the night before

I woke up with a pain in my chest and a needle in my arm. The soothing hum of florescent lights buzzed above me. I touched my face and felt what I figured was about three days worth of facial hair growth. There was red pea coat laying over the back of a large chair that had been pulled ever so close to my bed. The familiar scent of rosewood and Pantene hung in the air, just enough to hide the musk of being bedridden.

I reached for the remote on the bed stand and turned on the small television bolted to the corner of the room and saw my face with the underline "Man survives freak construction accident." I could question this statement just as I could question my mere existence, but thought better of it. Better I wait for my bedside companion to ask any questions. Better to reflect on what I believe happened three days before.

I remember going over the proposed blueprints for the new housing development soon to go up on the site of an outdoor mall left dead by the recession. I remember scouting the demolition site and surveying the crane's strike points. I remember hearing the crackled words spew from my radio giving the go ahead to the operator. I remember feeling a need to go into the building. I remember staring out a window on the fourth story. I remember not being able to move. I remember the wrecking ball, however briefly. Didn't they know I was still in the building? Did I tell anyone? What was so important that I had to go back in? These are the questions I have, not that anyone would know except me. I still have to ask.

My thoughts stop cold as whispering words waft in from the hallway.

"He'll need to be watched for the next couple of days. His body is healing fine, but his mental state has yet to be determined."

My mental state? Besides being a little shook up, I feel fine. My thoughts are appreciative. I'm just glad I'm alive. I think.

Emilia whispered something appreciatively and opened the door. She saw I was awake and stood in the doorway for a second. She looked concerned. As she walked towards me and let the door close behind her, I caught a glimpse of a piece of paper taped to outside of the door. In thick black marker the words were written "Suicide Attempt". I watched the door close and let her stand by my side for a moment.

wrecking ball

I sat still, in a daze from the night before, relinquishing all power I ever had over myself and my counterparts.

"Are you alright?" Emilia stood over me with a look of genuine concern I hadn't seen since the accident. Besides the four walls of my hospital room, endless infomercials, and Emil's apartment, that's all there's been to see. Some people have it worse.

I'm great, I answer still staring off. I'm thirsty.

She turned around and disappeared into the kitchen. I heard the puff of air as the refrigerator was opened. I heard the rummaging through leftovers and water bottles. I heard liquid filling a glass. I heard footsteps. I heard "Here you go," but did nothing to reach for the glass or acknowledge Em's courtesy. I heard the glass being set down on the coffee table. I heard more footsteps and a door close down the hallway. She's not mad, trust me.

I've been listening a lot lately. You know the saying 'You don't know what you have until you don't hear the foreman yell LOOKOUT! and get hit in the chest with a 2,400 pound wrecking ball'? Of course not.

The doctors said I was lucky to be alive. The physical therapists said I was lucky if I ever walk again. The lawyers said I'd be lucky if Workman's Comp pays my medical bills, I signed a waiver, I should have read it, I must be stupid. I heard them. I don't feel lucky. I don't feel stupid. I feel thirsty.

I reached for the sweating glass and lifted it to my lips. I tasted cold. I swear I never realized what potential I had until I met with death. It was a casual sit-down. He wore a collared Polo shirt. I was still in my work clothes. Death offered me water, I remember. Few words were spoken, just 'Hey,' and 'You shouldn't be here.' I emptied the glass and pressed my numb palms against the firm couch to aid in my standing. I succeeded and I was satisfied.

I stood, in a daze from the night before, relinquishing all understanding of how I got from my hospital bed to her apartment. It's a memory I'll have to recollect someday. But for now, I hear birds chirping and know I need sleep. I retire to the only place I know I'm wanted, and when I open her bedroom door I hear,

"Good morning."

tied and true

more often than not i'm caught
in a string of unbreakable knots
unfakable plots
leaving me deterred and endured
to the make-believers
the shake-relievers
the sake-deceivers
the everyman
so savvy-handed
i stay branded
to the differences
the anonymous dawn
never forgets the faces set aglow
the traces of the souls
set so far from your own
let live the critics
they make us greater
we heard the hate from their mouths
and watched it hit the ground
without a sound
blood stains the tiled castle floor
the king is furious with us
we pay him no mind
he owes us
oh yes

in the event of memory loss

the beginning of a long night ends with the evidence of boredom.
a slight nod to the idea of feeding the moon's curiosity
leads to heads hung low, too tired to be held high.
whether it be the thought of seeing the destruction laid before us
or the comfort of witnessing our ability to keep up the pace,
we love knowing there's ground beneath our feet.
a shallow creek is no match for our long strides
and a makeshift grave is no reason to dig up the past.
so we look forward to our excursions,
undercover of darkness,
among the living proof
and the dead wrong.
calculating the outcome of the night's events
is about as probable as guessing the weight of regret.
it's not until the first signs of morning creep through shut blinds
that we really know where we went right.
and even then,
who knows,
we may have to reflect and consider each step,
each leap
before we really comprehend our transgressions.

i sure as hell hope so.

dead

i will disappear.
believe you, me;
my ink will lay,
but my soul will be slain.

nevermind the gracious

too passively aggressive
to portray the impressive
oppressive, possessive, successor
your excess was unimpressive
come respect without a message
labor-intensive ethic
be cool, it's much more intensive
to be a prince without a princess
ready or not; i call not
forgetting how to love is never forgot
decomposition never rots
and moving on is moon-shot
creepy suitors repress serenity
impress a slacker's identity
with retracted amenities
there i am, or rather was

thirty-three days

i will be blogging about my trip to new york and the tour with flying machines to sxsw.

february 27th 'til my return to fresno on march 31st will be:

these thirty-three days

build more; reckless

hearts get torn apart
like shores against the rocks
turn to pebbles
devils abound
rebels profoundly gifted
in making
switch-kids get lifted
if kids only knew
that sand makes the best dust
band together,
forever endeavor we trust

i want to set this place on fire
i want to watch the cities burn
i need to feel the warmth of anger
and know that we are learned

eyes look past
a high-yield casket
wrapped in plastic cash
a mask takes time to mold
and fold the hand
deal with it
rocknroll

i'd like to see this "man" emerge
i'd like to excite the city's purge
and make a wall to tear down
wouldn't that be profound?

2010

no more pulling punches.
i'm out and about, over and under.

i'm gonna get in shape.
i'm gonna travel.
i'm gonna take pictures of said travels
and be inspired to draw and paint more.
i'm gonna finish my mission statement for my business
and get the backing.

my novel will at least be fully outlined.
my plan involves organization and weatherstripping.

i will strengthen my regimen of alone-time and crate-digging.
i will succeed.
i will conquer.
i will survive.

'tis the season

i know christmas isn't about giving, but the presents you receive generally say a lot about how well the people who love you know you. based on that, this christmas was the best ever.

for the sake of this rant, let's start at my birthday which is seventeen days before christmas. i got a gretsch drum set from my parents. i've been playing the same sunlite starter kit since i was nine years old. i've since then considered myself a drummer having practiced and been in bands and played in various factions of music in school, so a new kit has been a long time coming. sixteen years later and i finally have a kit i'm proud of and will take the best of care of. i'm extremely thankful my dad's a drummer because a) he knew what he was doing, and b) he knew when i was ready and passionate enough about drumming to own such a fine set. point being, they knew my passion, but more importantly they knew me.

then christmas comes along and i rip apart colored paper to find (collectively) a nikon d3000 and a wacom bamboo pen and touch tablet (from the parents), a bansky book (from my brother), and a set of twelve prismacolors (from my sister). to start off, i didn't ask for these things (apart from the bamboo, i let that slip), but they knew. this means in the past year my siblings have gotten to know me (and i, them) better than ever and my parents trust and believe in me enough to get me these things that only encourage my creative angst and distraction. i'm not exaggerating when i say:

this was the best christmas ever!

not because of things, but because of why i got them: i'm loved, trusted, and believed in. it's been a long time coming, and those are the best presents i could've asked for.

gunslingers wanted

i'm no hero
the lesser of two evils
share and share alike
my mistress is plight
shoot the actors
not the writer
justice is no longer
for screens and paid elects
put me in, coach
i'm ready
willing
joyous
filling
the lot's up for short sale
coarse-haired rubic's cube
twist or turn, no matter
dust gathers and settles
so what are you?

hide and seek

my eyes have adjusted
through the leaves and branches
i perch high
you're not as low as you seem
so keen on the idea
of taking the path less trampled
by failures and upstarts
twin arrows pierce twice
but not as deep
a twig snaps
as does my neck to look
i'd recommend treading lightly
snares abound brilliantly
a sound never made by
dogs
or wolves
or beasts on two legs
uttered in the night
a moan out of sight
i saw your reflection
as you walked along the lake
you shivered, i think
or maybe it was the water
cold and restless
you paused at the fork, i remember
morning chased you down and
you disappeared with the moon
you ran, i remember,
until dusk
now as i let my eyes adjust
here you are
emerging from the brush

none more fair

music is my woman. she is with me and i with her. there is not a fairer maiden than she, but try sleeping with her.

recently i have found myself doting on music exponentially more than my previous mistress, the fairer gender. i can't help but assume that, because i am currently being satisfied more by music than i was by women, my feelings are to be considered bias, but i don't believe that's the case. there is simply not enough history with the aforementioned to warrant an affair.

i see a woman and i think to myself, how can she inspire me to create something beautiful. that's my ration. i've found (especially lately) that heartache brings about more inspiration for listening and making and loving than any other emotion. but that heartache is long gone and the product of said love-loss is currently in post-production, so i ask you this:

does one then search for more heartache and keep his true love happy and strong, or does he settle for loving two entities and sharing his heart?