modern life...a novel

linear life in grey chronology. subtle hum of a machine. eyes reflecting narcolepsy. stagnant love finds cocaine dust on mother's dress and another woman's hair on father's suit: She wakes up to a breakfast buffet of sugar coated pills. an array of brightly colored invitations to escape. he repeats yesterday only to come home to a half-empty bottle of salvation. with each sip the pain dulls. the mirror she gazes into has a sobering effect. she cries in terror as she looks into the eyes of the monster in her nightmares. the constant pounding in his head quickly brings reality back into full focus. he reaches once again for the bottle, when deep down he really only longs for a hand. our lives are open books, but writer's block ended the reader's suspense before the plot can develop. nothing but beautiful, blank pages bound by a desperate search for meaning, for a resolution, for the perfect rhyme. questioning everyone but the Poet.

copywrite the forgery

sometimes i wonder if You were ever to write anything what it would be like. i think you would write in free verse. i definitely don't think it would be haiku. i'm not saying that you couldn't write haiku, i'm sure if you did it would be the most beautiful and moving haiku ever composed. but the liberty of free verse just seems to be your style, no limits. with every stroke of the pen, summoning the wind and capturing the untamed ocean tide. i don't think i would ever find your writing on any topsellers. and i know i would never see your writing in pristine gold print at the alter. no, your words would be found on some worn, brick walls in a far off village, carved by starving infants. they would be found written on the hearts of theives and daydreamers.

insomnia has a way of making you appreciate a comfortable bed

the day has come and all the picture frames have realized their shattered fate. the autumn leaves woke up in destiny's cold embrace. i've been drawing up these battle plans for as long as i can remeber, consider them a confimration of my love for you. i am making my last stand here in this, the art of strategic warfare. listen to the quiet symphony of men marching to the melody of their own children screaming. my masterpiece is complete when these air raids add a generous texture to the blood-stained city streets. come sit with me on this hill and watch the world i created go up in one bright flame tonight. i've been calculating my convictions. how did my soul come to love this deistic paradise? when did my heart learn to accept such hollow scenery? i long to breath outside of this casket but i need its warmth in this frozen solitude.

one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish...pop quiz, in-class essay, and life draining lectures!!

so do you remember back in the day when your parents read to you and you LOVED it, or at least i did. i loved reading and i loved it when my parents read me a bedtime story. reading with my parents is one of my most cherrished memories as a little kid. but then came the day that i started to hate reading with a passion!! i don't even know what happened, it was just like i loved it one day and the next i hated it. i remember reading all the childrens classics like: 'Goodnight Moon,' 'Harold and His Purple Crayon,' and who could forget all the adventures of Spot! and i remember all the not so memorable books of my more 'mature' years like: O' Pioneers , Grapes of Wrath , and everybody's favorite Oliver Twist. I remember doing a BookIT and making up books and authors to get by. I remember having summer reading and never actually doing it!although im ashamed to admit it, sparknotes become one of my trusted resources for english class. im sure my story of reading frustration is a universal coming of age story. but over the last few years and especially last six months i have rediscovered the excitement i once had for reading. obviously it's not as pure and idealistic as when i was a little tike but i have found that reading truly does open the mind to a new world. i am especially in love with Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, 1984 by George Orwell, Spinal Cord Perception by Joshua Stephen Porter, Bartleby the Scrivener by Herman Melville, The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break by Steven Sherrill, and basically all poetry ever just to name a few. reading is by no means as important as say starvation, human trafficking, poverty, homelessness, or sweat shop scandals but i honestly believe we as a society have learned to hate reading and learning and have thus become a close minded and judgemental as people due to a lack of opening up to new ideas and letting our imagination roam. our great minds never get used and our poor imaginations get caged up when we are little and told that we shouldn't think big and that we can't change the world. i don't think that reading can change the world, i only believe that God and his true love living inside of us and through us can do that. but i do believe that it can change our perception of the world and open our minds to new and exciting ideas.

sitting in a cold hotel room in the middle of nowhere minnesota, somewhat hungry, thinking about life

there is something deep within me that beats like a steady, tribal war drum. The rhythym is a constant, dull pain in my brain. It involuntarily drives and controls my actions. Something has mastered my mind, it has tamed my once free and wild insides. It has ignited a flame that burns bright with one purpose and sychronizes my words and my steps in unity to fuel the fire. A pyre is set in my heart and my will is set to burn at the stake. the beat moves through my body and gives shape to my limbs and meaning to my lips. but i can't remember if it has always lived inside of me. was it a primal sense or some truth we deduced? maybe this is the sign of progress, a mechanical civilization with an i.v. full of vicodin. if this is the future, then open up your eyes and look to hollywood. if only this love could exist outside of this idealistic hope. if only this love could exist outside of self. if only i could love anyone half as much as i love myself...

a not so simple lesson in biology(the foodchain has to end somewhere)

let's call this is symbiotic relationship. we can't abandon this photosynthetic process. my pupils dialate from the light of our love. i am the clock that eats at your skin. if you're looking for protection, or maybe just confinement, i give you permission to crawl into my mouth. it's more comfortable than a bodybag and safer than a maze, with just as many turns and deadends. i started the metalic fire that has been consuming your bones and burning in your marrow. we need no introduction. i am the cartilage that is wearing thin between your joints. i am the analog bird that you dreamt about. i soar between the clouds in a digital sky. everything looks different under this pressure. let's call this a symbiotic relationship. but now that i think about it, i may just be your parasite.