PBR DUDE

I sighed-

I'll never get past the hair on your head,

never get to the scalp, never get to taste your skin never get to wet my 

lips,

I sigh, I rub your skin, I see your eyes

big, brown, beautiful

love, man those eyes

those fucking eyes

makes me sad, makes me a fool, makes me a ass,

all the times my lips were coated with an acidic handshake

the beer, the smokes, the other cheap whores and their perfume

cutting me away from you and smiling all the while

man, it's no wonder you're not the same, it's no wonder you hate me

so,

but here I am, wearing my crown, smiling for no one, 

pour another drink, finish wringing my heart onto this page

when my ice 

melts.

HATERADE LOL

Your an ugly man,
                  Oh yeah? Go suck on gravel

I drink ugly, I eat ugly
christ, I am
                        UGLY.

But, for how ugly I am,
you
           sure seem to
           care?

Alot.                                             What gives?
I drink my beer, I smoke myself to an early grave
     my face is eroding and my smile?
Well,
shit,                                             my smile isn't even all the way
fuck it,
                           half way there.

But I'm ugly. And
you
                       care.

how am I supposed to sleep?

Awaken from sleep, by a grave-robber who toils in inconveniences, mired in
compassion, steeped in hollow tragedy. Robbed of life by the fear, gripping fear
of indecisiveness, keeping tragedy close, clothed and bathed in reassuring second guessing,
resting on the lips of everything that is pure.

She whispered "you.. cant give me what I need", and my heart bent, twisted and crumbled. Off to sleep again, in the grave meant for me, to be awakened by grave-robbers toiling in
misery.

oh sweet vase of heartbreak!
Harbinger of diluted inequity, cursed by your transgressions
hold your tongue, hold your tongue if only for the night
let me hold you for one last time, let my hands be yours
it'll be a miracle if you fought past your demons
yet making my deathbed seems inevitable
my tomb, my tomb, my declaration to all
without you I am nothing but hollow and empty
my heart has divided and pulled apart
sword sheathed at my side, my hands away
I yearn for one minute more, strive for your return
it's cold and empty in a broken house
my lungs are shaking and my breaths are shorter
frost covered romance urging me to come home.

winds

I noticed the man a few weeks after fall semester had begun.
Smoking a cigarette, pouring the grease into the soft mound of dirt right outside my doorstep
-each day, I saw him.

I swear I saw him behind the dumpster one day on the walk to class
using the ice as a mirror. I didn't know anything about him or his circumstances for acting as he did
but I didn't worry either when I saw him, because I saw him everyday for 3 months.

One day, while passing the dumpster, I didn't see him so I continued on, disenchanted.
A few moments later I saw him sprawled on an apartment complexs steps, sipping a pint of an abborhation of a tequila brand.

I had built up the courage
after 3 months of gazing at each other, of him watching me, and me questioning his motives,
I had decided to ask him why he lingered around, just staring at me.

So I asked, my words falling out over my tongue, out of my mouth.

He stared at me, blank eyed, the same stare he had first slipped me some 4 months back. His mouth opened and he softly replied, his voice getting lost in the wind:
"I'm finally living my life".

songbirds

nightingale

this isn't the complacency that's served to comfort me
for years, and days
slipping in and out of time
the tight lipped secrets of pantomimes
and statues
lisping out of my soul
boiling out of my mouth into seas of passion
and decay, the crumbling of my
bones,
limping away into peninsulas
whence our love faded, thrice.

each negative summer, erased like ripping through cassette tapes
finding each memory stuffed into a drawer discarded like trash
on the sun porch of our summer home.

lyrebird

I set the typewriter on fire if only to match my tears
stationery, pens and paper have all escaped my grasp
foreign to my touch and breaking my wrists
I set my typewriter on fire.

Piopo

Veins of liars and sighs of relief from saints
under a ceiling of ink
dripping and making us thirst
our throats drowning with the taste of such bitter ink
from your pen and paper ooze the vitriol to
bury a thousand empires
the secrets you've dropped have been collected
and placed in the shadows of the
kingdoms fall, because when the seasons change
and the sun is exhausted,
fatigued and
desperate we'll be clawing
at your throat. so please,
save us.

Conch

Pt. 1
No one is around
sad that it rings
true,
but when no one is around
everything seems
perfect.


Home:
No body born here
wants to crawl
back and die
here.


The End:
Memories slip out
of the open door...
fade away?
dissapear.

My response:
Memories slip out of the door
-and for what?
Leaving for your hearts desire? Slip out of my grasp
tomorrow I leave the coast.
Hope to see you soon.

Pleas (AND THANK YOU)

Don't wreck it! Such a tragic ending for your
storybook life.

Epilogue:

Like, I'm just trying to write
with all these nameless whispers that fall out,
of your lips to my ears
I just push them aside,
we're due on the coast in a moments' time
grace-
can still be found under that smile! and every time you raise
your glass, I feel you getting colder.

Break-Beat Science

It's not that I don't like you.

It's that as time has gone on, I've come to hate you. Sorry princess, but that's the way it goes.

You can insult me all you want, with petty little insults that are so so so trivial. I'll still sleep sound.

But truth be told your nagging incessant striving to assert your self-importance wears thin, and hurts my head. It makes me oxygen deprived, or at least feel the effects of it.

I get it. You're like important, or at least you lie to yourself enough to think and believe it.

Get over yourself. Stop being such a bleeding heart, trying to make yourself a champion for various causes. Your hypocrisy washes away any sort of positive effect you hope to achieve. Stay out of my fucking business as well. I don't care for your opinion, and if I did i'd ask you for it. But don't hold your breath.

It's strange how someone can get so full of themselves and attempt to tip the scales in their favor by hurling ignorant criticisms and barbs towards you. It's comforting however, to take all those insults in stride and not let it affect you in any way, because you know, that at the end of the day when the sun sets and your eyelids close, and the smile creeps across your lips that...

you're better then that.


It's a shame we can't be friends.

But actually no, it's not a shame because you've shown me nothing but the ability to stay consistent... consistently unworthy of friend material.

From your attitude, to the way you portray yourself, to your personality, to the bleeding-heart sanctimonious belief you have in yourself..

I hope you choke on your inflated sense of worth and self-righteousness.

You're nothing special, and as long as you live the way you do, you';ll never be special.

I'll be content in my life and my happiness, knowing that the amount of detractors I have is severely outnumbered by the amount of people who enjoy my company and sharing the bond of friendship with me.

Better cross your fingers and say your prayers, but lets be honest, no amount of well-wishing is ever going to make you a decent person.

Restrd/ReMSTRD

to all the women I've never loved. to all your empty rooms/hearts

Erasure of the tape, wiping out
the cassette scarred tracklines masquerading
as your veins in a wine-stainedbrokenglass dance
party. Claw through pulsating coffin-envelopes
to remember

MAKE NO MISTAKES!

As you project yourself into a disemboweled
fantasy of youth and splendor and
mouth-gaping aspirations of completion
and

FULFILLMENT! OH, sweet yet bitter fulfillment, collecting on my tongue, capsules of ineptitude and shame. Sweet, sweet shame.

installment plans, replacement parts, and rebuffed charades
to catch the twinkle in your lover(s) eye(s) to
chart and recollect fleeting touches
that once chilled your spine, instead now
sleeping in the bitter wasteland
you've created for your self, for your
false sense of affirming your individuality
and independence
have left you
bloated
washed up
dry
and alone.

(you had your chance, but you love yourself
you loved the mirror, you loved the attention
you love your libido and faux-intellect,
drown yourself.)

Can We Own Clouds?

I know the end and beginning of where the solution
to your question lies, and with second thought
a unrepresentative quandary
is proposed-
for health, for benefits
to the erasure of solitude
but to spend years in a jade
tomb, is to entrench those who contemplate
salvation and untrustworthy endeavors
with the splendors of a million sunsets
which is a privilege that should never split
the lips of those who live as if
life was countering the movements of
one thousand scythes.

Crooks.

All the hues of autumn arrows and summer errors
complete the erasure of past pretenses and tepid
heartbeats, but inlets assure me of the capable beauty
that your treble-coated whispers attempt to convince me
otherwise, and star-scarred night skies, plastic in construction
betray my thoughts and lovelorn touch.


As leaves fall to the wayside,
like austere glances hidden on the piers
from grave-robbing companions who toil
to ruin the company of love and lust
we will sit, and desire to slit the
throat of perfection.

And new gazes still make you feel lonely,
wrapped up in bedtime funeral processions
blackened hearts, backed up wasted years and
fading clock chimes, still feeling
insignificant and petty, but all the while
washed over by the foam-tipped tongue
of shameless summers.

The Rhode Island Mixtape

3 Movements Inspired By The Absurd Cruelty of Unattainable Happiness (Summer Passages)

I sold my nightingale,
I freed
it from it's cage!
Now I spend nights staring
out my window
hoping it returns unharmed
but I know it caught fire in the
sky...
it will never be mine.


//

sunshade cloak all secrets
like an obsidian dagger!

<.>

Spill my secrets, spilled my blood,
down by the pier
spending nights
chasing that damn
butterfly.

The Rhode Island Mixtape

It's well known that
if rain
falls
after midnight, those
secret rendezvous
between earth and
sky
will coat all lungs
with the misty touch
of a thousand
lovelorn
princesses and
as such the romantic
blooming of a love unknown
becomes like the
burning
of a sensible reputation.

------

If sand is so vast
and quantity unknown
then why does it's
beauty
not rival the stars?
A canvas blanketed
with unrepentant
beauty
can cloak the eys
to skew the perspective of
what is
beauty?
And, what should not be
spoken.


----

I felt your grasp
slit out of
mine
and the coldness
of your
heart
wracked your body
with its
malicious intentions
so I
GASP!
my lungs heave and ache for
air!
but it's no
match for
the
cruelty of your
intent.

UFC 104: Who Ya Got?

Personally, I am very excited for this card. Every card Machida is on gets me all riled up, and this is no exception. This card has had trouble selling out, and that makes me confused.

This card has great fights on it, and it promises to be very exciting. I haven't been this excited since UFC 100 (and that was because I was hoping Mir would rip Lesnars fucking arm off, but he was no match to the lay and pound technique that Brock uses)

Anyhoos here is who I WANT to win.. let me know about your picks and why. Commence discussion!

Machida over Shogun

Velsquez over Rothwell

Johnson over Yoshida

Stevenson over Fisher

Neer over Tibau

Can't wait for tomorrow

Moon, Don't Cry

This is a short story, er flash fiction piece Im working on. I still gotta make revisions, I guess. Enjoi.


Moon, don't cry.


The rain beat down on the pavement. It was akin to if hell had a dreary day..

"Hey man, you need a ride to practice?", the voice slithered out from under the slowly descending window.

Jeremiah didn't know what to think. He had just yelled at his mother, and thus now had to walk the 3.4 mile trek to a grueling practice. In the rain. It almost seemed like god was doing him a favor, letting this nice man in the luxury car take him to practice. Besides, Jeremiah thought, "if he try any gay shit, I could stick him in the face and get out".


The invitation accepted, the door opened. Jeremiah sunk in, and began to put his seat-belt on, and as he turned to complete the process, he was erased.

With the ferocity and efficiency of a shark attack, he was extinguished, but that's not to say the postscript to this process wasn't a long arduous and grueling macabre experience. Mr. Luxury fancied making sure that when his work was eventually discovered that it would be so surreal, thus requiring forensics, therefore taking it a little longer then usual to eventually find him.

But right now, that didn't concern him. Getting all four garbage bags out of his trunk and into the river were the most pressing.

The task accomplished he began to drive back to the city, the sun slowly retreating behind the horizon.

On the side of the road, a figure walking home, drenched in rain, walking sluggish. A lamb.

"Hey man, you need a ride home from practice?", the voice slithered out from the slowly descending window..

Why I Hate Working-Class Folks

...Well in Bloomington-Normal.

See, I have this theory that every job that needs to be done down here, starts at the asscrack of dawn, er 7-8am. And then every job that is done needs to be done with the LOUDEST equipment ever.

Seriously. It's 8am, and there's a crack in the sidewalk right next to my window. So what does the city of Normal do?

JACKHAMMER THAT SHIT. For hours!

And that's not the worst. The grass cutting is the worst. Being a mexican, I thought I could NEVER get annoyed by the sound of a lawnmower, but boy oh boy has Normal changed my thinking.

It's like a shark attack. I lay in bed, grimacing when the lawnmower passes, only to grip my sheets with nervous fear as I hear the sound fade off in the distance, knowing, just KNOWING that it will soon circle back around, to annoy me and make me pee my pants out of anger.

Yeah that's right. I get so damn mad, I just urinate on myself. Ugh.

And every single worker is capable of doing such a loud, annoying job, while simultaneously chain-smoking. Grass cutting, jackhammering, planting, washing, painting, you name it and who ever is doing said job is also puffing on a Marlboro light.

If that's not bad enough, the jobs here in Normal are so ridiculous. Seriously, this town has a person whose job it is to ride around and give tickets to college kids who break the law by dangerously parking in a NO PARKING 2-7AM ZONE. Like wow, I'm glad you were up that early to write me a 20 dollar ticket, you fucking douchebazooka.

Here's an idea. Maybe if the places where we live weren't so stingy with how many parking passes are allotted, we wouldn't have to park 6 and a half blocks away from where we live?? I mean just a thought. I know it's a ruthless and dangerous lifestyle, parking in NO PARKING 2-7AM ZONES, but maybe the city of Normal should stop and realize how blessed they are to be generating the amount of revenue they do, because of the college kids who live down here.

But hey, giving out 20 dollar parking tickets is cool too. Don't wanna end up on Americas Most Wanted for parking in a NO PARKING 2 AM-7AM zone.

bitches.]

Broken Wristed/Secondhand Glances

For The Broken Wristed

Let love,
limp defeated over the daybreak
to exemplify our sorrows
We'll accentuate the pain
of caring tenfold
until it manifests itself
under the guise of heartbreak.

\\

Secondhand Glances and the Like...

To accept such tremendous
beauty,
is a daunting undertaking
for certain
but lift the veil
to reveal the splendor
of your visage
which shines for miles
and is more at home
liberating us from boredom
but the face,
meant to be seen
by thousands of unworthy men
only
to be appreciated
by one, whose
eyes are
privy to see.

XX-2

Flowers Ablaze

Not even the larks
in their most vivid
fulfilling
dreams could
imagine beauty
as unique as yours
they could spend
entire lifetimes
spanning across generations
drenched in futility
striving to
broach the surface
of the depths of
your beauty,
songs will be sung
but none ever, as
unique
as you.


Antiquated Souls

My promise to you
is not
wealth
or material
furnishings, but is instead
a promise to appreciate
and bestow undivided attention
treated right,
until my bones ache
and my lungs breathe only
dust
and my heart is
cemented with
debris,
even then so, I promise
to appreciate
everything you mean
to me
and will never
let you down.
That is the foundation
of my
promise.

Dustcovered Throats

We spent our days
entirety of our youth
watching facades of ourselves
in the guise of breathless voyagers
nervous anticipation with each departure
for our hopes were built on
a foundation
our hopes were
rested on the shoulders of the unnamed

and as the clock breaks
and the walls peel
you're no longer my favorite song
instead just a lingering whisper
an unfounded rumor

the reconciliation was at a torrid pace
for once, you'll be at my side,
I scattered your appreciation under
the night sky
now my dear, you'll always be near
we'll relieve our youth
in it's entirety
you'll always be here

I Practice My Cartwheels At Least 4 Hours A Day

tonight I
think I'll lay
with prospective
angels.

For I dreamt that when I awoke today there was nothing in front of me.
nothing.

to hold me back
seclude me,
impede my progress

The wall at the foot of my bed, was now gone
or simply invisible

and with it came all the glory of the world and lifes bounty
sunlight, the sounds of nature roaring in
even the cold was welcome
deep in my bones
righted was the course
short were the breaths

the curiosity endless.

Umm, Your Thrones' On Fire.

A wisp of grey washed
over the cracked sidewalks and
through the trees, the
defenseless trees,

the chance for a hollywood
ending, well that hope died
today when
the sun rose.

Staring down an empty
street and wrestling
with all those inner
thoughts,
wait, re-write,
desire?

Who knows and certainly
no one cares,
shrugged shoulders with
the weight of your world
balancing, a delicate balance
mind you.

So, retreat back home
missed chances mark
another X on the
calendar,
go write about
how your heart feels
wrap the paper in leaves,
and bury it.