Squeaky Clean Streethearts

I’ve seen you out and about in a cloud of blue electric haze accompanied by people who seek to ensconce you with a lifeless ooze of fictious ambition led by even easier led automatons. You sad, sad sack…..baby I wish I felt for you, but I don’t, not even a little. Take a little off the top and lie to me, tell me you’re trying, tell me you’re the only one to ever feel this way. Tell me baby. Tell me all that shit the oyster divers believe. The low down dirty streethearts that tear you up from the outside and never make their way in, even though maybe you wish they would a little. The sun sets on you the same as it does any of us baby. Your hard time is no harder than the nail you drive it in with. I left you sleeping in a haze of fallacy, regret and even worse awareness; that same awareness that won’t serve you because you choose to ignore it. Yeah, we all ignore it for a time….until….until that gun gets too heavy and the tears stop coming. Dry is dry. Waiting never looked as desperate as it does on you and I don’t feel for you or the sad story you cling to that isn’t yours. Acclimating to a reality that was never yours is the permeating sting of a disturbed fallout shelter of a human being, maybe even human shell. That house on the block holds no more meaning for you than it does for me now, but you choose my side instead. It’s not your to take however, so give it back or better yet absolve your inadequate tendencies to shoplift experience and make better with it and allow it to be someone who will learn. Not you, not now…. It’s a mean street you never ventured down, a leather jacket you never owned, a scar that had a different origin, make it solid, make it fuck yourself. You do every time you tell that story, I hope you know; fuck yourself that is. Are you aware of that? I know a sky opens up when a point is reached, but only for that individual, only the right time, only in pristine weather, only in dire circumstances, none of which you possess. How dare you, how dare you answer a question that hasn’t been asked, how dare you claim to have vacancy in your eyes when they are already filled with materialistic excrement found in the form of social media ridden expectations and societal norms which you so desperately cling and hope to copulate with. I wish a perpetual sour taste in your mouth, shitty gulps of reality pregnant with a harshness that will lead you to a humility only the devastated can possibly know. I know your type baby, the tight fisted, loose lipped chicken pride that struts about displaying the dissention within their own ranks and leave a trail of obvious everywhere they go, I know you baby, I spit on you damn near every day. I know your kind and I won’t take to it lightly or in any manner for that matter. Buck up runaway, I have daggers for you.

Prelude to a Nap

I knew she wasn’t what she claimed by the sad sick eyed look on her face that had leaked its way down to her veins, or more like the lack thereof. Deep open gashes that had once served as the life givers that allow oxygen to reservoir throughout like a fast tide had become the cesspool of forgotten aspirations and children she no longer felt the need to lie to and say she wanted. This was the nature of the beast, an Argentinian beast that hailed from a dilapidated town that smart minded compassion ridden nerds sought to save said girls from and never could, but would damn near die trying to no avail…..she knew the look. She knew the familiarity of these things for she had been living dogs days for as long as she could remember. Dog days made up not the years lost but the ones you counted down to the day, down to the bone down to the last abscess that would provide the last and final crater you couldn’t bring yourself to look at in the daytime, nor the fuck that made you well last night. These were all the things that were instilled instead of cookies only in the oven for no longer for 12 minutes or else they would burn, so much for those hand holding moments that would never come. But Goddamn she sure wanted them to. She held hands, just not the important ones, but the ones that would decapitate her into a mental cripple. The smell of a wanton life as almost as the smell of a successful one depending on the contextual peppering of humility coupled with an arrogance that is rooted in a fear that only junk provides. She taught her all of these things; Isabella Sarli on a bender of incestuous arson ridden soul sucking qualities that would be heard in a well over grown with prehistoric fossils; with not one but two kids intact, or juxtaposed at best. They were alive when she turned, maybe not so much when she completed the circle…. A dark blue light was better than a red one. That meant calm tranquil hotel rooms with limited fucking, red lights meant smaller 4 walled rooms with stainless steel toilets that she would kick in again and again and again.. As she shot in her own diseased corner of the ditch, she couldn’t help but think that maybe not exactly in the full moon type 2 hour long saga ridden independent film sentiments aside maybe her Mom was shooting in the same diseased ditch. Funny what we choose to make acceptable in order to feel normal and Hallmarkish, rationalize the most outrageous sort of non-sense, that’s what the 12 Step literature would tell her years later and she would recall with regret that she hadn’t taken that one to the bank and had opted out for the park instead….and we all know what happens in the park. It’s a story, not a snowflake one in the cynical sense but a story nonetheless, mine to be exact. You don’t want to hear and I don’t want to tell it, but here we are making believe that you will wash it out with the tendencies of the next day’s road rage and passive aggressive supermarket line debacles; but we both know you want really; but I’ll tell you what sugar, I’ll tell you what,……I’m gonna sleep good tonight knowing that another wish has been blown and you will have to look me in the face next time, and I’ll meet you dead on. Dead fucking on; your turn not to sleep.

The Coldest of Armchairs

Who knew this would be it? Reliving a similar and universal experience with the wrong crew on the daily? Everyone is walking on the top but not getting down or proceeding north, just a sad twirl that everyone is witnessing. It's a deep heart ache that makes your insides turn and questions every motive. How to make a sharp right turn, how to organize the damage and deal accordingly. This isn't what I wanted. This isn't it. This is something else. You seem ok, steady, even; and I am disappearing. I've seen the untouchables wade through catastrophe like water through open space but you're not that either. No, you're something else entirely. It doesn't encompass you the way it does me; I don't think you see any better than me though. Not through those sad eyes Not through this plain picture Not through these impermeable measures. I tire of walking the same " ." It seems endless and predictable resolve seems far. When has it ever not? Closed off, legless reindeer, door slamming silent agendas and top notch avoidance quotas are being met everyday with more fervor than the previous time. Tough to take, tough to keep up with, tough to choose The slap that never comes, a harsh "come to" a call to subconscious arms that commits only psychic warfare and wins without waking you, while I m not fading half as fast as I would like. This time tomorrow will be more of the same Same answer will be hanging in the air like a broken wind chime you can't bring yourself to discard and you will be too, slowly doling out fictitious spoonfuls of "contentment" while we both lye waiting. Waiting for the........

Going on 5.

I can't breathe. Every breath is a miracle that it comes to fruition. I can't see in front of me but I know there's a drop It's every bone being carved into unsedated every movement unpredictable and spinal tap after spinal tap all gathered under a starless sky once there were so many vacancies, now there are none. Now, you are decisive Now, you have a voice Now, you stand up Resilience has become my character defect and the thing resentments are clothed in. I have been here the whole time I have been here the whole time I have been here the whole time Loving a phantom Loving you in spite of Loving you anyway There are few safe moments for me with you but I love you anyway. There are words that I would have exchanged for a fractured jaw in 6 places in their place than hear them from you I love you anyway. There are actions not taken that I would have traded for a year of silence I love you anyway. There are faults left unclaimed that I would have gladly taken to watch peace take place in your eyes You handed me a razor. I've taken number after number for the other side and this is the grand moment in a stairwell alone that I would welcome another chance. Opportunist at best. I see you I see you caught I see me drowning in an endless blanket of past possibilities and too much experience. I see you drowning in the same blanket; different accompaniments; less experience, too much self inflicted notions of exactness and only drops of love. I understand. I can't breathe I can't see My chest has scooped itself back in it's cavity, for now. I promise, by the next frost, I'll do better by an untouchable spirit that wants to let go. A quaking Aspen will guide my way back to the place with one light Back to the place where she is Back to the place you fear so much. I'll be the one covered in snow you'll see the one with a broken finger, only on the right and a cedar heart. I m waiting waiting here at the mouth I'll always be waiting until you tell me not to.

The Process of Dying.

It's a slow long lethargic good bye that makes the hair on your arm stand up. A coming together of everything in the world you've ever feared. You must take the stairs now, no other option. Elevators are a lofty after thought. The wringing in and out of your intestines that shows up on your face in the ever present "How are you?" Feeling like the bottom is dropping from every moment, not knowing how difficult the next breath will be, a seething darkness that abides so close that there is no chance of shaking it. Maybe. Maybe you would have been better off going comatose. Maybe the hollow point should have bore out more than just your vein, maybe......just maybe. Making the silence numb is not a possibility. It clamors about in self defeating cyclone of what if's, what about's and every scream, every yell that has been not heard for what it was, the fear of you not being loved. On a cellular level, it all combusts on a nuclear level, Area 666 kind of shit. I meant it, I meant that I committed to long haul, I meant it every step of the way. Perhaps you don't. You don't. You haven't. A mirror un-adhered to, is an excruciating thing to have to walk by everyday, so I understand but it does not negate the fact that I drown every minute of every day with an ache that only a Christian could pray away, and I am not so hope evades me, as it should be. What if one day I wake up one day and it's ok? What a tragedy. Stage 4 feels immanent. This is a drowning with an audience and an empty grave that is being filled with all of the unsaid and disabled actions that could have made this paragraph non existent. Slowly being dismembered by an unseen force but seeing it all the time makes for dog days amplified. Hard times baby, hard times.

FUCK OFF "TAT" INQUIRERS.

Jesus Fucking Christ. I understand that summers' a here, practically anyhow and that I have made certain decsions in life, mainly to become heavilty tattooed and I am well prepared to deal with a fair amount of horse shit regarding that, be that as it may, I am not up for grabs to be touched in Home Depots, nor am I down for seeing your small and sad little diddy your bestie help you string together. My advice would be to piss off, far far away. I am upon the ve of a very long class at said moment and will be dashing shortly, like the next 35 seconds and just wanted to throw up a bit before I have to sit here for 4 hours. XOXO

Saving Simon.

Fundraising Ideas

This is Simon and he is a rescue that will have a forever home here in NJ if transport can be arranged. Please donate to help this happen for Simon. One of the best feelings that I have had the pleasure of knowing are that of the joy of saving an animal that otherwise would have had no chance at a happy, healthy or stress free existence. Too often people acquire animals for the wrong reasons and end up abandoning them once they have not met their unrealistic expectations or aren't working on their time. This does not have to be the case for this little guy. Please help Simon to reach his forever home so he never needs to know anything other than that throughout his life. Thanks you.

Puppy Mills Torture Thousands of Dogs Every Year! by Andrew A. December 21, 2009 11:54 pm Every year, thousands of dogs are the product of large-scale breeding operations known as puppy mills. The operations run across the country and dogs are locked in small wire cages with minimal human contact or veterinary care. As Christmas approaches, there is always a temptation to give the most lovable gift of all, a puppy. We’ve all seen the image of a Christmas puppy popping its head out of a stocking in television commercials. Now I don’t want to get into the logistics of whether or not a puppy makes a good Christmas gift — I trust you all to make that decision on your own. What I do want to talk about is where that new puppy is coming from. Buying a puppy is a big purchase and most people have a few options: pet stores/puppy mills or animal rescue shelters. While it may be easy to swing by the pet store on your way home from work, your purchase could be supporting puppy mills — an industry that tortures thousands of dogs annually. Buyer beware: even licensed puppy mills can operate with minimal standards. In fact, by law, puppy mills can own more than 1,000 dogs, keep them in small wire changes for life and breed them as often as possible. Not much of a life for man’s best friend! The truth of the matter is that the vast majority of the puppies bred at mills go straight to the pet stores, and year after year, puppies suffer for the sole purpose of turning a profit for the puppy mill and pet store owners. Puppies are not products and it is important to make sure you know where your puppy is coming from before you buy. The only way to free these animals from the misery of the horrid puppy mills is to eliminate the demand. With the highest percentage of puppies purchased during the holidays, it is important to take action to fight puppy mills by pledging to adopt from a shelter or rescue group instead of buying a puppy from a pet store. Together we can work to create a day where there are no more homeless pets — adopt, don’t shop.