Every Moment, Scored Perfectly by the Symphony in My Head

I stand with a slouch just below my neck
because it's what's most
comfortable.
I stand with my feet pointed at an outward angle
because it's how my body knew they belonged
innately.
I didn't choose these things.

I let people tell me stories when a short conversation runs
long.
Though I'm not always interested,
there's always a part of me that thinks
their story will be useful
someday.
I didn't choose these things.

Some may call it confidence, bravery,
or overconfidence,
I call it an instinctual straightening of my spine,
One that goes without
a conscious decision.

Straighten it right and pick out some
vertebrae;
I don't need that kind of control.

But the choices I make regarding what I need
or don't need
go undocumented yet are
revisited
and edited,
changed
and rearranged,
to suit the mood I'm in.

Whether an old man's story makes me happy or sad
changes with the times and with every decision
that comes with whether I want to dip
into nostalgia
or if I'm
really
into eating spinach.
                But I want to need you.
                No. I need to want you.
                Wait.
             These things are both truth and are subject to wavering
                       but have proven pretty stable over the past few months,
                              years,
                                        weeks.

Having been exposed to
situational comedies and
to the romantic ideals of
both the North American
canon and its piss bucket,
I've come across many
loving glances and
knowing looks
                            and they are always
                                                  returned.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING
AS UNREQUITED LOVE
AS LONG AS PERSISTENCE
IS INVOLVED.

Yet,
when I sleep at the wheel
and my tense grip loosens on the reigns,
my weakness: my smile,
My loving glance
sees the light of the day
                           through the cracks of my lips

       but
            it
              is
                not
             returned.

And with every time that I ask,
"Why doesn't she see me?"
the slouch in my spine curves further
and claims another vertebra
and the cracks in my lips deepen
in a desperation
for my light to be heard.

but I
        cover my mouth.

Because I'm scared.
There I said it.
I'm scared.

A Deep Cut From The Back Catalog of My Brain. Sentimentality.

I have a comedy blog and it's doing alright. It makes me happy and this post is a little longer and funnier there. Here, I decided to make it a little bit more emotional. But you can read stuff here, too.

I've always been a little bit too involved in wakes.
I don't mean I'm always involved in a wake.
God, I - fuck.
I mean, I have always been fascinated with...
Jesus fucking Christ.
"Fascinated"?! Ugh. Such a creep.
Interested.
There.
Ok.
Take two.

I've always bit a little bit too interested in wakes.
I've never liked them.
I mean, I don't like when people die.
I don't even go to them.
The wakes, I mean.
Not the dead people.
Actually, I don't go to dead people either.
But I try to get to people if they're dying so I could help if I can or make peace with -
Jeez.
Moving on.

It's the idea that gets me:
There you are.
Dead.
Your family and friends have chosen what best represents you.
Then they pay to have your cold presence fill a room for a day or two
or four.
Then they show you off.
"Look how great he was."
"Look how peaceful he seems."
"It would seem that he was great and went peacefully, with his dignity and pride in tact."

The truth is that these people will all remember you the way they want to remember you.
No particular photo of you baking a cake with your cousins, the one time you did it, will change anybody's minds.
And if they did, that'd be a lie.

When death is imminent and I have a family of my own, -
That's not to say I don''t love my family now.
I totally do.
But they'll be dead by then, though.
I mean, -
FUCK
I just mean that I think my parents will die before me.
I couldn't live with myself if I died before them.

...hehe. I just got that.

WHAT I MEAN IS...
If I have a death bed and I'm on it, I hope I have a family of my own:
Wife.
Kids.
Dog.
Bear (the future is very progressive).
Lifelong friends.
Shorter term friends who are very close to me at the time.
People I've lived with in the past.

And I hope they'll gather around me before I die, -
I mean, like, weeks before I die.
Not before the moment of my death.
That would be creepy.
And how would we time that out?

I hope they gather around with whatever memory they have of me.
Photographs and audio files.
Or a combination of those (who knows what the future holds?).
And I will have a say in what gets displayed at my wake.

Sorry cousins, I won't have a picture of us baking together at my wake.
I'd rather have the picture of me, smiling in a leather recliner, satisfied with myself while you guys cower, visibly covering up your noses in disgust.
I'd rather have an Alexisonfire song playing over a well sung ballad by whichever teen vocal sensation is popular then.

But most of all, I'd want the video (hello, future!) of everyone around my death bed discussing with me about what to display at my wake to be on display itself.

Because I'll make sure you remember it as a good thing and a good day.
Not that I'm dying, but like, that it's okay that I'm dying.
Do you get it?
I don't think you're getting it.
I mean...

I've relived an amazing amount of awful moments in my head that all seemed fantastic
just because somebody at the time said "everything is going to be alright."

And that's what my bed says.

What Could Have Been A Love Letter(You Haven't Entirely Driven Me to Full-Blown Misanthropy, But Know You've Pushed Me Quite a Ways in That Direction)

I will not dare to call you fair,
though I used to hold you dear.
Too much to bear, let's clear the air
of all these senseless cheers.
(Is it a routine?)
For my age to turn a page
in a book driven by disdain for humanity?
Or is this a hidden tourist attraction,
a guided tour to the brink of misanthropy?
Where boundaries are overstepped
and secrets we kept
(shhh)
become recorded and commonplace
through the ever-flawed system of
customer comment cards.
Is it too much to ask for
a better past for my future to
(fondly)
reminisce about,
for times of war to go ignored
to bask in the love
I've learned to live without?

After all these years,
I just want a day without
my hand curling into itself
becoming fist in a fit of rage.
If I stay here
without a doubt,
my neck wrapped in a belt,
I'll turn the page.

I Don't Want to Read Sir Gawain

I don't care for what you had to say
six thousand years ago or

when you wanted to be god's son so badly or

when you thought that the world was flat
or when you thought dragons were among us.

I want to know what you think now.

Of all the worlds we could've traveled to
you decided to ship me to the past.

I feel like you're trying to tell me something.

Terrified

I trust you.

I don't throw that around.
I mean it.
Genuinely.
If you would, for good measure, prefer I retract that statement, please tell me.
But if you did, I'd trust you even more.

Don't say anything.
We will never know.

Walk of Blame

In the words of the skeptic:
"I don't believe in any of this,
but I believe in truth
and even that
is subject to questionning."
But I get sidetracked.
I just wanted to know her name,
but instead I got
a quiet walk home.

Staring Contest

(Song available for free download at amfp.bandcamp.com)

We had a fight. It's hard to tell is someone's won.
Such a strange night. The voices echo and they hant me.
They haunt me.

Near midnight, we crossed the bridge in perfect silence.
Oh, quiet night. The deepest cuts and shallow heartbeats.
Heartbeats.

If we part ways, just know that I will keep my promise
If we part ways, we can try again tomorrow.
(Can we try again) tomorrow?

We walked along, ignoring our hands at our sides.
We walked along, ignoring how low our heads hung.
Can we start over? (Can we start over?)
Can we start over?

We had a fight, but we can try again tomorrow.
(Can we try again) tomorrow?

We walked along, ignoring our hands at our sides.
We walked along, ignoring how low our heads hung.
Can we start over? (Can we start over?)
Can we start over?

(By the way, Thanks Emlyn for posting. I haven't had a chance to read yet, but when I do, you'll know ;))

See The World

(New We Wear Masks song)

is it a good sign
if my heart
skips a beat or two
when I'm with you?

is there a place
you'd like to see
one you can cross
off your list of
eventually.

would you like to
see the world or
would you prefer
watching the stars
from the hood of my car?
would you like to sit
on a bench or the grass?
let's watch the cars
pass us by.

(not done, but I wanted to share.)

Spin Cycle Class

You owe me more
than some meaningless
apology, muttered
under your breath,
accompanying your
rolling eyes.
I'm better than that.
You owe me more.

"It was just a phase,"
you said.
"A silly phase,"
you said.
I never believed you,
but you had convinced
yourself.

"It's not my place,"
I thought,
"not my place,
at all."
So I stepped aside.

You owe me more
than a forced
apology you
don't believe in.
You owe me
your evaporation
from my life.
I want no remains.

I want to cut your face out of all the pictures of us,
just like you used to do in bed when you thought I was asleep.

Golden Lion

Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope.
Run run run run run run run run run run.
Stay stay stay stay stay stay stay stay stay stay.
Lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie.
Love love love love love love love love love love.
Death death death death death death death death death death.

Hope outlasts our desire to run.
Hope outlasts our desire to stay.
Hope outlasts the lies we tell.
Hope outlasts the love we want.
But when we feel death breathing down our necks,
Hope understands and leaves us alone.

Acceptance makes peace.

Late. Don't Care. Do I Have Much to Say? Eh...Nope.

Alright,
you know that feeling you get
when you're writing a list
of things you need,
but you know,
you KNOW,
you're forgetting
a really
really
important one?
That happens to bees, too.
Except, not a list.
I mean, they must have a way
to keep track of their tasks
and stuff.
But think about it.
Bees. Bears.
Cats.
Dogs.
Elephants.
Ferrets.
Gorillas.
Hares. Hedgehogs. Hogs.
I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, ,R S, TT, U, V, WXYZ,.

We congratulate ourselves way too much.
Let's do something worthy of praise.

Now, what was I going to say?

...And When She Tells Me She Loves Me, I'll Act Surprised.

Discipline.
My mother always told me,
"If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all."
and my teachers always said,
"It's important to be critical."
and my head has always been split down the middle,
hoping someday there will be a reaction that
will allow me to stare at an imperfection
and smile at it, like it doesn't need work.

Can we keep our hands
from feeding, feeling, facing?
Can we keep our tails
from waving, waiting, watching?
Can we keep our eyes
from looking, losing, lying?
Can we keep our legs
from collapsing under the pressures of walking
day to day on the same streets
up the same hills
while whispering,
"this is just a bad transition
in a series of small mistakes
and although 'real life' sprung itself on me so soon
I keep my hands shut and my mouth tied
as I trust these 'professionals' with my future"?

(I think the problem is that I know what I want.)

I want to make others feel invincible,
like they can do anything they want,
just like when speech and emotion convey the feeling
of a japanese girl, raped by 50 men in a day,
who then forces herself
to dive headfirst into a brick wall,
bringing me to tears, whispering
an apology that should not come from me,
but from humanity, entirely.

This makes me feel like I can change things.

I can change the world.
I can change this small part of the world.
I can change my school.
I can change my group of friends.
I can change my family.
I can change my room around.
I can change my clothes.
I can change...
right?
I can change, right?

I can change the way things happen.
(I don't mean revolution but evolution.)

Consider this my brick wall.
Consider my life's work and the rejections my 50-man rape.
Consider my small moments of invincibility my biggest moments of vulnerability.
Because I am in love with this brick wall,
and I will keep throwing myself at it,
until it opens its arms and sings me to sleep
as I whisper "I did it" in the most quiet triumph.

I can change "I did it" to mean "I am it"
or "I beat it" or "I won" or "finally"
but that feeling will remain.
Because, to me, it's just a matter of time
before that brick wall holds me close, says my name and sings me a lullaby.

Going Nuts

(Hey guys. Just writing a few choice lines that I liked.)

I've been given four screws and an ultimatum.
I still don't know where they belong.

Thinking ahead is for uh... the...uhh...

Competitors? Compredators.

A nice gesture from a jester.

These rings never fit my fingers, but they bound my pages well enough.

Oh, what? Yes, thank you. I've been meaning to acknowledge that.

Strangers can be quite normal.

I always regard silence as a stamp of approval.

FATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATA

(Imagine Win Butler singing this (Arcade Fire))))))

They buried me today.
They buried me today with all the rings on my fingers,
wrapped into fists.

They buried me today.
They buried me with nails on my sides that I used for
the birdhouse in our frontlawn.

I know a ghost whose name I can't remember
and I feel guilty every night he haunts me.
But I call him what he is: a ghost,
a dead man searching for home.

Paint

I feel like paint.
It's a strange thing to compare yourself to,
but when I say it,
it feels true.
I cover walls of their imperfections
and with the passing of time and conversations,
crack under pressure and stillness.

I used to love to dance,
but you told me a secret,
and once you're gone,
I'll break into tiny pieces.

I gave you part of me.
Just realize that
you don't have me completely.

Right Down the Middle

(Hey, guys. I figured, since it's the new year, everybody should post a little something. you know...to let us know you're alive out there hehe.)


We made a bed together
and flipped a coin
to decide
who goes home.

Take Off All Your (Alternate Title: There Are Problems With Your Engines)

Does this make me impatient?
That I wait in constant thought of
what I was promised earlier?
Does this make me?

I've waited in a chair,
I've waited standing,,
I've waited with my hands in my hair,,,
I've waited weeks for a reply.

I've waited for your call
while rummaging through
my refrigerator (that I should probably fill up).

Most of my time is spent waiting. That's what I've noticed. Waiting. Nothing is constant. There's always a

break.

Time for me to think.

And I'm thankful for that.

Straight Jackets For Straight Rabbits

We've taken all the roots from the trees
and given them to the children born without feet.
We ask them to crawl. We ask them to feed.
We ask them depend on appendages as well as their knees.

I've had it with this world's twisted way of saying sorry.
I'm done with all the things I never finished, but I've started.
I've cleared my throat of the phlegm and blood that Winter's
made me bottle up. I can't say I give a fuck
about all your literature,
about all your paintings,
about all your music and all your new sounds,
about all your muses and different perspectives.

What is life without a home and what is home without love?

Home is where the bar is for all the starving artists
and the starving artists crave for their big break.
With my breath on your breath
and the countless cigarettes
we've made a home.

Home Won't Be Home Any Longer

I don't feel my fingers in the cold,

but I feel them too much indoors.

I feel the bruises on my fingertips

from poking at the chest of

that old building, shouting:

"How dare you tell me I'm too old

and it's time to move on? How

dare you crumble when I am within

and tell me to find another?"

I stared at the bricks, silent

and felt a rock tumble at my feet.

I don't accept your gift nor

do I accept that you're dying,

but I guess you'll do it anyway.



(I didn't feel like waiting for midnight. I know you all understand. <3)

Home Won't Be Home Any Longer

I don't feel my fingers in the cold,

but I feel them too much indoors.

I feel the bruises on my fingertips

from poking at the chest of

that old building, shouting:

"How dare you tell me I'm too old

and it's time to move on? How

dare you crumble when I am within

and tell me to find another?"

I stared at the bricks, silent

and felt a rock tumble at my feet.

I don't accept your gift nor

do I accept that you're dying,

but I guess you'll do it anyway.



(I didn't feel like waiting for midnight. I know you all understand. <3)