Thursday, December 28, 2006


She was nineteen. At nineteen years old the joy is so oppressive that one sometimes cannot distinguish between the tears of happiness and tears of acknowledgement. Acknowledging that the final teenage years are over for her. She weeps quietly for the pre-mature death of her young twenties as well, those years that are supposed to be filled with the strange combination of responsibility with at the same time a new found freedom. It’s almost impossible to distinguish which if the tears are which as she holds her hope and oppression in her hands.
Some people never understand how so much hope and love and at the same time oppression and hatred can exist in one entity.
The ride home from the hospital is the scariest car ride she has ever taken. The carefree smug driving of her lover and fiancé, the same carefree and smug attitude that once attracted her to him now is a threat to her new precious Faith. The questions in her mind are almost intolerable.
Her Faith grows. She takes her fathers eyes and her mothers tongue. She takes her fathers shoelace and puts it in her mouth. She takes a winning smile, a smile that could melt your heart and a laugh of pure unadulterated joy and curiosity from nothing. The nothing is the distance that has grown between her eyes and her mouth as she ages. The questions of the car ride home have only grown into paradoxes. Distorted drunken logic magnifies the paradox until it becomes all-consuming. Finally, consumed with the logic that was bequeathed to him by his father, her lover leaves.
Now the hope has turned into faith, as fear gives way to hope. Faith assumes her namesake completely now.
It is never easy to hold a job when you are distracted. She was often distracted. Those who had never seen what it was like inside a life couldn’t understand would blame her and her alone. They never met her mother. They never saw her father. They never look beyond what their eyes tell them and assume that she is the stereotype played out to the masses on special reports at ten. It is the strength of faith that can never be conveyed on those horrid manipulative special reports at ten.
Her Faith continues to grow, truly with all the blessings a mother can provide.
The questions start to come to Faith as they come to all children, but with a mother who was never certain, only worked with what she was given, what answers could ever come to her child? The cycle continues. She sees the cycle continue in her daughter. She cries again this time you can see each clearly as it spells frustration on the carpet, spotted with ash stains of the past 14 years. A mother’s warning goes unheard, a thousand nights, and a thousand mothers. Only one speaks the truth, though all the mothers preach the same warning.
Her faith wavers as her Faith strides chemically confident, she knows all, she understands all, she has seen her mother, and her mother has seen all, though phallic logic, she has seen all and walks chemically confident without fear. A boy drives next to her, smiling a carefree smug smile, driving slowly not bothering to turn down the music to speak with her. Her Faith is so strong she can sit comfortably in his passenger seat and never see or hear what is really said when he declares what he wants. He wants her Faith, and though her faith is strong that she knows all she is afraid. He has no time for fear and shows a chemically confident little girl, still a baby in the eyes of those that know her, why her mother was the only one who spoke truth that night.
Her Faith returns to her, confused and scared, never wanting to know the answer to the question that was still fresh in her mind. Together they stand in unity for the first time since her last laugh of curiosity. The black of Faith’s mascara swirls onto her mothers pale skin.

Saturday, December 16, 2006


I wrote with a bitter taste in my mouth
Only driving home again in the mist shrouded sky
Making night as clear as day
Did i realize what is meant when they say beauty is all around us

Friday, December 15, 2006

Only the wakefull

Clear eyed, open mind, the masses will know but not understand
The day-breakers and noon-wakers will never know
Even should they wake on the morning day to embrace the bank
They find themselves stuck in a depressant haze
Bleary-eyed they navigate through their burden
Unable to embrace the beauty of the emerging trees through the thick fog
Todays morning will be enlaced with adventure and discovery
The simple pleasure of watching the tailights in front of you dissapear
As you race ahead to chase down what consumed your fellow traveler
Only the wakefull find pleasure in the morning hour
Only those who live without the bleary eyed mornings remnicent of the night before
can appreciate a good adventure, traveled alone

Saturday, December 02, 2006


Sometimes it feels like im in a movie, like someone is going to yell CUT and all the walls will just fall away. Sometimes it feels like im supposed to write that movie. That this is the love i need to express to others

people need love, and more imporantly they need the hope of love, and the belief that its out there

maybe the ideas good, maybe its not, ill toy around with it

Friday, December 01, 2006

They stand

They stand hands out, picture frame with a roatating back facing towards them, mirror finish on the back. Looking glass gone unused. Self image entranced into the clear glass in front of them which lacks the ever important silver backing

They stand with hands out, mouths open, screeching like some jungle bird, the sounds inhuman, no apathy for these howls, they are the break to the beauty of ambience

They move on tracks, wooden and hand carved but so long worn that its impossible to tell, the erractic movements like that of an anqutie clock with little knife cut figures that find a quiet dignity in their servitude to the golden prophet of time

The movements sycronized , working together like the gears on a clock, one turn here, two turns there, perfect symmetry, but should you ask them they will tell you they follow no time, that the path they follow is merely coincidentally laid with the ancient track

Some dont believe in coincidences

They are monitored, not for any particular real purpose, but the powers the laid be to the design of this infernal contraption decided its best nothing be left to its own devices, control is a means only to more control

Thus they go to the pound and select a few canines, polish their coats and let them roam among the people. Termite plaque stains their teeth. They discriminate non-discriminatly among those mearly following the path.

This was the master plan

Ms. Gyn Oney

The borderline archaic listing of digits lists a term incompresshible except to only the most dedicated computer scientists, but its translates clearly into a 230x460 visual below, marginalized, to the upper right hand corner.

The visual is strikingly borish, a mesh of photoshopped color play, ametur experimentalist, but given the recent trends, its not so bad, almost has a lackluster charm about it

Of course given thats all a matter of perspective, objective studies in current youth culture.

Perhaps confused, perhaps thinking clearly our subject admires with a strange sense of self lost somewhere between the Aorta and diaphram, a connection she cannot place yet though a matter of helixing electrons the connection is made in some of the ninety percent grey useless matter.

objective yet again as to what lies within useless grey matter

but all the biochemisty, pop-psychology, and time spent in vain reading current dime store novellas will never really apply in the same manner a repressed, shamed memory would.

The study was always futile, the shame, repression, fear, hope will cycle, its pointless but is fuel for the next great postmodern romantist peice