Adding Sugar to a Saltshaker

Anticipation hangs just inches above the tip of my tongue, it dangles there like an icicle in March and I, the foolish, wait without a care. It sways effortlessly, but strategically, almost as if a puppeteer with years of experience held the crisscrossed strings high enough above me just so my senses could imagine what it would be like if whomever held the strings needed to give their arms a well deserved break. After all, it has been almost a decade worth of time since the pale arms above me took a 15 minute break. I've come up with what I think it looks like too. Even though I can't see it I have associated it with the image of a small, crystallized granule. No color, no scent; considering it's size, and no way for me to knock it loose - it just hangs there. It used to have a scent but I think I became immune to it like you do to the scent of your own house. Now, you would think my hands were tied at my side and my legs were weighted by some grandiose slab of concrete shackled to my ankle, but that is hardly the case. I am frozen with fear, but fear that had once turned into humor, humor that had resolved back to fear, and now that fear decided to stay put. Not fear in the same sense as zombies or snakes or zombie-snakes, but instead fear of the unknown. Like if you were an infant again experiencing the feeling of pain or the feeling of happiness for the first time, both seem to have a pretty lasting impact. My uncertainty took over and now I only added height to the pedestal looming over me. Still though, I sleep fine and don't find myself looking up too much anymore. My neck isn't sore but my curiosity is still aching to taste whatever it is that hangs delicately above my tongue, even if the granule turns out to be salt instead of the sugary morsel I had always imagined.

Rhythm and Beat Up

Hunger pains no longer stab at my gut but it still seems my mouth is open more than it's shut.
The frontal lobe I once owned has turned into a sponge that weighs heavy on my neck the more it gathers as it hunts.
I depend greatly on a spine that's hidden inside just to keep up with a head just about to bust.

But in reality the neck I rely on sits in my hands.
It's body weighs on my chest and my fingers take care of the rest.
It does what it can to keep time with my heart but we both miss the ride and crash played by my complimentary part.

45 Seconds, Give or Take

I'm about to faint so I want to make sure I jot down everything going on inside. My hands are shaking, my vision is tunneled, blood pressures raising, as my thoughts become bundled. I don't know how he does it but my best friend handles this much better than I could and I rarely give him credit for the things that I should. I apologize in this rare, insightful time but I hope he remembers he also owns an apology that's mine.

Self-Destruct

The cavity in my tooth
Tells me I've had too much of you
You're far too sweet
And I can't live with the ground beneath my feet
I must admit and must insist
That you resist and don't persist
I need my teeth
Like you need defeat

The coffee and cigarettes
Are taking bets
On how long I have left
But the thing they both seem to miss
Is the bomb you placed deep in my chest

A Bouquet of Ice Cream Cones

My alter ego smokes cigarettes and stays awake until 5:00 am without thought of the morning's responsibilities. He is addicted to sex and Adderall and lives a life that I used to daydream about while I was in class. Without him I have no confidence but without me he doesn't exist. He is clearly better looking than I am, but we are both still at odds with who's smoother. His temper reminds me of my father's, so much that I start to pace around the room fists clenched, grinding my teeth with no substantial way to back it all up. My right mind kicks into gear at that point and begins the uphill battle to regain control and composure. Most of the time no one else notices anything but a friend of mine often tells me I just have an over active imagination. Basically everyday she laughs at something I do that I would usually blame on my alter ego because she doesn't think he is nearly as tough as I make him out to be. She smiles and tells me "Toph, you're such a little kid, your imagination runs wild on a constant, nonstop basis." I never really understood it. After a while I decided to see if someone knew exactly what was wrong with me so I asked a doctor, but I know I'm not schizophrenic nor do I have Split Personality Syndrome and his white lab coat freaks me out, so I left his office and walked to the nearest fortune teller. She sat me down in a back room area with dim lighting from a seventies-style chandelier that hung low from the ceiling. A mesh bag of moth balls swung from the bottom of the chandelier and made the room smell as shady as it actually was, and only solidified my reasons to leave. So before she filled my head with hogwash I stood up, took out my wallet, handed her $50 and walked out with my dignity in tact but still with no answers. On my way back to my apartment I figured I'd stop in the bookstore to see if there was any reading material that could help me. The bells that rested on the inside of the entrance door served as an alarm to the bookkeeper when someone came walking in, and sure enough the bells that rested on the inside of the entrance door served as an alarm to the bookkeeper as soon as I walked in. At this point I was tired of hearing advice from other people but I had no choice right now. I went on to explain my problem and what I was looking for. Out of the three, the bookkeeper seemed the most interested but later I found out it was only because she thought I was making it all up and encouraged me to write a book. She let me know she envied my writer's brain, but her only advice involved me shooting a hole through the back of my head, thus killing my imaginary friend. I told her that it was an alter ego, not an imaginary friend, and I advised her to lay off the Chuck Palahniuk novels. The bells rang as I left and it reminded me of an ice cream truck so I went to get an ice cream cone. Ice cream parlors always made me feel so happy for some reason, probably because the sounds and colors and scents and probably due to my constant need to reconnect with my childhood years. Behind the counter a younger boy standing only 4'2'', that must have been the owner's son, was waiting to take my order. Although short, I would say he was about 14 years old. The entire time studying the layout of the place made me forget to think about what flavor I wanted. I asked his advice without remembering the terrible words of wisdom I had gotten earlier and he replied without hesitation, "I usually get 3 different flavors. I get 1 scoop vanilla, 1 scoop raspberry, and 1 scoop chocolate peanut butter in a rainbow sprinkle covered waffle cone." It made me smile because that was my favorite kind of cone. I asked him if he thought those flavors tasted best together. Again, without thinking about it he smiled awkwardly like someone would when they were about to reveal something strange about themselves and said "Nah, I just wanna make sure each part of my brain gets to have their favorite flavor, it wouldn't be fair any other way." I told him I want three of those and he rang me up for 3 vanilla, raspberry, chocolate peanut butter, rainbow sprinkle covered waffle cone ice creams cones. I handed him the money, he handed me the bouquet of cones, then I handed him one back. I said, "Thank you so much for everything and walked out." I met my friend in my apartments elevator on the way up to my floor and about half way through eating my tri-flavored treat. I handed her the almost melted third ice cream cone. She looked at me as she always had and once again smiled before telling me, "Toph you're such a little kid." It was the first time ever my schizophrenic, over active, alter-ego stricken, writer's brain of an imagination had nothing to respond back with except a smile of agreement.

C Sick

The current came calling
Her waves began rolling
And my body bent towards the sun
But the current that's daunting
Reminds just how haunting
The nausea you graciously brought
It feels like you

Now the times not the problem
The tide keeps it crawling
And the air still escapes my lungs
It's just that every so often
I exhale with a cough and
It's your breath that's always at fault

And it will be the salt of the sea and me
My chest red from sunburn and heat
The horizon ahead sings to me
The only voice I need

Since I stopped caring about dying
Each moment's so blinding
Now that everything shines like the sun
With eyes open I'm floating
I'm happy just knowing
That my pulse still keeps time on it's own
It goes...

And it will be the salt of the sea and me
My chest red from sunburn and heat
The horizon ahead sings to me
And she sings
Stay afloat, just stay afloat, stay afloat

And I, I've been sick
But it's not from the swells that hit
It's the time it takes to sink
To our wreckage where it now sits
To think that ship
Was the only place I would fit
Looking down from where I swim
Now helps me to see that...

This is the time away I need
Let my chest burn from sun and heat
The horizon will sing to me

And it will be the last place I thought I'd see
My heart and my head finally meet
Where the words that I scream
Will finally be what I mean
And now I'll float
I'll float
I'll just float
I'll float

One Nice Thing

We're both happy to say the least
But the things that we always miss
Seem to hide way up in the trees
Waiting for either one to see

So if I climb each branch then leap
Would you follow close to me?
And right before we hit
I'll ask you one last thing

If I do one nice thing for me, will you do one nice thing for you?
We could meet somewhere between the two
To help each other through

So I'll do one nice thing for me, and you do one nice thing for you
We'll meet somewhere between the two
We'll help each other through

Then you can do one nice thing for me, if I can do one nice thing for you
I'll promise to meet you between the two
I'll promise this wont fall through

Let's do one nice thing for me, then we'll do one nice thing for you
And if afterward we still can't do
The things we thought we could
We'll let it be and let it go
We'll let it be, we'll let it go
Please let it be, don't let it go
If this could be, please let me know

Sometimes Just the Idea of Water Can Have the Ability to Satisfy Your Thirst

The weather right now is too warm to freeze the approaching body of water, and even if a mirage, I'm far too thirsty to not attempt the walk. The only thing that concerns me is the fact that winter is on its way and in the same direction as I am trying to get to the water up ahead. It doesn't take much too realize that winter can and will take huge strides towards the same goal I can only take baby steps towards. By the time I get there the water will be frozen. I will one again be standing, facing you, on the same unreliable patch of ice that tempts me to walk onto it without thought to check its stability or thickness.

We've stood on the ice once or twice before though, with the sun working hard on our side to hide away so we avoid sweating as much as we can. The more we sweat the quicker the ice melts away. The nerves strung inside our bodies that control our need to sweat are another story though. They seem to always override their systems and start sending paralyzing circuits sporadically up and down our already shivering bodies. Our core temperatures inch closer and closer to the 100 degree mark causing heat to radiate from the two of us. We avoid touching for obvious reasons. Beneath us is nothing new to us. It seemed to be where we have the most fun. The ice was always on a timer though, and the cracks that split the ice between our feet never seemed to follow the line of a clean break.

The chance of it shattering under our weight is the reason it has always been so appealing to us in the past and this time will be no different. If it were to splinter into tiny shards instead of breaking into pieces large enough to support our individual weight we would have access to the water we've been so desperately needing to stay alive. The bittersweet aspect of the situation we constantly find ourselves in is that the water needed to survive is beneath us but if we were to finally have the chance to reach it our lungs would freeze up and fail from the rapid intake of water flooding our systems. Our nerves would no longer short-circuit, our thirsts would be permanently sufficed, and our intertwined still beings would begin to descend and disappear into the water.

On the long and lonely walk to the water, with the winter sweeping over me, just like usual, I began to think about where you are, if you're as cold as I am, and about the past instances when I have been in this spot just to help me prepare for whichever outcome may occur. However, the last couple of feet until the waters edge made me curious to see just how long we could go without a drink and I started to hope for yet another jagged slice of ice to carry us off in opposite directions once again.

Seconds away from blindly stepping onto the ice, I pick up the pace and force my legs to run full speed. The sun has hinted to me that another crooked slab of frozen water will be mine, and your, next destination by stopping itself from rising at all for one time only. The wind that picked up and what seemed to be 24 hours of darkness halted the temperature at a low enough point to keep the water a solid. Full speed ahead and we will once again find out if our thirsts will finally be quenched or if we will be going another unknown amount of time floating in opposite directions until the next piece of land comes our way. Regardless though, I'm assuming, preparing, and expecting a long, secluded, thirsty trip ahead of us both. I never want to sink with you and I fear the shock of water hitting my tongue for the first time again in years. So for now, I hope the two of us float, until we blend in with opposite horizons just to experience the rush when the waves carry us both close enough to see each other in the distance once again.

Concealment in a Forest Fire

Being in limbo is being turned upside down, lowered into the ocean by your ankles, rotating 18 times clockwise, 18 time counter clockwise, and then being lifted up 3 feet above the water just to be dropped quicker than the water can bead up and roll off your chin. Being in limbo is believing that heaven and hell exist but ending up in purgatory. Being in limbo is a constant nausea brought on by nothing but your own poor gag reflex. Being in limbo is meeting your wife at your mothers funeral. Being in limbo is telling everyone about the things you can't remember from the night before. Being in limbo is the pursuit for symmetry in nature. Being in limbo is searching for concealment in a forest fire. Being in limbo is waiting for the carbon monoxide alarm to go off. Being in limbo is killing me slowly. Being in limbo is saving my life.

"Did you try shutting your eyes while in bed?"

You never have to sleep if you never get tired and I'm on a mission to make you a liar
Once you realize that there are actually 24 hours in a day you'll start to get things done in a different kind of way
So until you take time to understand what I mean, may you constantly wake seconds before you dream
Until that time I vow to better whose left, my family, my friends, and in turn myself
So I'll keep quiet tucked away inside a space built for one, until the flashlights pass and the search party gives up
And I'll pay no mind to my muscles giving way, to my bones while they're cracking, under the world and all it's weight

5:30 am Intentions

Saw the power go out around a quarter past three
Lost two hours trying to predict when it would go back on
Bet $16, a couple coins, and a lighter that doesn't belong to me on 5:06 am
Saw the power go back on at 5:05 am, laughed to myself, and said "Figures" out loud
It's 5:30 am again, the same 5:30 am I fought with yesterday morning
The same 5:30 am that I fight with every night, or morning depending on your responsibilities
The same 5:30 am that mocks me by delaying the sun from coming up by another minute every 'morrow
But also with the terrible shade of blue that fucks the window behind my blinds
And with the soothing sounds of birds that I want dead only at 5:30 am
Got over it quickly and laid in bed
Started thinking about the person that won't have a light for their morning cigarette,
Or joint, or roach, or blunt, or bowl, or forest fire
I should stop gambling things that don't belong to me
Got over it quickly and laid in bed
Started thinking about the lighter I wagered and how it now belongs to 5:30 am
Wondered who it will belong to a few days from now and fell asleep

The life of a lighter is one I could only dream about, and that was exactly my 5:30 am intention.

Make Yourself Happy At All Costs

I'm fairly positive that I could slip past the guards and the security cameras that line the walls of Fort Knox like inappropriate graffiti in a men's bathroom stall. It's not about being cunningly sneaky or clandestine. It's about blending in and adapting to your surroundings. Fort Knox isn't the hard part either. Besides I would probably walk out empty handed anyway. I'm just curious to see if I can find a way in without being detected and more curious to see if they would let me leave through the front door while I shoot the guards on duty a nod as if to say, "Keep up the good work fellas."

Stealing things of monetary value was never what jogged my interest. The holy grail for me is, and always has been, to break into someones head and then into their chest. Like I said, it's about the situation you're in and how well you can adapt to it until the situation your in becomes the life you lead. Speak correctly and the rest comes easily. Slip up once and the situation your in becomes a world of mess.

What also helps my situation though is the mind set I was born with. Even though it's probably not true, I feel like I can see into the future, not in the sense that I can live tomorrow today and not in the way that the Mayans could do it. I do it in a way that anyone can just as long as they can slow things down while life continues to move around them at 100 mph. Like in a scene from a far fetched action flick, slow motion sets in and you now have time to take things apart piece by piece, moment by moment, breath by breath. With this ability math becomes easier as well, if A and B happen then chances are C will quickly follow. A + B = C, C - A = B, C - B = A, at least for the most part. This type of future spotting is more of an educated guess then it is a definite conclusion. You won't be able to stop things from happening but you can all of a sudden understand why those things happen and how you can intervene . So in turn, if C isn't necessarily the outcome you want in the long run, try replacing A or B with a different letter, or maybe even a number or a punctuation mark. Try even changing the mathematical symbols all together. Whatever it takes is what needs to be done. Make yourself happy at all costs, and once you finally stumble upon the equation to the outcome that makes you the happiest, let it happen and then, with that cunningly sneaky and clandestine behavior, replace every piece of that equation with ∞ and stand back to marvel at the work you've done.

A Trip From Point A to Point B and Everything In Between

When the concept of time is diminished and all your senses finally decide to work together the world just tastes better.

The trip from point A to point B is much more than it seems.
The fall from point A to point B is a trip once you've seen the in between.
The trip though, if you're traveling up, isn't a fall at all.

Hear a picture, see some music, taste a song.
Feel what it's like to finally be aware and alive and in love with it all.

The more I experience, the more I gain and regain.

Trade in time to expand your mind.

To Be In the Grip of Davy Jones's Locker

My voice of Reason has carefully written out a guide for me to use in these chaotic yet peaceful times. It has left me clues as to where a treasure lay buried and like the man that I am, with a bomb and timer locked around my neck, I eagerly await the next hint to be whispered frantically in my ear. But with each second, every tick and every tock seem to increase in volume and in velocity. They drown out the clarity to my auditory sensors and I fear that with potatoes in each ear my next sign will be too muffled to hear. However, a digital clock just wouldn't give off the correct ambiance for my liking anyway, so I'll just learn to listen more carefully. The more time spent trying to piece together the puzzle leads me only to believe that inside the sunken chest that has been controlling my every turn for the past year will be nothing but a single paper with a three number combination. The only sequence to unlock the explosives decorating my collar. I search only because I have no choice. Reason does not wait, nor does it wait long after one of it's various demands are met either. Once #1 is done, 2 can begin, after #2 then #3 is shortly breathing down my neck. One by one each mission completed turns me from someone once motivated by greed, to a drone left struggling just to breathe. And without regard or consideration, for any number of the passing strangers, my last clue, my missing pages, to get this necklace off once and for all, will be plastered billboard sized on the wall. And Reason will shout, "X marks the spot, the treasure is near!" Now the search for my treasure becomes my greatest fear. You see there is now a barrage of pirates all with bombs around their necks all searching the surrounding area for a nonexistent X.

Do at least one nice thing for yourself everyday.

I've forgotten so much.
I've forgotten every date that has ever been important to me.
I know it's all either September, or maybe December, and even June or August.
I've forgotten which date coincides with what feeling and now I just don't want to remember any of 'em.

I can only remember one night when I was told that the stars were aligned, but my astrological sign can't make up its own mind so it fights with itself over which side gets my pride.
It's why I do not believe in horoscopes.

I've forgotten so many beautiful words that I made a point to remember.
I've forgotten to remember the things I chose to forget.
But mostly, I've forgotten how to remind myself of it all.

Like, why can't I just refill like you do?
Or like, why can't you sit still like you used to?
Or, why can't we just kill the weakest of the two?

I'll bet the rest of my memory that the amnesia has infected you as well and that now you can't remember the last time you felt all is well.
If that seems to be the case, then I'll also bet that my last recollection of you was one that never actually happened.

I try to remember now, to pick up where I left and to make it a point to cover up all my steps.
I try to remember about everyone else but make sure to do something nice everyday for myself.

I do not remember, any longer, to worry about where you rest your head.
Nor do I recall the reasons I forget.
So until I remember to feel more like myself, I'll keep at reminding you to take care of yourself.
And that you look both ways before crossing the street,
and you count all your blessings before taken by sleep.
And when your head gets too heavy to hold up on its own remember the hands you left back at home.

I was something then. I'm something else now.

My eyes are sinking into my skull out of spite.
Down the hatch, problem solved.

"If you don't sleep, then we won't see."
Down the hatch, problem solved.

I feel terrible for what I'm doing to myself and everything attached to me that unfortunately has to take the fall.
Down the hatch, problem solved.

After reviewing my options it's still the best choice for the time being, but I don't know how much of me I'm losing to them.
Down the hatch, problem solved.

My stomach has resorted to eating the remaining guts and organs I have left ever since that day. All apologies are often forgotten or misplaced, so why bother?
Down the hatch, problem solved.

Sorry guys, at least our lower half is doing just fine.

I was something then. I'm something else now.

She left me at 150 and she met me at 140. Gravity now tells me I'm 134. I'm slowly disappearing but it's no surprise that I am now transparent. You kept me from disappearing. Please keep me from disappearing.

A Lion Mistaken for a Lemming; A Lion Swayin' the Lemmings

There's a narrator in my head. He sounds brave and he sounds care free but he is stern. He's been with me all morning. Usually he feels either jealous or cramped when there's someone else bidding for my attention but on this afternoon he knows that the company is keeping him and myself from tearing out each others jugulars.

There are actually 5 others with me, or us; four small bodies tangled up in the back seat of a '98 Cherokee and two more up front due to size constraints. If he were real he would be sitting shotgun considering he has mastered the art of co-piloting long ago. Instead he sits coach in the backseat with the angels and myself but takes up no space.

The narrator up top mentions to me that the road reminds him of a brick building and we are the vegetation crawling up, meshed together in the cracks. We are every type of moss and ivy and vine all balled together.

The wind from the open windows controls every strand of hair and makes it hard to decipher whose growing each piece. They tangle like our bodies, like vines. The smoke from the 4th, 5th, 9th, 17th cigarette is the only scent and it climbs the road with us. For the time being we are all together and content with the height. He then motions down and tells me the fall from this point is painless and invigorating. I smile because I trust him more than anyone and I quietly agree. We wait for nothing but the elements to knock us loose.

I'll take credit for the reassurance I'll give everyone just before we're about to descend. They trust me and relax their bodies as we are about to fall together all wound together. The landing will be a smooth one, he promises me and keeps quiet. As the wind picks up and we start to sway. We're almost ready to voluntarily lose our grip, all of us.

The rain sends down thousands and millions of watermarked hints to try and tell us something but we ignore it and look towards the sun for a safe landing.

I can't see him but I know the narrator is happy with me and they are too. Life is a breeze at this height but the rain is usually right.

Sheraton's Lie.

Have you ever began to believe a lie you fabricated so long ago that you start to misconstrue the lines between what is true and what is not?

It's the moment that you're face down in a pile of your own words and they seem to surround your lungs with rusty swords. Dull enough to lick the edge of the blade but sharpened enough to drain your veins.

At this point you just commit and breath in every drop flooding your eyes, nose, mouth, brain, even your pores begin to give off a greener shade than usual.

Trash the room, sleep in the bed, then walk away and wait for housekeeping.
Check out is at 10:00am.

May the rest of your organs fail.

You're God damn right I'm fuming. I'm writing out of anger and talking out of anger and I don't want any of it taken with a grain of salt. I want you in my brain to experience first hand the screwed up shit I'm seeing and I want you to boil in my blood.

I want it too though. I gotta find a way into your being to explore what keeps you ticking. My choice of entrance would be the gaps between your teeth. I won't be able to breathe long though from the nicotine and bleach.

Next step is surviving the fall down your esophagus. If I make it down alive, I'll land face first into a pool of acid your stomach creates each time you forget to feel guilty or ashamed. Your belly does not collect the same abundance of sweetener as most would to fight the sour, corroding acids. It's a form of suicide, it won't eat away at your physical being, but instead your mental and emotional self.

The clock I'm searching for does not keep traditional time so I am in no rush. I am alive and I'm on a mission to prove the world wrong. This tin man has a chest and it plays a one man song. I'm out to prove everyone wrong. Contrary to popular belief, I've seen you weep and I've seen you fall to your knees. It's here, somewhere, I just need to find it. For my own sake I'll take the long way. I'd climb the disks in your back straight to the center but no disks exist where a spine once fit. Instead, I'll jump from organ to organ, steer clear of the lungs for obvious reasons and be sure to scale the left side of the ribs. Disorientation is prevalent when you're inside someone.

At this point, I'm starting to sweat. I should have seen signs by now that there is life here. Last tier, last rib, just one more closed door and I'll finally see what I've been waiting for. I made it. What's it like to feel someone else's beating chest inside your own?

Something is off though. I hear only my own beats. I even stopped mine to see if we were in perfect time. There was no sound though. I would swear we shared a brain at one point but I knew we never shared a heart.

Before finding entrance through your teeth, I borrowed, from her, the only set of keys. Here I am now at the space where it will be encased. I'm here to show each person in your life that you are a real boy, that you feel after all. My hands are shaking from nerves, mine and yours, and in fear that you also don't believe in your own core I'll unlock the door and scream from the top of your lungs.

"You need to see this as much as the rest of us do!"

Maybe it will remind you of the old you. Now, on 3.

1-2-3

The door swung open to reveal a cavity all cold and broken.

After all these years of trying to show the world that you own a heart of your own, you have proven me wrong again.

Anywhere but 39.677485,-75.753563

I've disappeared before, did ya know?

3 times now. Each time a little more intense then the one before it but all equally bone rattling and brain shaking. Each time I lose a part of my insides and they're replaced by stone and gravel and mud and clay.

I disappeared again today. You know though.

This time I just vanished and settled silently with the dust gathering on the fan blades. I waited for some unsuspecting someone to flip the switch. It was the sheer excitement that now some foreign being will determine where I'll land.

However, this time I went prepared.

Before I incinerated I opened every door and every window in my house and stuffed my pockets full, with a compass, map, and a prayer. Now once the fan begins its rotation I'll be thrown from the blade and swept away in the up draft. I'll be like a rookie pilot commandeering a microscopic aircraft caught in the most turbulent flight of my life.

I made sure the moon would be out also, for guidance, extra light when the night approaches minutes before take off, and obviously for luck. But most of all because the moon generates the wind I'll need.

I'm ready for my final mission. I'll be out and on my way dodging rogue pedals of dead dandelions and sweeping my way by any rain drops that always seem to be prevalent during times like these. I'll be avoiding all precipitation while embracing the gusts and breezes that now hold the key to my existence and to my destination. The compass is only there to help and to reassure I'm heading in the right direction, the map for reading material, and the prayer to send me anywhere that is not here nor there.

If you're in the north, I'm heading south. If you're on the east, I'll be west coast dreaming.

Please moon, just this once, bend the waves in my favor and send the winds my way. Send me to the next place I'm supposed to be. I do not beg though, I am merely throwing my faith blindly and literally into the wind with hopes you will float me in the direct path of a new breath for me to settle into and learn.

I disappeared today. Now if I could only remember how to reappear.

Guilty before the sin.

Don't it seem like I'm cleaning up someone else's mess?
Does to me.
Guess I better learn how to do my own laundry,
before I have to wash the blood from another blouse.

98.2 °F vs. 3 Inches of Plastic Spinning Fury

My fingers can't type as fast as my hands can write.

Logically it should work the other way but,
ultimately it's up to my brain.
Physically my fingers can punch more words,
emotionally, though, my hands do all the work.

Mentally now, I wonder -
if I can do more with paper and pen,
then shouldn't I be the one with a noisy, over-worked, cooling fan?

No Fault

There wasn’t much
that we could do

As we watched the sun
replace the moon

And the night began
to slip away

Along with it
went your holiday

Now looking back
I should’ve tried

To bribe the sun
for some extra night

But how could I
even offer

Something just
to keep a lover

From a happy life
too far to see

From a life we knew
she'd always lead

Now since that night
a lot's been done

Enough to fill
2 coffee mugs

Like the ones that we
will one day share

Once head and chest
are finally clear

Possible Side Effects

Erase a few days from your life.

Luck out with the nicest weather of your life.

Talk to a sunflower.

Talk to a sunflower with your best friend.

Truly understand music written by Apex Twin.

Surround yourself with aliens.

“Do whatever you wanna do”

Listen to “Waiting on the World to Change” by John Mayer and watch as the world starts to change.

Listen as Gods green Earth speaks to you for the first time.

Watch every piece of bark in your view turn bright purple.

Fall in love all over again.

Close your eyes then open them to see 3 of the most important people in your life murdered in front of you.

Drive your car while driving next to yourself.

Own a dog that can call you out any time you’re fucked up.

See a tornado form inside your face.

Hear your mother speak to you in a demons voice.

See, hear, smell, touch, and taste the beauty in everything.

Believe your life is over.

Sink 20 feet into your comforter.

Freak out in your own bedroom because you think it’s the world’s un-safest place.

Travel to the Philippines via painting.

Take 2 hours to roll a blunt.

Turn into your best friend.

Experience every aspect of the emotional spectrum simultaneously with someone you love without saying a
single word.

Feel 3 hours go by in 15 minutes.

Get eaten by a toilet.

See music.

Drink 25 bottles of water in 4 hours.

Don’t let Jay Z bug you out.

Pass out face first with your pants at your ankles mid piss.

Pretend you’re on Nick Canon’s Wil’n Out.

Hang up on your girlfriend.

Have the piles of snow under your feet turn into clouds.

Walk on clouds.

Feel the vibrations of an acoustic guitar overwhelm your body.

Hang on for dear life.

Don’t slip.

Laugh uncontrollably at the thought of someone you went to high school with.

Understand what the birds were conversing about.

Then freak out because you think they’re talking about you.

Finally appreciate how much a wind chime needs the wind and vice versa.

Examine a cigarette like you’ve never seen one before.

Turn off your phone for safety reasons.

Fall in love with weed ever more.

Start and finish in the exact spot that you began.

Lose yourself in a patch of moss.

Feel like a ghost of yourself from now on.

Come down.

And then come talk to us.

Attempting to Locate a Difference Between Voyeurism, Schadenfreude, and Paraphilia

Watch as they take turns remembering to forget what they saw.

Pay close attention to how quickly the situation at hand turns from playful to bad, from bad to ugly, and from ugly to vile.

It’s seldom that one human being lowers their guard enough to show another that they have almost completely forgot all aspects of evolution we’ve gathered over the years. To observe someone of the same design devolve into their primitive form is near nauseating.

Keep an eye open, consciously, while the primate-like protagonists begin their "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" charade that begins shortly before and after the act.

Listen to the insolent hollers escaping the alpha male’s mouth and listen closer as they fill the ears connected to his envious crowd.

It’s one group of words that is sure to never fall on deaf ears. In actuality those hollers can captivate the rowdiest pack of men enough to have them sitting indian style, on a rug, in circle, eagerly waiting story time. And the story at hand comes with pictures, the story at hand has the potential to reach the masses, and the story at hand will have all truth stretched from one side of campus to the other.

Notice the spectators increasingly grow in size, in depth, impatient, and in curiosity. Make a mental note as the flooded area separates into fractions based on their view of the situation:

½ hover around not sure of what they're seeing, thinking, or feeling but they don’t know him and they don’t know her, so they don’t/won’t interfere. They just blend in and look on.

¼ consists of his friends that will all take what they saw and eventually jazz up the details to tell this story as if it were their own.

¼ made up of the average closet creep that will use what they saw as material the next time they’re lonely and under the sheets.

It's shocking how simple math becomes when applied to situations like these. Now, if only "Advanced Voyeurism" was an elective, your GPA wouldn't be as low as you'll feel tomorrow.

Feel the room sway in unison as each person moves either one step left or one step right just to get a better view past the heads of the people in front of them. The only thing separating the stars of the show from the bystanders acting as the audience is the blockade of ¼ best friends making sure nobody gets a better view than they do. And all this bobbing is in anticipation for the great finish. The moment is as close as he is and her respect is as lost as she is.

It’s hard to turn your head away from a burning building and it’s too tough to look past a car crash. By nature our necks turn to rubber when something we rarely see is presented to us. However, doing the right thing is even rarer than everything that went on tonight. For her it’s wrong place, wrong time and for him it’s right place, right time.

Ignore the fingers being pointed and hide your laughter as it’s forming due to the new nicknames being produced. Almost instantaneously, as soon as the spectacle comes to an end, the entire space will clear out. She won’t be alone though. She’s not the only one that’ll turn red. A wave of guilt will sweep in from the backdoor and will blow past each individual that took the liberty of watching the gratis exhibition. The force alone will turn the skin of everyone involved a bright burgundy shade. Although a temporary side effect brought on by guilt, it will jog the memory of all immersed and remind them that minutes earlier they were as human as she is.

It’s in that moment when anyone who walked by without saying a word will get weak in the knees, and it’s in that moment that anyone pretending it wasn’t happening will get struck by reality. It’s the moment when anyone insisting it was a good idea will leave feeling filthy, and it’s in that moment when anyone remembering to forget what they saw will have the images of the night embedded in their brain permanently.

It’s in that moment when laughter would ensue if it weren’t for the story being 100% true.

Boustrophedon

There’s a splinter underneath the thumbnail on my left hand that I watch while I write.
It runs parallel with the lines on the paper and provides stability I need at this height.

It is of no nuisance to me but more of a muse, one I’ll exploit and the rest I’ll abuse.

It’s an anonymous brand of timber that aims to link a pencil to my fingers, one of which I hold too tight.

Stubborn and still from time to kill, it burrows deep to starve my brain from ideas I thought of along the way.

Fittingly though, it mimics me, plants a seed then briefly leaves.

I’d let it stay, I’d let its roots tangle with my veins and I’d water us both with rain.

After all, what kind of host would I be to tear out the roots embedded in me?
And for nothing more then just to see how long it’d survive as just a tree.
The truth in fact is that we’d both be petrified if not for it, if not for me.

Been some years since that splinter lodged itself under the thumbnail on my left hand, which I only use to write.

Pardoned By the Exocutioner

There it was once again, I felt it, the blanket of heat, the subconscious wave that just began to swell above me and the surrounding area.

“Guilty by association I guess.”

That’s how I would explain when it came crashing down, taking out everyone in it’s path- women and children included.

It must be all over me, written one my face for all to see, like the fingerprints of ex-lovers that only your present lover can spot; and in this case the entire room is filled with present day love interests ready and willing to dust for prints.

Either way, I felt it scribbled clearly across my forehead, my cheeks, my lips – and just my luck, no mirror.

I tried to use her poker-faced eyes she was born blessed with to see my reflection, but it was like trying to see your reflection in the back of an old, stained restaurant spoon, where everything’s been caked on in secrets and where everything’s backwards and upside down The kind of spoon so tarnished you can never really tell who used it before you.

I struggled to grasp how she continuously read the fucked up ideas in my head and how she seemed to always keep time with the off time beats in my chest. Together, the ideas and the beats worked as one to speak in a language she had never heard before yet she could understand it, read it, write it, and even worse, predict it. They were finally on the same page, the ideas up top and beats mid way, and they were speaking loud and clear.

“Did you say something?”

She spoke with a level of assertion that could easily either a.) scare a man or b.) turn a man on.

Commence silent freak out.

“Nah,” I stood my ground. I didn’t lie either. I didn’t say anything, at least my mouth didn’t.

“I could’ve sworn I heard your insides screaming. Like they were begging me to keep you around,” spoken with the same tone she gave before.

She listened closer. She listened harder, but with ease. Each heartbeat inside of me struggled to tell her what it meant by every pound.

The sounds always came out muffled due to the build up of blood that seemed to congregate day in and day out in my chest but for some reason always seemed to forget about the appointment it had with my brain.
“There it is again! I heard it!” She continued without hesitation, “But it’s in a misplaced romance language I thought we lost long ago. I guess it’s just the parlance that has kept us bound all along. Don’t you agree?”

I couldn’t say it out loud, but in my skull, where it's safe, I was yelling at the top of my lungs. “Yes! Exactly! Run with that idea, because my legs have given out long ago and I’m begging you to carry us! If you let me use your legs, I’ll let you use my eyes.”

It was her sole flaw, the only wrinkle in her blueprints- she had a terrible time using her eyes to see what was directly in front of her, although, she did use them for everything else.

I continued on in my head. It’s more than likely that too much time has passed since she asked me if I agreed with her, and it’s more than likely that enough time has went by to lose her attention completely. This time was different though. I was taken back by it, but I knew I could take my time. So, again, I went on with the run on sentence in my brain that refuses any type of punctuation mark to be attached to it.

It was better that way due to the fact that my ADD keeps me from finishing any thought anyway. That’s what she was always around for. She finished my thoughts, she added the period to my statements, the exclamation point to excitement, and she was the reason so many question marks were gathering violently in an unruly crowd in my cranial space.

At that moment I began to believe to a pseudo type ESP. Telepathy between two people and only two people. I pictured my brain waves traveling through the air and wished that they would sneak their way directly into her thoughts. I could see them come out but as words, complete sentences shockingly enough. I watched them while they held their breath and as they traveled amidst the tension soaked air to their main destination. They knew if they could only make it a few more feet they would end up where all my words wanted their final resting place to be, calmly nestled inside her brain where she will analyze and store them and place them in memory banks that are alphabetically ordered. Mine would all go under the letter “C” of course but not because of my name but because that is where they belonged, directly next to her thoughts.

All at once my words lined up and sub-consciously displayed to her what my insides had been discussing all along.

“It’s in a code! Dissect them because no one else can. No one else was ever willing to take the time to recognize the beauty in the mess we’ve made. While we stand on lies in the form of ice, with heat at our feet from the sun in the sky, we wait for our certain demise. And personally, I never thought we would survive long enough to see the melt.”

But like clockwork, somehow, with brash intentions and a sense of cavalier bravado she was about to conquer the road less taken and she was going surprise the world for one last time.

She spoke calmly because she knew I needed it and she called me by my birth name because she never did and knew how bad I wanted it.

“Relax your bones, Chris. Take a second to catch your breath, let me explain. You look like an inmate next in line for execution, but what I don’t understand, and what I’ll never get, is how you consistently and peacefully prepare yourself for another death by my hand. I should be the one strapped to a chair with electricity running through my veins. I should be headfirst in a guillotine with your hand tugging the rope.”

Commence silent freak out.

“Boy, I can feel you thinking and I can hear your chest. I can see your words as they try their best. And even though your lips are differing I’ll just let those words fall to the ground. For once I’ll listen to your heart this time I can hear it loud. Please forgive my mistakes and look passed my ways. For once we’ll listen to your heart, this last time we’re never coming down.”

Pretending God Makes Mistakes (Nanny)

If I could find a door to heaven I’d storm through to give them hell,
Just to find out why they stole you and to make sure all is well.

I would sift through every holy book in a land swallowed by clouds,
I will find the wings attached to you in a white-winged, saint-filled crowd.

I’d scream, “Jesus what were you thinking?! Oh dear God you must be mistaken.
I have a laundry list full of sinners all of which you could’ve taken.

Even though we’ve had our differences He’ll treat me as kind as the rest.
Although this won’t be new to him He will show me it’s for the best.

“You see my son,” He exclaimed, “take a seat just for a minute.
Her time below was not in vain but all good things must come to finish.

My reasons to rob her from the Earth are reasons in time you’ll learn.
Each death and war is necessary to keep the world in turn.

When you return please take with you reassurance for all involved,
The one you came to search for will be watching from above.”





Fuck, I hate rhyming.

Playing Chicken With Waves

My brain has a pair of hands that work much better than mine
They script me stories and draw my sight, they fight for glory and work at night
But they can't feel the air, they can't feel it surrounding us
And they work for me quiet inside, just to control what's mine,
they make the choices and I follow through, with two hands in mind they control what I do

I would be stronger, I should belong to her, if they worked as hard as they could
I could be smarter, please don't make me stop her, she needs fixing up too

Buy some time, here's when they won't help you out,
It's not about impact, but about the way down
But those hands won't be there as you hit the ground

My brain has a pair of hands that work much better than mine
They write songs more beautiful, and their tips are more useful
But they can't leave their mark, they don't leave evidence behind
So they do what they want from inside, just to sabotage what's mine,
they make the choices and I follow through, with two hands in mind they control what i do

I would be stronger, I don't belong here, if they worked as hard as they could
I could be smarter, please take my offer, I need to be fixed as much as you do

Buy some time, here's when they won't help you out,
It's not about impact, but about the way down
But those hands won't be there as you hit the ground

"What is it that makes you tick?"
It's the rush that I get when about to get swept
by the wave that is born that I purposely miss
It's my attempt to mark the world with my prints

"What is it that makes you tick?"
It's the rush to the heart right after you slip,
and the fall that you need just to feel it,
It's my attempt to stop the air to my head
and to redirect flow straight back to my chest