who swore to her code of helping those in need,

then denying a boy a band aid because the maternity ward's bandages are too small.

the cut was caused by a pin prick.

my muse, a black hair neophyte pup that barks,

went and started speaking a language too sino for i.

our relationship is like the jews and jesus,

she just leaves me hanging. 

my muse, long haired and bright,

bought herself a hundred dollar habit and can't seem to kick

the opiates.

the best part being, her anti-being is the chinese oo-long 

now, here i am...

writing. writing. typing this shit...

quick-witted dick

i want to sit and type out my excitement! 

i wish to dissect the world and tell people of the wonders i have learned

my internal teacher, my spirit guide.

i wish to stand on my foot high soap box and elaborate on the zen,

the zen the classical world has romantically abolished.

i want to explain the balance of things,

to the convoluted persons bouncing their heads off inanimate objects,

rebounding to bounce and rebound to bounce.

bouncing from brick walls and red tin roofs.

those tiny pinheads ping-ponging across 

television screens and off radio air-waves. 

i wish to sit down now.

due to the empirical overload, zen is outdated and fated.

fated to die off as those who bounce all too well forget. 

they forget of the the intangibility this world really holds on to.

what was once about expansion and progression of thought,

has become expansion and progression of material wealth.

it has become not about how one transcended from one's expedition through a wailing fjord

it has become about how one descended from one's ford expedition without wailing.

those who bounce off the intangible words towards immediate pleasure,

eventually bounce into a state of apathy and stagnant tangibility.

for those convoluted bouncing balls,

i become pretentious and quick-witted.

for those oppressing forces that bounce in to life,

i become rounded and repellant having learnt that things bounce out just as they bounce in. 

this mass appeal with immediate pleasure,

reminds me of the affliction of addiction.

the romantic idea of immediate orgasmic gratification

doesn't sound romantic when it is translated as,

the black tar hypodermic needle head puncturing a vein.

instant orgasmic pleasure.

buy the car! you need it.

buy the stereo, you'll enjoy it!

listen to the words without question, it'll be easier!

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.

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.

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.