Things Heard, Then Witnessed, and Now:

when I think of you,
I picture your face and want
to hurl my phone
out the window
with Herculean biceps
until it hits you square
in your mouth
and you are forced
to wander the streets
for the rest of your life
looking for your
two (perfect) front teeth
because Santa won’t
bring them to you
because you’re a fucking
douchebag prick-ass jerk.


hey thanks for helping me come to my senses.

Well,

The backburner gets cold after so long.

surprises

Details will reveal themselves
as the story unfolds.
Aren’t you tired of trying
to see past what life allows
you to see?

headache

I awoke this morning
With a skull beat by a thousand drums
The pressures of this material world
And so many expectations
That swell just behind the temples

love you grandma RIP

“I have lots of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet, concerning the message that was transmitted to me under a pine tree in North Carolina on a cold winter moonlit night. It said that Nothing Ever Happened, so don’t worry. It’s all like a dream. Everything is ecstasy, inside. We just don’t know it because of our thinking minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind  it is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever. Close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for three seconds, listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, which was taught in immense milky way soft cloud innumerable worlds long ago and not even at all. It is all one vast awakened thing. I call it the golden eternity. It is perfect. We were never really born, we will never really die.”

—	Jack Kerouac

oh, hey

let me know when you decide I matter again

English majors

I wonder if it’s possibly the fate of all writers to spend our whole lives tortured by the fact we think everything we write is shit.  And then we accidentally drink too much (which as a group, we have been known to do)  and write something we actually like but upon sobering up realize it’s overly cynical and even we begin to question whether or not it’s satire.


No wonder we lost all those facebook friends.  If we can’t even decipher the tone of our own voices with all our literary prowess, how can we possibly expect the less literary minded masses to pick up what we’re laying down?  Oops.


Are we all really just hopeless romantics?  And I mean romantics in the literary sense.  Are we all just so morbidly in love with freezing ourselves in time that we almost obsessively sacrifice ourselves to a lifetime of self-loathing vomited all over loose pages very few people in the grand scheme of things will actually read?  Or to a lifetime of living near or below the poverty line?


Or is it simply because we must write.  Because words build up, and build up and it becomes imperative to put them somewhere at risk of exploding all over everyone like an eighth grader’s two-liter Mento bomb splattering all over the parking lot.


It’s probably a little bit of both.  Maybe we are a self-depricating, generally miserable bunch, and maybe we absolutely have to write to save ourselves from ourselves.  Either way, the romantic in all of us proves quite useful when clinging to fragments of hope in the eventuality of it all (aka our words reaching an audience).  Because if none of us clung to the idea that our words can change people, and inspire them to take action in improving themselves and this earth on which we live, then there wouldn't be any literature at all.  And imagine our own childhoods without books to fall in love with.  Now imagine the things you could have fallen in love with instead and recoil at the contemptible idea.


Keep writing. Your words are gifts.