I’m Gonna Get Stoned and Write About You Later

That sun peering through the clouds over this diamond-laced blanket of water sure is pretty.
Not quite as striking as yourself, but it’s trying.
Look at you there, as free as the air that’s humbly smacking our faces.
Water crashing on your ankles, a smile one could see from space.
I love you like this.
I mean, I love you in general.
That’s just that.
But being near you in this moment, in this little bubble of irreverence and joy, just makes me feel alive.
You contagious rascal.
But I’m not complaining.
This right here is as good as it gets for a goon like myself.
So, I’m just gonna smirk and tread this water with you.
Ain’t nothing wrong with that.

Furnaces Have 4 Sides

Let’s all just put up some walls around ourselves.
4-sided solution for having to face one another.
We don’t much want to, anyway.
No, we like to be alone.
Love to be trapped in a private little hell we create for oneself.
Goddamn you for seeing the bright side!
You’re killing my buzzkill!
Besides, you can’t complain about feeling alone if you let people in.
No time for that.
You’re behind the curve.
Open your eyes and shut your mouth.
Keep your hope to your fucking self.
We were born to die alone, you know?
Me neither. But I’m gonna run with it.
Scissors in hand.
Right toward the canyon.
Gotta make sure these ashes spread.
But I don’t need your help.

I Like The Shit That Comes Out of Your Mouth

I just adore some of the shit you say.
The verbiage.
The enunciation.
The wit.
The passion.
Gorgeous, riotous and menacing.
It either makes me laugh or give a fuck about something.
Your words are not without their conviction.
And that’s just a beautiful thing.

So, please, keep talking.
Talk my damned ears off.
I got nowhere else to be.
And I hope you don’t mind my hangin’ around.
I’d wander off, but that’s how I got here to begin with.

I wanna stick around for the rest of the show.
I apologize, but I really can’t take my eyes off that feverish blur of a picture you are painting with your soul.
Honesty attracts, you know.
Especially when it’s so radically eloquent and captivating.
A treasure, really.

Oh, you and your words.
The good, the bad and especially the ugly.

I just want to hear them all.

Zen and the art of tolerable cruelty.

I’m not quite sure how I didn’t completely lose my shit today. People were all just so….flat. Nobody wants to have fun anymore. Why did you even go out? My job is to provide an enjoyable experience and you’ve shat on it before even entering the establishment. Why do you think I’m being such a passive-aggressive smart ass? You’ve forced me to be, you miserable, nihilist-like turd.

But I certainly appreciate the tip, guys. I know, required gratuity is such a bitch. Am I right?!?

Somewhere Between 4:10 and 4:16 Early Sunday Morning

I don’t know if the TV’s helping.
I’m not paying much attention, but the faint mutters sneaking through sure ain’t helping.
The glow is kinda nice, though.
Colors bouncing off the walls and through my closed eyelids.
Like an organic kaleidoscope, changing and melting in the darkness.
Pretty. Peaceful.
Maybe too much. Maybe that’s why I can’t sleep.
And right now, that’s just fine.

I need to mute this TV.

Typical Saturday Battle Problems and How They Get That Way

Panic.

The adversary have entered our domain.
Endless streams of unknown life rapidly occupy space.
The air is polluted with a foul stench and the soulless howls of the present company jar your concentration.

Pull it together.

Time to man the battle station, ol’ boy.
One hand on your hip, one holding the almighty pen.
4 targets, one path.

Go.

You charge ahead. Ready for war.
This is it. This is your time to shine.
Failure ain’t in the gameplan.

Then it hits you. Like a ton of bricks.
The most horrific of realizations.
You stop, dead on your toes, and slowly whisper to yourself…

“Fuuuuck me. I never rang in that appetizer for 72.”

Then you hope you remember to write this down later.
Then you wonder what the hell you’re doing with your life.

Then you ring in that appetizer, plead with the kitchen to hurry(because you’re an idiot) and greet the 4 tables that just went down.

Then you go home and write about it.

Leaner

A leaner.
Always leaning.
Even in that not-quite-elegant stride of yours is an ever-so-visible tilt.
Through the ramblings, scowls and haphazard guffaws is that droop in your face.
The skin leaning on your skull, sinking further down your cheekbone, much like everything else.
Everything is sinking.
Falling into your fragility.
You swallowed the savior.
And the savior swallowed you.
But that ain’t new.
And this will happen again.
Because you need something to lean on.