The Build Up

Independence Day

 There are several things I need to say.

 One of them is that just once I wish I was sure when a fireworks show was actually over. Not, 'okay, was that the finale?' but 'wow, the finale was great.'

 First off, I am not a huge fan of fireworks anyway. Literally burning money. Second off, the fact that we do it to celebrate America's independence from England is also a little ridiculous. It is basically simulating the "bombs bursting in air," right? That's the idea, isn't it? Well, that is is little fucked up to me. How many people died from those bombs? Or the bombs that have gone off or are going off or will go off in order for America to ensure the freedom that Independence Day commemorates?

 To be clear, this post is not meant to be anti-American. America is great, for the most part. Most of the things that piss me off on a daily basis are those first world problems that always end up as internet memes. What I am angry about now is not America, or being American, or freedom, or any of that. What I am mad about now is the entire process. Yes, I think we should celebrate our country's history. Yes, I think we deserve to celebrate. But we need to know what it is we are celebrating. We need to know why. Maybe a Bud Light and an artillery shell is all we are celebrating. Maybe that is America. 

But if that's the case, don't bring freedom or liberty or any intangibles into the equation. If we are going to talk intangibles, then all the 4th of July should be is an entire day of silence. A day to reflect on what we were and what we are now. Not a day off work to dehydrate ourselves and blow shit up. Let's be real about this.

 Anyway, I've gotten off track. I should have mapped this out better.

 Fireworks. I hate them. There is no finality. Certainly not the finality I am interested in. Like the closing of one chapter of my life and the beginning of another one.

 I'm moving. It's not much of a move, but it is a necessary one. One that should have happened a while ago, but one that I put off. Because I was comfortable. Because I was afraid of not being comfortable. 

For the next two years, maybe more, I have committed my life to the study of International Politics. It is definitely not the dramatic decision I dreamed up when I realized that this chapter was in need of an ending. But, I have found through my studies in literature that the large, grandiose endings in works of literature are often overdone, bordering on stupid.

 So, for now, I will subtly transition to the chapter of my life I will call, for lack of a better title, "The Build Up"

Summer is Coming

With summer, comes decisions for me. I am forcefully uprooting myself, because, as my grandmother taught me on endless summer days helping her in the back garden, that is really the only way to kill a weed. In fact, last summer, when that same Grandmother died, I clung to the life I had already set up for myself-- my friends, my town, my family-- anything that seemed normal or safe. So, as for this summer, I believe the opposite should happen. I have allowed myself to sit comfortably, knowing that I was unhappy, despite being comfortable, for too long. A year wasted by delving too much in my terrible mindset and psuedo-depression.

Though, this year has not been an entire loss. In spite of not being closer to goals I had set for myself, I have, in fact, been writing a lot. A longer work that started in June 2011, and now is, I can say with relative certainty, done. Short stories (which are a monster I am still attempting to tame), and a few poems that turned out a little better than mere scribbles. On top of that, a friend and I (though mostly his doing) have put together a series of readings in town. So, in my intensely small microcosm of life, there were some successes to take out of Fall 2011 and Spring 2012. I have found it is best not to think big picture at this point.

As for where this summer will take me, I can honestly say that I do not know. This is something I have fretted about for a while, as every resume I sent out received no reply, when nothing more than more dead ends fell into my lap. It sucked. It continues to suck. But, I realized something recently that I think is at least somewhat true of my situation-- it doesn't matter where I go. I mean, it matters in that whenever I go will be the physical space I will occupy, and it would be nice to enjoy it, but it honestly doesn't matter as far as my own goals are concerned. When I say it doesn't matter, what I am really saying is that there is no real wrong decision. I go one place and try to make a decent life, or I go another to another and attempt the same. OKC or L.A., Bismarck, N.D. or Hong Kong. It doesn't matter. Sure, I would much rather be in Hong Kong than North Dakota, but the principle is that same-- it is going to be difficult to make a go of it where ever you end up. The variable, I guess, would be the opportunities unique to each place, and the age-old adage that social connections fair better than outright knowledge.

Decisions, decisions...

Stockholm Syndrome

Have you ever been trapped? Like, truly trapped? And not the convenient kind of trapped, wherein you don't really have a choice in the matter. I am talking about being trapped and seeing escape routes around every corner, and yet you continue to allow yourself to be kept in a place against your will.

Tonight, it's raining. It's pouring. I won't burden you with imagery, because everyone knows what rain is. If not, I fear for the amount of fruits and vegetables available to you. I think it might finally be Spring. The season of new birth, the shedding of skin, the stretching and yawning after months of hibernation. Spring is a time to move. Time to escape from whatever it is that has trapped you the past few months.

I'm being cryptic, I know. So let me get to the point: I need to leave this place.

Kansas is a minimum security prison: sure, they give you enough food, treat you relatively fairly, and provide you with ample free time, but it's still captivity. There is still a free world out there beyond the walls. The problem with this prison is that the walls are transparent. There's no barbed wire keeping you in, or riflemen manning the towers,the doors stand wide opened. There is just you, standing, looking out, and despite some of the inmates accepting you into their inner circle, and the excitement that every Wednesday is fried chicken for lunch, you still know that it is not freedom. Heh, maybe it's the lack of conjugal visits that reminds me... Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I know all this, and yet, I cannot bring myself to step outside the gates. Cannot throw my shoulders back, stand tall, and walk straight out, without fearing what will happen. You always hear of those chronic inmates who keep going back to jail because it's the only world they understand. Well, it's dramatic, but I sympathize.

I feel like if there was someone or something standing outside the gates, beckoning me to leave, to take that step and not look back, then surely I would have no problem walking out of there with my head held high. But there is not. There is only me. Me and my damned stockholm syndrome.

And the addiction takes hold like a python, and you fall into it...

My name is Eric, and I am an addict. I have been an addict for approximately two years. My symptoms? An intense desire to see the road whipping by me at incredible speeds. A complete feeling of awe at the exhilaration of being completely lost in the home town of others, and above all, my main symptom comes from the withdrawals... When I am off the wagon (or on it, depending on your outlook) I have visions. They are quick, maybe a millisecond long. I will be walking down the street, and see a biker, or a street sign, or even the hear the mention of a canal, and my past flashes before me like a junkie coming down.

I am addicted to the very thought of moving. A planning session for an imaginary trip to somewhere foreign sends me into a fever. I cannot go even one day without escaping to a place I have been for merely a few months. Suddenly and without provocation, I am riding a bike through the streets of Nijmegen, Netherlands. It is raining and there is not an end to the storm in sight. The moon peaks through the rounded ends of two blue-grey and pillowy clouds, and I am smiling, because I always was back then. I am bombarded by a cacophony of Polish and Danish and Spanish and Dutch, which is translated to me by a Hungarian guitar player.

I cannot explain my addiction fully, because when one is confronted with the completely irrevocable notion of existing in a place that is not one's own, there is nothing left at the end but the failure of any and every language that has ever existed.

Every language except the unspoken one. The only form of communication available to those who truly understand it. To those who have sat in Amsterdam coffee shops and outside
convenience stores in Korea. There are no words for the last cigarette of the night with those you are truly into.

This, my friends, is my addiction. That right now, I could have the greatest night of my life, and I would still think of the past. Because of this, I will not do the twelve steps. I will not go cold turkey. I will never, nor could I, stop the adrenaline rush of seeing the Coliseum rise up before you past the end of a beer bottle. There is not stopping the visions of the Grote Markt at dawn, with little Dutch ladies pickign through vats of freshly picked corn and wheat. It will forever be in me. It will forever occupy some territory of what is me. A begrudging Lichtenstein refusing conquer.

I am not sad for this. I know that I should be. But if there is one thing on this microscopic landmass that makes even the slightest sense, it is the euphoria I feel by becoming lost. If I am never cured, if I am never found, I will still shoot up the nostalgia of Nijmegen, of Rome, of Brussels, of Seoul, of New York City, of Phoenix, of Dublin, of Jukjeon, of Emporia, KS, U.S.A. and laugh, because happiness is only luck, and I am one of the luckier ones.

I conclude with a wish...

If I could be in one place right now, just one... And I had only a split second to decide. I would be on a train in Europe, going anywhere it took me.

The Uncaring... Rephrase that... Oblivious American

http://globalpublicsquare.blogs.cnn.com/2011/07/28/david-mccullough-on-why-americans-were-once-fascinated-by-france/?hpt=hp_bn2

The above link is attached to an interesting article about America's former fascination with studying/reading about/writing about/ keeping updated on/etc. everything French.

I thought the article was pretty interesting because I think that there is something to be said on the subject concerning today's version of "The American" juxtaposed with the version from the early 20th century.

In particular here I am talking about literature, because that is my typical m.o. The Lost Generation, consisting of Pound, Eliot, Hemingway, Plath, Falkner,etc, was particularly into the expat gig. The Beats were no different (see: Beat Hotel). These writers were constantly obsessed with other cultures and this influenced many of their works (see: Naked Lunch, Sun Also Rises, Farewell to Arms, Dharma Bums, Mexico City Blues, The Yage Letters, etc, etc, etc).

These guys and gals were representative of a cultural mindset of the time. Though, I guess it could be argued that these people were exceptions to the way Americans typically acted, but I don't know that for sure. To me, these two generations of writers represented the way Americans thought. France was the cultural capital of the world, the far-east was thought of as a place of wisdom, Mexico, South America and Africa-- havens for the adventurous and rebellious. It was from that mindset that Americans thought of the world. Americans were interested in exploring the world outside our borders.

I bring this up now because I no longer think it is true. I really just don't see the same kind of energy being put into being a global citizen as I have seen in studying the early 20th century. This may be a bit shortsided because I don't really know how the entire population acted and felt, but I do know how a select few writers acted and felt. I think it can be said with little to no opposition that these writers were the greatest of their times. Part of being the greatest is being a voice for the voiceless, so to speak. They are representatives of the whole, or if not the whole, then at least a significant portion of the whole. Therefore they were speaking for their generation of like-minded individuals.

I just do not see the kind of adventurous spirit now that I saw then. That is very sad to me. The writing I enjoy, and the writing I attempt to create is almost primarily fueled by juxtaposing my life in America to the places I have been and what I have been taught by travel. I am not comparing myself to Hemingway or anything, I am just saying that there is a lot to be learned from travel. The Lost Gen. knew that. The Beats knew that. I don't think America's contemporary writers are focusing on travel as a way to transcend and learn what cannot be learned at home.

Maybe it is because there is just too much to worry about on the home front. Maybe there is just too much fonder for good writing currently in America. This may be true, but it is not as if the previous American writers ignored America completely. It's exactly the opposite. Ginsberg and Kerouac defined a generation by writing about the America they saw. But sometimes it is only possible to see the problem from the outside. It is by doing this that we can really get past the surface stuff and analyze what is really going on in our own country.

And besides that, we stop looking like elitist douches.

Just one man's opinion.

I'm Back... Because I care

So, I guess I will start this thing up again. Why? Because it is currently 11:11 p.m. and I am very, very bored. I am currently sitting in my bed in Emporia with my laptop on my lap covered in blankets despite the fact that it is about 80 degrees outside. It comforting, I guess. As I write this, my roommate is currently in his room on the other side of the wall to my left. He is with his girlfriend. And, I think, but I'm not sure, that they are both giggling. It might just be her, but I think there is a lower pitched one in there too. Anyway, it's annoying.

I'm not really sure what to write in this post, I kind of just wanted to start up again, because, you know, I am very, very bored. But I suppose I could leave you with something, if there is even anyone reading this... This summer I have come to realize, because of two main events, which I will get to in a bit, that all those people who tell you to live 'one day at a time' are full of shit. Seriously. It is so much easier to see your life on a plane than to see it as a series of connected, yet separate events, or days. And besides that, that is just not how life works. Every day lends itself to the next day, it all piles up and shapes everything. Obviously, this is kind of a "no shit" thing to say, but it completely debunks the 'live one day at a time' mindset, so it had to be said. To explain, I will use the two aforementioned events.

Event number one-- My maternal grandmother died on July 1st after a relatively short (about two months) bout with cancer. I will spare you the sappy 'she was such a strong person' and 'one of the greatest people I have ever met' routine because, frankly, none of it would mean a damn thing to you. What I will say is that it was so much easier throughout the entire process of her dying to think about it from a long-term perspective. What I mean is, I thought of myself at 50, and the memories I would want to have about my Grandma during this time. My 50 year self would, I decided, want me to be by her bed as often as possible, while the 23 year-old me might want to, I don't know, get drunk and bang out a horrid version of Tom Petty's Free Falling with an equally drunk guitarist. The 'one day at a time' part of me failed miserably during this time. Every time I got into that attitude, it did not end in the best possible management of time spent with her.

Slight tangent-- everyone kept telling me to 'live one day at a time' during the entire ordeal, and it was all the more infuriating. I know they were trying to console me, but COME ON! That is terrible advice to give, especially since most of those who told me this were older (50 or up), so, I assume, they had been through death before. Now, I suppose it is entirely possible that the 50 year-old version of myself that I created in my mind is a friggin' moron, and that the REAL me at 50 will look back and shake his head in disgust, but I suppose time will only tell (if I don't decide to join the 27 Club).

Event number two-- This one is going to look stupid compared to the previous one, but I have decided to postpone going to grad. school for a least a year. I think I would have loved school, but funding was an issue. I also feel like I should do some living for awhile. When I was having a lot of trouble making the decision, I kept thinking that it was a now or never thing, but once I stopped with the 'one day at a time' mindset, I realized that I do not have to set in motion the entirety of my future at 23, and for that matter nobody should. Once I got it in my head that I WASN'T having some sort of existential crisis, I was able to figure out what I wanted. It really was that simple-- a change in mindset.

Anyway, I am glad I am blogging and hopefully there is someone reading. If not, whatever, it's therapeutic.

Aqueous Transmission

I find it rewarding to write
in the hangover mornings,
or early afternoons
when the smell of ribs and cigarettes
still sticks to your nostril and palms
and the tastes of assorted acids
threaten to invade your esophagus

like swallowing your pride
like swallowing your hopeless soul

when the rain in your jacket is still soaking in

freezing to the bone
freezing to your hopeless, ignorant soul

These hangover mornings when coffee seems to perpetuate
the eyes-wide-open-in-complete-adoration
feeling of the night-
everything you love about being alive
combined with everything death deals in

jumping for joy
jumping out of that pathetic little synthetic soul of yours

hangover mornings that turn to hangover noons,
with nothing to do but plan last night again
hangover mornings that keep me alive,
remind me I'm human
I'd forgotten in the immortal night
forgotten till my soul,
my laughably feeble soul reminded me

For Jen, :)

When a sour mood inflicts itself upon you.
and the world seems foggy and trouble follows you,
just think that this day, is just one day,
on the long list of days past and future.
Though this one is marked "sour", look down the
list and smile, because the "sour" days are few
and far between,
and the "good" days, will bring about a smile,
guaranteed.
Don't worry, I'll be smiling with you, though we are
worlds apart, in more ways than one.
At least we can both smile.
There's always that.

The Eulogy of John Something-Something

Don't prey on your self esteem, there's no renewable resource in that. When it's gone, it's gone.

Influences wipe my mind of its own thought. I speak in cliche because that's all there is to say. Nothing new. Nothing ground breaking. Thought provoking. Filled with new distinction never thought of until this very moment, when blechlatablaya becomes something truer than "love". truer than "truth". The writer loses always, perpetually. A game played with poison can never be won by players or the audience. Poisonous words inflict in the mind the sub-servant thoughts it now speaks. love, hate, pride, freedom, patriotism, creativity, plaid suits and pink ties. Funny little hats and power chords.

"The necessity of action is in all forms of thought the main conspirator"- Dr. Jonathon C. Whogivesafuck, professor of Thought and Culture, University State College of Western Explicicity, (1954-2009). Shot dead on Oct. 22nd by everyone and on his own accord, to stifle his thoroughly uninspired ramblings.

Flow,

the vibration of the world that ignores itself until its trash becomes its truth. I stop, the deadened daytime canalway, as ships flash by at slow speeds and I feel the rhythm, rhythm, tap, tap, tap, tap, this beat keeps it going. The fear of thinking a thousand thoughts at once and not knowing which one to say, nay, to shout at the captain carrying his load down to the Waal. We all carry our loads to the Waal. Let it flow, into a pool of thought, meaningless to everyone else. Tap, tap, tap ,tap. Move, feel, sob, sniff, bat your fucking eyes. Lifeisbutadream. For a moment, you think you’ve got it figured out. A vision of Ginsberg hearing Blake in the back of his head. Talking something about a rose. There are moments when I am certain I know what it feels like to go completely, irrevocably, insane. Like when you can actually shut off all the noise and think, clear. Not analyze conversations in Dutch, not scrutinizing what some hack is saying about Kerouac, not conceal my displeasure with countrymen… really think, in silence, or in haywire, frenzied, frantically scrawled articulations that are unintelligible… even to me at times… “I feel what people will say… it plays out in my mind before it happens, y’know?” The Calcit blows that thick horn and creeps by, sending shockwaves to nearby, neatly man-made banks, housing me, and my uncomfortable stature and silence. The confused, awkward, hair-never-lays-quite-flat, modest analytic, pathetic, new adult, struggling with honesty, and the complexities of male/female relationship statuses… For the first time not being quasi-honest, not holding back… love exists for the same reason god exists- to keep everyone from becoming me- cynical, skeptical, bottom lip sticking out as if in thought, though really just unsure of what else to do. To stop analyzing everything would mean a total disassembly of my newly acquired, and permittable self, the semi-unique, yet totally recycled human contained in this body of uninspired proportions. Who, in reading of the wonders of genius minds gone crazy with wit, longs to achieve some ridiculous version of this in himself. Perceiving analytic thought to be essential to this quest, he challenges everything said to him in his mind, and therefore devalues the greatest skill one can have—that of the exclusive club of the 5 senses which can really be said to be the wisest of the troupe, the master of the others in ways the others no nothing of… the wonders of which transcend any thought a person can have… The magnificence of that all too important lesson, that one should hear without speaking and listen without the threat of wandering mind or thought of what to say next.

memory, all alone in the moonlight...

These memories are all convoluted into
a distant reminder of the very worst,
the absolute worst that could ever happen
to a man of your stature.
You hide it now,
but I know that when your head hits the pillow it comes rushing back to you,
and you realize over and over and over
the mistakes you made. The little slip-ups that
formed ranks and systematically
tore it all apart. The
crack in the foundation that sent the whole house
tumbling in so much
smoke and debris that
the only thing you could do was block it out, back away, close your eyes,
cough, and laugh it off until, at long last,
you were utterly, completely, entirely, totally, wholly, exclusively, fully-- alone, lock, stock and barrel.
And you know, without a doubt, that everything, every microscopic little minute detail that you ignored, or shrugged off, or dismissed with a wave of you grubby little hand, you KNOW,
that all those nights you didn't call, assumed it would be alright, YOU KNOW you were wrong.
You thought you were being normal, when really you had your head so far up your ass you thought your colon was the real world.

That being said... you tried your hardest... sometimes you just fail, huh?

Oh, Come All Ye Faithful

It's weird, That promised land of fortune and fame and opportunity, is not what it was before, when the masses crowded around the gate, with nervous glances up at lady Liberty, majestic and meaningfully perched on her throne. Then, then it was real; an outlet; an escape from the suffocation and torture. But now... now it's just the haven for sloths and bigots and the gluttons in some Pent house flat they pay a ridiculous amount for in order to hide their lack of personal attraction. And they are all alike. Uniquely alike. As if the same person is staring at me through a thousand different eyes. Their eyes, bloodshot and baggy from continually putting up the painted wall they allow others to see. A wall with flowers, pink and blooming, and newly unbraced teeth with silicon covering every humanizing blemish they had. The real people, trapped behind every single wall scream in vain, want release. But, out of fear or self consciousness or tragedy, stay put behind their brick walls with paint and flowers and masks. I too, had a wall. Mine is newly been taken apart, brick by prosthetic brick, until there was nothing left but a pile or shadow at my feet, which people stare at, and jeer, and mock... "is that his wall?" they whisper. "look how ugly he is." They boom in full voice, laughing till they cry and conformity squirts out of their noses. Wall gone, partition between myself and the world successfully dismantled into a worthless, steaming, stinking pile at my feet,which I kick and push away, but which flows back to me like a stream of unwanted children. I scream at my abortions, and kick and throw with all my useless strength, but they come back. always... begging me to build them up again. "I won't" I scream over and over until it echoes of the rock faces and sings back to me. "I won't." "I won't" "I won't". And the rocks sing true. I have found a place in this world where all people walk, unburdened by the unwanted, brightly painted brick, as I possess. To stay here would be a heaven... heaven forever without so much as a handshake given without permission and desire. Desire.

So it has been awhile... a couple months in fact. And here I am, sitting here three days from leaving this continent, and there is still so much to do. Exchange money, pack, notify people who need notified, say bye, pack some more, lose sleep because I keep having weird dreams in which I forget my bath towels and somehow think this is a huge deal... I have all these things to do, and I am sitting here writing... I guess it comes down to priorities, you know? It's as if, I have all these things to do and not enough time to do them that I am going to explode one way or the other, so I may as well take the time to document it... This is probably the one moment in the day when I am completely alone in my parents house-- this is a rare occurrence-- so I am taking advantage of it.

The word surreal is being thrown around a lot in my world right now. Every time people ask me, "are you ready?", "How does it feel?", I tell them, this is about as surreal as it has ever been for me. It hasn't set in. I have gone through the steps to insure that I can make this trip happen, but it still is not real to me yet... it's surreal.

Anyway, this is probably my last post for awhile on this medium. I am writing for the ESU bulletin starting next week, so when I have the URL for that I will post it on here.

I could tell it was done,
The leaves dry and brittle.
The trunk was still brown, but faded,
wrinkled.

We used to sit and just
look up at the sky
The blues and whites
Shining through that cracks
in the canopy, of that tree.
I wonder when you knew
if wouldn't last
One year? Two?
I guess it doesn't matter if you knew,
I know you had your doubts

We would sit under that tree,
my bony shoulder somehow
the perfect pillow, and laugh,
and smile,
and grab the sky.

Does the tree miss us? Togethor, I mean.
I hope someone does.

I'm sitting here now,
looking at the nook you always hid in,
your curves matching the trunk's perfectly.
I'm looking up at our piece of the sky now,
I reach out to grab it, but it always alludes me,
Like so many so many silly wishes.

This hill spoke to me
Even when I didn't know it existed.
It found me at the best time.

Sometimes, I get lost.
Find a place in my own backyard
that did not exist before.
That's where this spot found me.
On a summer afternoon, just around dusk,
me, with my work work jeans on, and grease stains to cover the sweat stains
that percolated up through that bright tiki shirt.

I picked her up, it was about a quarter till nine...
We hadn't spoken in days, but she didn't seem to mind.
I drove the nissan through the back roads, towards no where
When I rolled up that hill, I just had to stop.

"This is it." I said "What is?" she asked.
"This is the spot. My place of business."

I slammed to car door and jumped on the hood.
It was perfect.
I have always longed for this,
this complete oneness with the real world.
Like if a coyote howled in the distance,
I wouldn't automatically sense danger.
This place, where I melt into the engine and watch
as the sun goes to sleep, and the farmland
is retaken by its natural, bestial presence.

She sat on the hood next to me and shrugged.
Time stopped. We stayed for hours.

Coffee, atmosphere, and passports

I applied for a U.S. passport today, meaning in 4-6 weeks I will be able to leave the country... And since it's the middle of April that puts me behind schedule... It's weird, after all the confirmation letters, and acceptance papers, I didn't feel like I was really going, But as soon as I left the post office today, I felt like I was actually going...

I think life is about all the little things... A good cup of coffee at 7:30 when you are hungover and the small lightbulb in your kitchen feels brighter than the sun... A good burger. Which reminds me, I really want to go to Bruff's today, to "celebrate". Maybe I'm just animalistic, but I feel much better about things in my life when I have good food and drinks around me... Okay, and good friends. Do animals have friends? Anyway, nothing beats reading or listening to a good one liner. So, with that said, I give you the best part of your day...

"We all take number one in the race because we all keep running in place."

The sound of silence makes your skin turn to brail
and time tells you nothing,
'cept when to die and when your tired

I think I met a fortune teller
who could vex your fate and faith
till you get the point of this post

He told me to sing
and so I tried
but it came out wrong
at least to him
Because he turned me away
and told me my future

he said I'll die, and that was it
and I know for a fact
that he was right

Create your fate
watch it fall down
the endless crevice that
fills your less than endless mind
it sets up camp,
settles in for the long haul
you melt and shape your own way
read too much into it all

life on a pedestal
everything seems profound
"it's life and life only"
is what I have found
take your purpose, your hunger, you drive to survive
take your meaning, your optimism, your unending prayer
take them and throw them out,
like day old food
they have no purpose, meaning, hunger, optimism, or will to survive
your prayer go unanswered
except by you

if you must having a meaning, if you find not other way
then find purpose in living in the day to day

Thoughts are like prayers
with a purpose:
Can I change the world?
Can I even change myself?
Is there some cause to my anger,
my confusion, my embarrassment?
Like seeing eye to eye with the guy who
just finished using the public bathroom

publish or perish
publish or perish
publish to perish
lose it, forever
lose yours to gain theirs

write, speak, sing, cry
realize your limit
beat it to death
till it gives way,
gives up.

or you do

The pavement gives a knowing glance
You couldn't kick up dust if you tried
Paradise gets smaller every step of the way

But you go here
to this place
this decaying mass of people on people on people on shit.

You go here and you think you found the backbone, the foundation
but you find out that the foundation if cracked and shifted
and coerced into a rotting carcass that is slowly eating itself

So you can't win this time, so what?
won't there be other battles? other battlegrounds?
So you move on, to the next town, the next battle

New place, same story.
It's eating itself, they all are.
and the only thing that can stop it is you

you, and your friend, and his girlfriend
you stop it, slowly, slowly.
you stop it by caring and thinking and NOT doing

So maybe it's too late for this place
Maybe the well's dried up
But sometime, somewhere...

Hope is just a trigger-pull away.