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lost in a dead subway sleep
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[06 May 2009|12:51am] |
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orlando is a sewer drain
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[10 Dec 2008|02:57am] |
Somtimes, it is only in sickness, that we are weak enough to enter heaven.
Kyle knows.
eastside........
......yeah, I'm drunk :)
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[27 Nov 2008|01:03am] |
seems to be the cool thing to post a poem right now, so i figured i'd jump on the bandwagon. Here's something i just did for a workshop last week, let me know what you think if you have some spare time.
Palm Reading For hours I scrubbed, raking the layers
of tissue from my palms, filing the white
bone and pink sinew until the ends of my wrists
resembled a dead oak loaded down
with the feather tips of dying crows,
the slough strung together with the comfort
of rusted barbed-wire. It was your hands I saw
when I looked down, tried to pray,
the same human claws staring back,
filthy with a cake of atomic soot
and marrow dust, bitter, rigid,
and yarned with a blonde loom
of children’s hair—mittens made
to ease the bite of Roman winter.
And it was you, you bastard,
who put quarters to the cavities
in the nuclear gumball-machine,
put coins to the autistic merry-go-round
and suicide galleries. It was you
who said yes to the atom-bomb rainbow
and carpet bomb morning showers.
It was you who drowned the world
in Galilee, praised the pyres as the burning
sunk to ash singing the blue song
of the Loon, chugged yourself drunk
with the black waters of Lethe
on the last midnight, crowing the sun
to sleep in your last praise to God
the dollar. And now I see there is no you,
for you is me, and we are you. We
are the moonlight with no earth
to look upon, and again I tear the tendons
as my stump arms sprout a fresh weapon
of hands, fearing to touch again
all of ourselves that we have harmed. -----pretentious? who knows, i dont.
P.S.--I'm drunk. thanks giving
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[18 Jun 2008|12:53am] |
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out of the hospital, what what.
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[06 May 2008|05:29am] |
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i still quit, and i feel like being mean. nobody will ever try. you'll say you died trying, fuck you. you never tried in the first place.
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[01 Mar 2008|01:24am] |
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i quit.
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[16 Feb 2008|01:00am] |
Where is everyone at, because i havent seen anyone in a long time.
maybe you'll get it. the ones that dont, dont feel bad. i wouldnt get it either.
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| true story? |
[05 Feb 2008|12:18am] |
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Check out lines for Wal-Mart are the only way I could ever imagine hell; endless chatter from mouths of Spanish and liquored English, the smells of dirt trailer-parks and food-stamp sustenance. Imagine oneself standing for eternity at the serpentine lines leading far into the young girls section of clothes beyond the payment corridors, the pedophiles deviously grasping their purchasing baskets filled with clothes for babies for which none they have and dreaming themselves dressed in the infant-measured clothing. Forever, I would hope, could not be the possibility, for I would rather burn and be raked by beazulbub’s great trident for forever more than to withstand the arduous socialite clinic of the check-out line. Today in particular, as I awaited to purchase cigarettes in the tobacco aisle, I dwelled upon a particular perfume of aged southern ale and garments of John Wayne dirtied clothing tripping behind me in the most grim reaper of fashions. The woman in front of me, a healthily fattened Hispanic with pretty eyes, gestured her capitalistic intents in Spanish tongue to an overbearing meth-has-been lost somewhere in speech behind the revolving table for item placement as moments dragged far beyond necessity. I gathered myself elsewhere, helping to lose the time amongst the anti-drug cinematics graciously played by the adjacent aisle screens as a voice or tarred lung and whiskey dried tongue greased up my slumped spine. “Aint that the shit, damn bitch can’t even make it through the line without holding us up,” the tacked voice exclaimed. I turned to a man of pure septic worth, parachute pants ragged and torn as a goodwill jacket warmed his body to perspiration of liquid poison and near-toxic fume. I stared in bewilderment, wondering how the hell I could look civil and moral under such blatantly loud speech, and the dirtied man cackled at my bewilderment. “I’ll tell you son, I been her twenty-years now in that park across the way, and I see enough Puerto-Ricans come in here to make me think I wasn’t in America no more.” I continued my stare, hoping to God the woman didn’t guess me to be in agreement with the soil man, all the while besting myself to sustain a face of understanding towards my aisle-way companion. “What are we coming to?” he asked. “We got this stupid bitch keeping me here all day whiles the president runners are all fucked up.” I had no words for his statements, staring away at stray purchases amongst the stained ivory tiles in hope of losing the masquerade. “We got a nigger from who knows where, the boss man mob boss from the apple, and a damn dyke thats been runnin to lead us somewheres better. I tell you son, what the hell are we doin?” He laughed, myself noticing the doubled bottles of RC cola sadly missing the whiskey bottle upon his breathe that anxiously awaited across the street of Colonial Avenue. I turned my shoulder, offering a smile and a shake, never having been one to take sides or incite ludicrous proposals to offend another, and as I purchased my candles the man cackled behind me, his smoking-breathe trailing from my clothes as I exited the store. I walked to my car, finding the Hispanic woman awaiting outside to a car-full of children, her tired husband arduously piling the bagged groceries into the car as I strolled by. I left quickly, expecting a foreign uprise against my association with the crude prejudice of the aisle, and as I pulled my car onto Colonial Avenue, I struck a dirtied man with a bag no more of RC cola. No one raised a fuss about it, and the officers allowed my leave.
Hello America?
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[28 Jan 2008|11:44pm] |
life is illusion.
I think thats how they keep you going.
My socks never matched anyway.
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[24 Nov 2007|10:55am] |
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I love my friends goddamnit.
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| Back to the part of Life that consists of Dying |
[05 Nov 2007|04:17pm] |
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listen. i think once i graduate, im going to move somewhere like haiwassee and be poor and work for a small town newspaper. lets all go. small towns need people like us, and people like us need small towns. Its a nice symbiotic relationship between the civilized world and the reality that the civilized world isnt as important as we've all been made to think it seems. I dont need a wife and children or the American Dream with all of you around. I dont need a promising salary or nice possessions to keep me occupied and happy, because when all of the people that matter are around i can sit comfortably on a perfect deck painting with no hunger for more. I had a bottle of whiskey, beer, cigarettes, guitar, paints,notebooks,a hatchet and a few clothes that i never actually changed into. No showers, no cell phone, no internet, no tv, no fastfood, no car, no bars, no beerbongs, no movies, no clocks. Happiness, in the most fresh and breatheable terms that i have truly encountered in my recent life, consisted of a cool mountain breeze, smiles around a kitchen island, comfortable smells dancing out of a stove, clicking camera shutters, endless and lazy talk of everything that truly matters, hearing returning doors and happy voices in the yard, and the most humble genius ive ever met ticking away behind me with a soundtrack now too perfect for words. There was no show, no attempts to impress or press foward with false identity. We were all real in all our imperfection, and its one of the few times i can recall looking around and seeing no one wearing masks. The laughs were the most vibrant, the smiles were so true and despite never looking up from my paintings to see them, i knew that i was in my perfect bob ross version of reality.
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[17 Jan 2007|04:15pm] |
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has anyone ever actually seen a worm in an apple, or found some sort of wormlike burrow within one? I think it a bullshit johnny appleseed myth. How the hell would a worm get in an apple anyway?
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[21 Nov 2006|04:46am] |
Gasoline waters
Under a blue sky set ablaze by the birth of day
Shadowy figures dancing upon the shore
Beckoning forward, yet receiving no recognition
Trees waltzing upon the shoreline in the dawn drift
Broken glass sand set aflame by the sun
I have become the infinite, the absolute
Shipwreck outlines glued to the horizon.
Pull me from these pools
Through the infernal sky
Across this passageway lies a land
Strange frayed trees littering the shoreline
Ancient stone wonders poking through the canopy,
Colorful birds illuminating the abyss.
The jaguar hunts these woods,
Stalking for the dawn’s first slaughter
Tan peoples haunt this land
Wielding weapons of ivory bone and wood
They have seen me
Through brush and stone
A captive by day
Lost in a strange land
Cloaked by nightfall
This petroleum cradle rocks me to sleep
Pass me on through time
Leave this moment infinite
The day when the sky set the ocean ablaze
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[26 Oct 2006|08:25pm] |
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anyone from AP lit have Mrs. Maurers phone number or email still?
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[24 Oct 2006|03:35am] |
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so, im working on a scipt for a short film called DIM BLUES to turn in with my application to film school this month, and id really appreciate it if i could get any sort of input on it from anyone willing to read any of it. All criticism is welcome, id actually like to hear about everything anyone might find wrong with it, and any suggestions they are willing to offer. It is far from being finished, but be completely honest with your opinions on it, id appreciate it.
FADE IN:
EXT: INNER CITY – RUSH HOUR – SUMMER
A city breathes with the congestion of rush hour traffic. Sidewalks and walkways lined with tall brick housing are packed with urgent city-dwellers milling about their day. A youthful delivery boy can be seen riding a bike, weaving in and out of the inner city crowd and traffic. He approaches an oncoming intersection with speed and little caution.
CUT TO BLACK SCREEN
The noise of an approaching car horn is heard, accompanied by screeching tires which build to a mangled crashing sound.
CUT TO:
EXT: BEDROOM - MORNING
As the crash noise fades the boy opens his eyes. Sunlight peeks through dust covered window shades, and a fan violently turns above the bed. The light is dim in the room, and appears as though not much activity has occurred in some time. An ancient empty television portraying static sits silently in front of the bed, casting a glow upon the adjacent wall.
The boy sits motionlessly in his bed, awakened from his sleep with a look of confusion upon his face. He arises with a stretch and cautiously peers out of his bedroom windows. Outside, arguing neighbors can be seen as a crying girl next to a battered bike tugs upon her fathers pant leg.
CUT TO:
EXT: KITCHEN
A tattered woman can be seen hunched over a stove, cooking a burning breakfast. The sink is full of rotting dishes and the dirtied windows allow stale sunlight entry. A small television sits upon the counter, amongst molding towels, leftover food and soiled kitchen utensils. The room holds a dim haze of cigarette smoke, as the boy stumbles down the stairs, coughing.
Boy
(coughing)
Hey mom
His mother ignores his entrance and continues about her cooking of breakfast. The boy sits at a barely standing wooden table, and turns on the television. The television portrays scenes of war, violence, riots, murders and other associated crimes.
Mother
(sternly)
Come get your food Mark, I didn’t slave over this damn stove
for your entertainment.
Mark walks over to towards the stove, his eyes never leaving the scenes of violence upon the television. His face holds a blank look as he receives his plate of food and returns to the table. Footsteps can be heard from the stairs, and Mark’s father enters the kitchen.
Father
(adjusting his tie)
Mark turn that shit off, I don’t you we don’t watch this
garbage in the morning.
MOTHER
(handing a plate to the father)
Good morning Arther.
ARHER looks upon MARKS plate to see undercooked eggs, burnt bacon and a festive side of cigarette ash.
He releases a deep sigh and a mask of anger approaches his face.
ARTHER
(angrily slams his fist against the table)
Goddamnit Marion! Is it too much to ask to get a decent breakfast.
MARION
(defensively)
Arther, shut up. Everday I hear the same..
Mark looks up from his plate of food to see his father strike his mother across the face. His face holds little concern, as he has become accustomed to this.
ARTHER(CONT’D)
I’m leaving for work. When I get home at eight, I want to see this shit
you call food gone, and I want to find something closely resembling a
traditional dinner sitting on that table.
ARTHER grabs MARION by the hair and jerks her head
ARTHER(CONT’D)
You got that?
MARION
(panting, nearly in tears)
Yes, yes I’m sorry Art, I’m sorry.
ARTHER slams the kitchen door as he leaves, and MARION runs crying to her bedroom. The slam of the bedroom door can be heard, and with that MARK leaves the kitchen table and walks outside.
CUT TO:
EXT: DRIVEWAY – MORNING – OVERCAST
MARKS friend RYAN can be seen standing against the unpainted fence lining the yard. He is smoking a cigarette and looking at the smog filled grey sky.
RYAN
(happily, with arms raised out)
What’s going on man, I thought you were going to sleep forever.
MARK
(staring at the ground, rubbing the back of his head)
Yeah sorry, I sort of zoned out for a minute. Do you think I
could get one of those, I really need it.
RYAN
(handing him a cigarette)
Sure thing, you know I’m the guy to ask.
The boys walk down the street smoking cigarettes and observing their surroundings. The air is silent, as the streets seem lifeless amongst the slate neighborhood.
Down the street a car wreck can be seen, and the boys continue towards it to see what was happening. As they approach, two men can be seen fighting over the accident, and another man approaches from his house to mediate.
CAR WRECK VICTIM #1
(angrily)
You moron, this all your fault. This never would have happened if you
would have yielded.
CAR WRECK VICTIM #2
(pushing VICTIM #1)
My fault? I waited at that stop sign for plenty of time. As soon as I pulled out
you came flying through the damn intersection and hit me.
The other man approaches the two victims, hoping to mediate the situation. He looks to be in his late fifties and has a kind smile upon his face.
MEDIATOR
(panting, putting his hand on VICTIM #1’s shoulder)
Wait guys, calm down calm down. There’s no use fighting over this,
its just a little scratch.
VICTIM #1
(angrily brushing the mans hand off)
Shut up, none of this applies to you
MEDIATOR
Come on guys I’m sure we can…
VICTIM #2
(violently)
We said stay out of this old man!
VICTIM #1 turns to punch VICTIM #2, but accidentally hits the MEDIATOR, bring him to the ground. The two men begin to fight, and their feet unintentionally stamp the old man. The fall to the ground, still fighting, and misaimed punches continuously strike the old man. His face is decorated in scratches and blood trickles from cuts. MARK and RYAN continue past the scene, and head towards a gas station in the distance.
MARK
Wasn’t that the old man that used to dress like Santa
Clause every Christmas, and bring cookies to our houses
when we were younger?
RYAN
(chuckling)
Yeah. My dad used to raise hell about that, old bastard always
seemed to catch him at the worst times. I can remember laying
in my bedroom and hearing my dad yelling at him.
As they walk along the sidewalk, they pass a house where a father can be seen throwing luggage into a car. A wife in tears bursts through a screen door, begging him not to leave. He brushes her aside and ignores the small crying girl peering through the screen door.
RYAN
Man, thats rough. I thought my parents were bad.
MARK
(dragging off his cigarette and shaking his head)
Yeah, that shit is like an everyday thing for me. Its
strange how it almost seems normal now.
RYAN
(laughing )
How’s that old mom of yours, haggard as ever?
MARK
Shut up man, at least she isn’t out lurking around
behind my fathers back like yours is.
RYAN
(calm)
Nah, she doesn’t do that anymore. My dad found out a beat
her up pretty good. She doesn’t say much anymore, and every
once in awhile she’ll show up with fresh bruises.
MARK
(sighing)
Sounds pretty familiar.
As the boys approach the gas station, a homeless man can be seen laying upon a pile of garbage adjacent to the store. His newspaper blankets and shoeless feet indicate the temperature as he shakes about in the trash and empty bottles of alcohol.
They pass by him and his cold eyes meet theirs. The ice blue irises seem to sink deep within the boys, as they pause to stare.
The mans eyes tell of pain and rejection, of addiction and loss of God. MARK stares paralyzed into the eyes, the eyes that seem so familiar. The boys seem forced to look away, and continue into the store to avoid the chilling sight.
CUT TO:
EXT: CONVENIANCE STORE
The store is light by broken, flickering fluorescent lights. They cast bland shadows upon the dirtied floors and misheveled shelves. Yelling can be heard, as a kind overweight man working the counter is being harassed by an angry Hispanic customer.
CUSTOMER
(forcefully slamming his hands against the counter)
Listen man, just because I don’t have no ID doesn’t mean you
cant sell me this beer. I know I don’t look like a damn little kid man, and
I’ve bought from this store a hundred times.
CLERK
(respectfully)
I understand that sir, its nothing against you. I’m sorry for the
inconvenience, but I have to follow store policy or I could lose
my….
CUSTOMER
(yelling)
Fuck store policy, just sell me the damn beer you fat slob!
CLERK
(ignoring the customer)
Excuse me sir. Hello boys, what can I get for you?
RYAN
Just a pack of Marlboro 27’s
CLERK
(ignoring angry looks from the CUSTOMER)
That will be $3.85. You boys take it easy.
As the boys exit the store, the CUSTOMER returns to his attack upon the CLERK. He overturns a stack of lighters upon the floor, and leans over the counter to continue his yelling. MARK pauses and watches the scene through the dusty window of the store.
CUSTOMER
(yelling)
What the hell is your problem fat man, is it the color of my skin?
CLERK
(cautiously)
Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to…
CUSTOMER
(violently pushing the clerk against the racks)
Shut the fuck up you disgusting pig! Your pathetic ass
is making me sick to my stomach. You’re a worthless piece of..
The boys walk off, back onto the sidewalk towards their houses.
CUT TO:
EXT: SIDEWALK
Yelling can be heard coming from inside the store. As the boys pass the store front, they notice the homeless man has left his derelict bed of garbage. RYAN opens the newly bought pack of cigarettes and hands one to MARK. The boys each stop to light their cigarettes and continue down the residential sidewalk.
Further along the sidewalk, RYAN stops and hops upon a graffitied brick wall running adjacent to the walkway. MARK follows in suite, raising himself upon the wall, and adjusts to get comfortable. RYAN offers another cigarette, and the boys watch as cars pass by.
MARK
(observing passing cars)
I see pain those faces man, its been so long since I’ve seen
a real smile, I can hardly remember what it looks like.
RYAN
(in agreement)
I feel ya buddy, seems like all the good is being sucked out
of humanity’s veins.
MARK
(staring at the ground)
You ever think that maybe we were born into a world
damned for failure?
RYAN
Yeah man I do, sometimes I really do. My whole life
Ive gotten older, and watched all my surroundings
slowly diminish. Kind of makes it hard to want to keep
going on.
The boys conversation is interrupted as an ambulance goes tearing down the street with sirens screeching.
RYAN (CONT’D)
I guess it will all make sense one day. Somehow its got to
tie together into something.
MARK
(hopping off the wall)
Yeah, I hope so man
The damaged sky slowly begins to turn darker. The boys walk back towards their homes. The car wreck from earlier is nowhere to be found. Small patterns of blood and paint chips from the old man’s face and the car’s bumper are the only traces of previous conflict in the location.
Streetlight’s began to flicker on. Some eventually produce a wilted light while others die out, as if giving up hope.
The boys approach MARKS house, and say their goodbyes amongst the mosquitos and dying light.
RYAN
(offering a cigarette)
Want one more before I go?
MARK
(taking the cigarette)
Yeah man, thanks.
RYAN
(walking away)
Alright buddy, take it easy. Ill give you a call
tomorrow or something.
MARK
(lighting the cigarette)
Later man.
MARK sits in a broken legged rocking chair put to rest upon his front porch. He smokes his cigarette and watches RYAN disappearing into the night distance. His face shows deep thought and contemplation. He can hear his step dad ARTHUR inside yelling at his mother again, a tune that he has become accustomed to. As he drags his cigarette, a tear rolls down his cheek and can be seen in the dim moonlight. He flicks his cigarette into the yard, and opens the rickety front door.
CUT TO:
EXT: BEDROOM – NIGHTIME
As MARK enter his room, he pauses to look at a picture upon his shelf. The picture shows MARK as a baby in his mothers arms, and an unfamiliar man stands behind his mother hugging her.
CUT TO FLASHBACK:
EXT: LIVING ROOM – PAST - CHRISTMAS
A young MARK sits around a Christmas tree with his mother and father. His father is moving about the living room with a video camera. MARK can be seen flailing about in piles of wrapping paper and tinsel laughing hysterically. MARK’S father can be seen kissing his mother as they both join in the laughter.
CUT BACK TO PRESENT:
EXT: BEDROOM
The man in the picture is the homeless man previously seen laying upon the side of the convenience store. Tears began to roll down MARKS cheek, and he hurls the picture against the wall. He falls upon his bed, dries his eyes and turns on the dust dressed television. The news is on, and MARK looks in horror at the sites he sees.
A picture of the old man from his neighborhood appears on the television, and the reporters voice tells of his death, due to massive cranial trauma.
MARK stares in disbelief at the horror upon the screen. A new story appears, and the convenience store where him and RYAN bought cigarettes in seen. The reporter tells of its robbery early by a Hispanic man, and says the store CLERK, WALTER BURNHAM, is in the hospital after being badly assaulted.
MARK begins to shake, and tears uncontrollably roll down his face. He shakes about in his bed moaning and crying hysterically. He knocks his bedside lamp over, leaving the only remaining light in the room coming from the television. The horrific scenes cause his stomach to lurch and his eyes to burn.(this part is completely unfinished, but it involves the boy eventually going insane)
CUT TO:
EXT: HOSPITAL ROOM – PRESENT – MORNING
MARK opens his eyes to find himself in a pool of sweat, laying upon a snowy hospital bed. His mother sits at his side with a NURSE, gazing down upon him with teary eyes. MARK looks up in disbelief and falls back into the pillow sighing. An insignificant television is on, and goes unnoticed in the background.(this part is completely unfinished, but it involves the boy eventually going insane)
NURSE
(lovingly)
I need you to listen to me MARK. You have just
awoken from a coma, it is important that you stay as
calm as possible.
A few parts are underwritten and incomplete but i think the main idea can be seen. I havent finished the ending, but it involves the boy awaking from a coma to find that all the experiences after the bicycle accident to be a dream from his coma. After the nurse and his mother leave the hosptal room, he notices the television on the shelf against the wall, and realizes the scenes upon it are depicting the world from his coma dream. The open newspaper at his side table show headlines of similar events as well. He musters up strength to move his arms over to his bedside, and unplugs his life support. He lays there slowly drifting from life while the scenes on the television are cast upon the hospital walls.
its still got a lot of work, but tell me what you think about it, id appreciate it. ive got a few other scripts and short stories im working on, so ill probably post them later in a similar manner. thanks.
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[06 Oct 2006|05:32am] |
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Its amazing the answers you unconciously find through arguement. today was a good day. i keep bettering myself in ways i never knew. Everything i needed just keeps getting handed to me, life just keeps going up.
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[21 Sep 2006|02:55am] |
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sometimes i wish i knew if i was the right person.wurd
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[16 Jun 2006|04:39am] |
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wade+jt=open mic night at black and brew. ^ mdotw songs + some covers. kyle+pete=other half of mdotw selling cds./2 = go. at like 7or 8or something. lolz rofl lolzors
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