Three Poems

I decided to write some poems last night. The theme is Sex, Drugs and Rock n' Roll. They might be inappropriate for children, so hold off on reading A Mind Awake as bed time stories on this entry.

Sex

Pulling at her bra

Taking off my shirt

Moving pretty quick here

Probably going to hurt

Hands tight around her throat

Nails digging in my back

Seems to be enjoying her self

Though she’s fading to black

Waking up again

Penetrating her ass

Might be a bad idea

Until she starts to laugh

Drugs

Drank a fifth of whiskey

Enjoyed a bottle of rum

Finished off the vodka

Wasn’t even close to done

White lines seem endless

Pills are scattered galore

Roll up another joint

Always ready for some more

Kidneys are starting to fail me

Thinking my liver just popped

On my way to rehab

Probably best if I stop

Rock n’ Roll

Listening to this music

Trying to decide

Was it really worth it

Committing suicide

Four chords straight to heaven

Drum solos till you die

Sounds so generic

Double platinum lies

It’s supposed to bring freedom

Place where we can go

Just paid $80

Sitting on the last row

There's no place like home.

I’ve been thinking a lot about decisions lately, I guess that’s probably because I’ve been making a lot of them lately. Some of them have been good and some of them have probably been bad, but I guess what it really comes down to is whether they’re right or wrong. Believe it or not, some decisions that are good aren’t always right and vice versa, but that’s probably just a matter of philosophy or a person’s point of view.

The thing about decisions is that we make them based on dreams, fantasies and expectations of something that we think is better than what we currently have. So when you’re making decisions based on fantasies you can really get yourself into a lot of trouble. As we all seem to find out, fantasies are exactly that, fantasies. I’ve seen a lot of my friends make decisions based on a fantasy. They usually come back broken and beaten down. I don’t exclude myself from these ridiculous actions. Happens to the best of us though. We’re all trying to live the dream so to speak.

I think you’ve truly found the person you love when you close your eyes and the same person you see in the darkness is the same person who’s right in front of you in the light.

One time I read this story about how this guy wanted to marry this girl but he kept on having weird reservations about the whole thing. As he went deeper his main issue was really not about her, but it was the fact that she wasn’t 10 other women.

It seems kind of funny to me when people say “sweet dreams”. I mean, I know it’s just a kind gesture, but my dreams are rarely sweet. Maybe someone should say it to me more often. I don’t have bad dreams though, but they‘re never good. I don’t have nightmares, but then again, maybe I do and they just don’t scare me.

I never have sweet dreams.

When my life is out of control which is pretty much most of the time I dream about tornadoes. In my dream last night I was sitting in a house and tornadoes we’re swarming around, trees were being uprooted and people we’re getting sucked into it. I’m never afraid though because they never get me. They seem to dodge me as though I’m more powerful than the storm. That probably has some sort of significance that you don’t need a dream dictionary to tell you. It’s pretty obvious to me.

Some of my decisions have caused these tornadoes though, I’ve caused the upheaval and unfortunately some people have gotten sucked in, but at the end of the dream everybody seems to be ok and glad that’s it’s finally over. I look forward to that grand finale.

Maybe I’ll finally get sucked in and it will end it all. Maybe, It’ll take me to Oz. Anywhere is probably better than here right now.

Conversation

conversation

"Hey?"

"Hello."

"How's it going?"

"Good."

"Yeah…it's been a while."

"It has. How are you?"

"I'm ok."

"It's nice to talk to you again."

"I thought you might be mad."

"I know. I'm not though."

"But I haven't talked to you in a few months."

"Most haven't, but I never get mad."

"Man, that'd bum me out."

"It does sometimes, but then they come back."

"Do they usually feel bad about it?"

"The sincere ones do."

"I'm sincere."

"I know you are, but you don't have to feel bad about it."

"Thank you."

I'm addicted

You know what goes really good with coffee?

Good Reads!

A friend of mine invited me to this site back in April and I've never done anything with it until today. Posting all of the books that I can remember that I've read and checking out what other people have read and are reading is so addictive.

I have 22 books up and all but 1 have a simple review. I've posted all of these today.

If you like reading and what to join up feel free to add me as your friend.

"Neverland makes you forget..."

It comes to me.

It's there.

I see exactly how it would unfold.

I repeat it under my breath a dozen times. Surely, it will not be forgotten. My eyes shut and I drift away to a magical land of talking cars and flying rabbits where words do not exist in their proper form nor do I care.

I'm sure I'm not the only one, but I always try to read in my dreams and I can't seem to do it, it's just another way that I realize I'm truly dreaming. You can call me an illiterate dreamer, if you'd like.

I just now remembered that I forgot "it".

So now opposed to writing "it" I am now writing about its non-existence. An older and wiser friend once told me that "if you don't write it down, it doesn't exist". How true, old friend…

I wonder what "it" was.

Would it have ended up as something memorable or just another Word document that I move into the recycling bin? Sometimes I wish I had a type writer just so that I can act like a frustrated god that creates a mountainous range of paper that causes the waste basket to appear as a volcano erupting with bad ideas.

But with as much as I back space, delete and trash all together, the PC is probably my best bet. I'm yet to toss one of these out the window, but then again, I wouldn't put it past me.

"When I wanted to forget, it killed me to remember and when I wanted to remember, I had the good fortune to forget."

Can't Knock the Hustle

Two buckets of PBR later and I’m zoning out to some TV show that every guy in the place can’t seem to take their eyes off of. Since I don’t have cable I have to inquire about why people are stripping to music videos. Apparently it’s a new kind of game show. People making fools out of themselves on camera is always much more interesting when it’s muted.

And I thought “The Price is Right” was complicated.

After a dizzying conversation about strip clubs due to the intellectual content sliming us on the big screen he decides it would be a good idea for introductions.

“What’s your name man?”

“I’m Johnny.”

“Nice to meet you man. You can call me Vo…” He trails off. “or Floyd.”

A strange handshake involving palm smacking, finger juggling and eyebrow raising commences.

“It’s nice to meet you Floyd.”

“Or you can call me Vodka.”

Vodka? So that’s what he said.

I realize what he prefers, but if he would rather be called “Vodka” then why give me options? Refusing to call anyone an alcoholic beverage unless it’s Jack, Johnny, Jim or Jose, I continue.

“So what do you do Floyd?”

He shifts his weight and glances up at the ceiling before staring out over the bar and deciding to speak.

“I’m a hustler man… but it’s legal.”

What a coincidence, a con man at a poker game. He must not be very good though. This game was free to play. The only thing you can win here is gift certificates. Maybe he hustles for PBR. I noticed him eye balling my bucket.

“Some guys are hustla’s, but I’m a hustler.”

I have no idea what this means, but for some reason he feels the need to justify his line of work to a white boy who grew up in the suburbs of Kentucky. So I just keep nodding my head and saying “Ok.” like I understand what he’s talking about.

After he realizes, like our previous conversation about strip clubs that I have no idea what we’re talking about he walks off mumbling something about it being nice to meet me. I watch as my new found friend joins a new group of drunks and my eyes find their way back to amateurs dancing badly to old Britney Spear’s videos

Other than the time I witnessed a mugging and ran away, this is the only other moment in my life that I actually feel like I’m a part of a Jay-Z song.

“I got extensive hoes, with expensive clothes
and I sip wine, and spit vintage flows
but y'all don't know...”

And so it goes...

Back in April when Kurt Vonnegut died every blogger ever, seriously, all of them, posted "Kurt Vonnegut died and life isn't worth living anymore" entries. After scanning over 60 or so of them I decided that I should go ahead and read Slaughterhouse Five.

Yeah, I'm surprised I had never read it either, but in all honesty I only really started reading about 8 years ago. Like most people I was never a big fan of reading the books that I was forced to read, not to mention I was an idiot, but after I got out of school I really started to enjoy reading. Anyway, I read Slaughterhouse Five and realized why everyone wrote "Kurt Vonnegut died and life isn't worth living anymore" entries.

So maybe I'm about 4 months short, but maybe this could be my "Kurt Vonnegut died and life isn't worth living anymore" entry. Or it could be the "I just finished reading A Man With out a Country and I don't want to be an American anymore because Kurt Vonnegut despised our current government etc" entry. I guess you can decide for yourself.

It seems to be in our human nature to only really appreciate something or someone until it's gone. That's pretty disgusting if you think about it. I remember when Johnny Cash died and lots of people came up to me and told me that they were sorry about my loss like he was my fucking grandfather or something. I feel like Johnny Cash was everyone's grandfather, but only if you wanted him to be. I feel the same way about Kurt Vonnegut.

I was writing this story the other day that I never did anything with about my grandfather. It was describing our last conversation before he died. Despite the fact that my grandpa never did anything that great to affect my life other than conceive my father and come to my class's grandparents show n' tell day when I was in third grade, I still wish I could've got to know him a little better. The sad part is I could've.

Grandpa never wrote any songs or books that I know of, but I'm pretty sure he had volumes of them in his head. His death could definitely be chocked up as a loss though.

Talking about all of these old guys dying makes me wonder who the next person is that's going to croak and everyone is going to be sad about it and act like they idolized him or her the way they supposedly worshipped Johnny Cash and Kurt Vonnegut.

At the end of the day, the general public wouldn't have given a shit about Johnny Cash when he died if it wasn't for Rick Rubin and I think only bloggers and other dorks who read too much really felt the loss of Kurt Vonnegut, naturally.

I wonder what it's going to be like when Paris Hilton dies.

Army of One

I think I've convinced myself of a permanent conclusion. You can't convince anyone of anything. You might be able to get them thinking, but ultimately people are going to do what they want to do regardless of whether they're right or not, even if they think and know they're wrong. It's understandable, not everything is black and white. We want the pros to outweigh the cons. We all want to get laid.

With that said though, I'm resigning my position of ever trying to convince anyone of anything. Do I think Brittany Spears sucks? Why yes I do, will I try to convince you otherwise? No. Please understand, this isn't just limited to music. It goes for everything.

What it really comes down to with my thoughts on Brittany and any other matter is that at the end of the day, I don't really fucking care and I'm pretty sure you don't either.

We're all stubborn. We all know it all. None of us need any of us. We are all we'll ever need.

I'm just going to nod in agreement. Smile when I'm supposed to. Drink to whatever we're drinking to and forget that I ever said anything. Bottoms up!

Talking to hear my own voice.

Man, weird stuff going on lately. Can you believe that bridge collapsed? It’s not like it’s the first bridge to collapse ever, but that doesn’t happen everyday, at least not in the US. Maybe in Iraq or Afganistijkdhgjxfh or some place where they don’t know what the internet or peanut butter is. Fucking Minnesota! It’s sad the only thing they are known for is a bridge collapsing and the Mall of America, oh and trading away Kevin Garnett.

It’s like the end of the world there, not to mention their state drink is milk.

Seriously though, the guy who makes all these big decisions for your team use to play for the Boston Celtics and then he trades one of the best players in the league to the fucking Celtics for a bunch of shitty dudes and two guys who haven’t even been drafted yet. That sounds so much like a conspiracy that I bet Kevin McHale had something to do with that bridge collapse and the eventual destruction of Minnesota in its entirety.

He would be the perfect sleeper cell if you think about it. The NBA has turned into a bunch of thugs, why can’t the white dudes be terrorists. It would be very unsuspecting. I’m going to be paying close attention to Mark Price and Jeff Hornacek. They look like the same fucking person, not to mention you can see the terror in their eyes!

Amongst other things, my anxiety has been acting up a lot these past few days. For those who don’t have bad anxiety, it basically means I get crazy for no reason. You know heavy breathing, dizzy spells, teeth grinding, etc. All of this can happen for a variety of reasons. The silliest reasons as of late have been staff meetings and driving over bridges!!! I feel like I’m being robbed here. I was afraid of bridges way before it was cool to be afraid of bridges and now everyone is going to be afraid of driving over bridges. Minnesota, you're stealing my thunder.

I also don’t like flying on airplanes. It's nothing new, but I just don't like being high in the air without anything really supporting me. I’m actually feeling an anxiety attack coming on right now just because I’m thinking about it. You should've seen me watching Spider Man 3!

Ok, it subsided. I just started thinking happy thoughts, you know, like about the internet, peanut butter and the idea that Georgia's State drink is probably Kool-Aid.

Thief in the Night

Liquid splattered on his canvass with a grace that this world had never known and he was surprisingly quick, yet elegant. Such precision and detail; but if you blinked you might just miss something, possibly the one movement that brought it all together.

And he was so thorough; his technique and ability could be seen with each stroke of his instrument. He was a master, but not just of art, his mystique was undeniable.

Unfortunately, none could see the beauty in each of his endeavors, the final result always ending in masterpiece. Yet they were still plagued by worldly eyes to not see the gift that had been given to them. They didn’t even know his name. For if they did he would’ve been locked up and they wouldn’t have just thrown away the key, it would’ve been destroyed; and him shortly after.

The people coined a name for him, but that’s what happens when you’re a legend. The peons made him famous through their supposed hate, but it was actually disguised adoration. And even though they were the ones to make him famous, he only made himself known to but 5 of them.

They demand and you supply and once you’ve delivered, they will never forget you.

And that is exactly what he wanted, along with their livers.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Open your eyes.

Get out of bed.

Walk to the sink.

When you’re depressed you have to think out one step at a time. If you don’t you might just lose it, only to find yourself back in the real world 5 hours later crying in a corner wondering why you’re covered in your own shit and mumbling about dragons.

Pick up your tooth brush.

Paste it.

Look in the mirror.

My eyes seem to stay permanently blood shot these days and my 5 o’clock shadow has rapidly grown into a 3 day progression seemingly overnight. Then again, I could’ve been asleep for a week. I wonder if I still have a job. And where the fuck is my cat?

Brush teeth.

Turn on the shower.

Masturbate.

I’ve learned to gauge the level of my depression by how frequently I can pound the pork. If go at it at least once a day, then I usually don’t contemplate ending it all. Twice in one day means I can leave the house and 5 or 6 times means I should leave the house. It only worries me when I don’t want to polish it off. This depresses me further. I remember that I don’t have a cat.

Get dressed.

Rub another one out.

Make yourself go to work.

I wonder if Ghandi ever jerked it.