Twenty nine
years young
and the kid’s
still got it,
today is a good day
still breathing,
knocking on wood.
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Tag Archives: writing
The words I’d say to an unborn son.
If you’re not ready to let go,
then don’t.
Hold on as long as you need,
and then some.
These are words I’d say,
to an unborn son.
If it seems repetitive,
that’s good.
If it hurts in a hundred different ways,
it’s supposed to.
If you don’t want to smile,
let them see you frown.
These are the words,
I’d say.
Does it get easier,
at times.
Should you forget,
never.
Is it your fault,
no.
The words I’d say are these.
Life will kick your ass.
Love will break your heart.
Death will drug your senses.
With the strength of a mother’s love,
I would say.
You are your father’s child,
but make no mistake,
you are not your father.
A funny conversation I had about work.
Do you do much marketing?
She asks.
I went to Art School, so…
So what?
They taught us how to feel,
not how to eat!
Change.
It’s clear that you are trying.
But things have changed,
haven’t they?
You have changed.
And that’s a good thing,
change is good.
But it’s clear, from us
looking in
that you aren’t quite yourself
you aren’t quite as we remembered.
And if you are,
then clearly we too, have changed.
But we haven’t changed,
not really, in the sense
that your new found glory
has taken control.
And if I’m wrong, tell me.
Tell me something beyond common sense.
It’s crystal clear,
isn’t it?
Us know-it-alls, know it all.
So for now, you’re out of the club.
And that’s a good thing, rest,
because we all come back eventually.
Creative Bursts.
Creative bursts,
like drunkard
bar stool
thoughts,
I can actually do something…
That by morning
are swept away,
like confetti
on New Year’s Day.
A brief look at mortality in the form of a side stitch.
An
intense
stabbing
pain,
reminding
me
how
lucky
I am
to
be
so lucky,
and
how
very
little
I’ve
done
with
this luck,
reminding
me
to
breathe
and
encouraged
by
the pain,
that
will
one day
subside
to be
someone’s
lucky
day.
A Fond Ambivalence for Social Media.
It’s
a
fine art,
the
art
of following.
Choosing
that
precise moment
to
stop
is too, a work of art.
Like
a
thief in the night.
It
is
frankly, what separates
the
Doomed
from the Damned.
Like
a
self-congratulatory hand-job.
Sad
in
a way,
contagious
in
another.
An eye
for
an eye
with
no discernible
end.
We do not want, but accept these things.
Unintentionally rude.
Little disheartened sighs.
Incapable of speech.
And worrisome.
Fearful of what, exactly, is unknown.
Trying not to incite confusion.
Attempts not to quarrel only create greater tension.
Anxiety.
Disdain.
We do not want, but accept these things.
In silence,
there is no argument but a stalemate.
Like a fruitless game of chess.
On egg shells,
we walk,
stiff kneed,
toes clenched,
trying not to crumble.
Trying desperately to surrender.
Our sympathy and concern,
marred by our inability to grasp the others discontent.
We slowly close our eyes.
And wake in the morning,
anew.
Smiles of Uncertainty
The world is filled with people.
People filling space.
The only thing separating the people,
is hierarchy.
Other than that, there isn’t really that much else.
Just a world full of people.
People filling space.
All of them, vexed with smiles of uncertainty, trying not to fuck up.
Sirens
Far off in the distance they scream.
“Someone is going to die!”
Passing by the window now is another.
“Someone is going to die!”
Turning to page 359, I’m reminded.
“Someone is going to die!”
And I could describe the flashing lights.
Or the screeching of tires.
The anxiety.
The awesome routine of the Ambulance Driver.
Though my better judgement tells me other wise.
Not do describe the pain.
The wailing.
Or the fact that Sirens are neutral.
And that red is the only conceivable color to match.
“Someone is going to die!”
Turning to page 404.
“Someone is going to die!”
And another passes.
“Someone is going to die!”
“Someone is going to die!”
“Someone is going to die!”
“Someone is going to die!”
Farther off in the distance now,
like a tribal chant, you can almost dance to it’s rhythm.
WEE-WOO, WEE-WOO
Wee-Woo, Wee-Woo
wee-woo, wee-woo
…
Words Of An Average White Male 