all the pups

All the pups in the southeast
You'll be left
As far from right as our conscious can push
You'll be unkept and left with a chain
A chain to remind you
Of how we care, infinitely


As the months pass, you'll only matter more
As much as we can concieve
As much care as we can lend

Such selfish beings to cradle and to hate within the week
Tortured fools
Eating our best mates only to pet and mam when we crawl into our homes later in the a.m.

new year's eve

at twelve it's too late
the time before is rushed
cause I need to get there
the new year
the new me
the new mind frame

fuck
work is holding me in
I've got the new year to get to
I have to get home
build the perfect situation
open this stupid fucking portal
so thew new me can come stomping in and destroy myself

when twelve comes around
it's too late
nothing goes as plan
and life
still
fucking
sucks
my dick

my room is winter

drink a little till you come over
the hole in the wall next to my pillow is for well wishes
and that's how I stay warm in my head
so fucking lucky to wake up to this instead
pens and books and glasses use to share this bed
I'm so fucking lucky to wake up to this instead
my room is winter
you are the spring
this house is colder than my father
that's saying something
my room is winter
you are the spring

always failing, but only because the task

I knew I'd get around to this
this attempt
sad though it is
it is only sad when comparing the task with the talent

when I turn to my left at 4am in my bed
our noses should always meet
then our lips
and a warmth exchanged

something unsaid
unseen
and softer than the air we breathe

this caustic brilliance keeps my heart smiling

stupid stupid stupid me

When I say it, I mean her
It's a mouth to house the filfth of self-doubt
Quiet desttruction that aches throughout the joints
one step forward is never forward, it's into nothing
That nothing will make you feel warm, above everything and still honest till it drops you from the 32nd floor
Fuck it
Fuck her
She's the nothing that turned into worse than nothing

operor

working class troubadours
my friends and I
we build, it's burnt
we smile, they swing
all for a clean cut lust
no flesh per say
just work, the ability to do work and see work done

it burns

It burns deep behind my eyes
All the way to tracks
The way I was raised
Roots to limbs from clouds to soil
I feel cheated
But feeling isn't truth

I say that
But
If you feel it hard enough
Then it's real

When the ache moves to pain
Late at night
When lonely is sickly

I just want to be free of me
And you
And what I felt

It wasn't truth
Just a feeling

yeah man

I'm further from myself than I was yesterday

it feels good to be somewhere else

but this choking isn't going to cut it

I'd cut it if I wouldn't make such a mess

Hands

hand over my heart
the same hand I wipe my ass with
the same hand I masturbate with
no one gets the irony
I guess it makes as much sense as the hand over the bible

hands above your head
there's something I understand
put those dirty fucking things where I can see them

not good enough

I read over things to review myself, edit, re-edit, re-write, throw away, start anew, and beat the hell out of my nerves. I'm not good enough, you're not good enough either. Some need drinks to do this, I'm abusive without the courage intake. I'll take the shithead title. No need to blame a drink for sober thoughts from an unsound mouth. God could write me a post-it note and I would leave it stained with red ink. he's not good enough either.

amor

the folly
it's too bent to pursue
too early to climb the walls for
but I'm strung
might as well be tuned up and plucked
cause once you're in line
you don't want to be the dumbass who decides after getting a good spot that he doesn't want to be here anymore
so I'll look ahead
leave the sides for the single
damn me

nothing uncommon

old friends, new friends
the inbetween friends that never get addressed
I'm a mess
a dried lake bed
who dreams of moisture
rain clouds and perfect compositions
a hometown from another state
or another country
a longing that can be felt in the teeth
way below what the kids see
everything was installed correctly
but I'm wired all wrong
suck cess, but never success for me
which leaves what?
what do I have to show you?
what can be measured of it all?
if this meant nothing to you
it'd still be centered
I'm everything I wanted to be
everything I worked for
I hate my job
I hate my skin
I hate my circumstances
but I love this
whole heartedly
no apologies
to you, my family, or those left of center
the one way in is the one way out
and we're all getting out
so get in

truth and untruth

I use to think no one could love me
when I slept on the bench's in audobon park
ordered coffee so I could sit in the coffee shops while it rained
walked ten blocks out of the way to read at the library
made friends with winos and perverts
I use to think no one could love me
when I spent christmas in the hospital
disappeared without a trance after the movies
played guitar for change by the foutain
now I'm sure
as sure as 23 is the end all, be all to immaculate knowledge
the world is black and white, happiness and saddness, truth and untruth
if you're an idiot like me
completely commit

my family chree

I'm hungry and cold
I'm not that hungry and cold
I did this a few times senior year
in and out of different wombs
Always felt like shit
flushed myself and moved on
Then I hit a real hungry and cold
A hungry and cold in my bones and joints
Found there was a cold and hungry that didn't have much to do with food or temperture
Apologies to tree's I fell out of
Apologies to the tree's that I burned, rolled, or uprooted
But I think I'm full and warm now

saturdays, circa 94

We smoke around the scanner
listen to the stereo crackle
Listen to the pigs chatter
Some juicy developement will reveal itself
It always does on saturdays
It's a busy night for both sides
your side
their side
the good, the bad, and the speeding
Wait, is that paul they have pulled over on tupelo?
Nah, no warrants
Had me worried
His probation officer has been riding him lately

weak, really weak

If I ever say it again. Tie me to an old ford axle and keep me in the backyard. Then train me to fight, bite, and kill. Weak is common, I want to be the old me. Sleeping on park benches, no friends, no life, just this thing I could do when I had a guitar. Weak are those with plenty.

a pen in a wheelchair

This room smells like old towels. The fan keeps the odor stirred and unsettled. Half the bed is for me and the other half is for my glasses, books, plastics bags, and pens. I hear the items shift when I reposition myself at night. The tiger above my head watches me sleep. No soft I love you's this year. I could handle the big lonely if my pen wasn't recovering as well. Damn the jewish carpenter's birthday.

23 years of blue notes

borrowing emotions, lend the rights to vacant rooms
lost as the best, blue notes to thank
singing your hymns
there's a dollar to be made but no smell to wash off
kids never knew your name
a chorus when you're long gone
praise for those who never wanted a word
stealing discord, thieves in the speaker
a fist for a pick to capture the holy
birthed from southern air
god gave me a voice to mimic your genius
kids will never know your name
so where do we go with all this tension?
where do i go with caustic idealism?
where do we go?
the woodshed with us
to reinvent the blue notes

yeah dude, the road

looking at these ad's, final quarter before the holidays
we're not talking sports
it's money
the green shit is why we're not together but that's okay
cause I'll work two jobs for us, I'll meet you on the other side
don't move
I'll be there again in six months
and i won't hold a grudge, cause I've been chasing you for four years
at 23, it'd seem silly to stop now

moderation, in

the steps forward
soon are same steps that we take back
leaning on chain link fences by the skate park
to drinking and listening to corey smith sing about beer on sundays
a prophet of vinyl siding and fast food salads
I'd like to order a gallon of diet cola with my extra large fries and salad
I'm watching my weight
my addiction
the sky
expand and contract
and my future is closing in

lions in the chess circuit

God damn the streets around my house, in my small southern city. Coffin nails to wild ambition, a muzzle for the bark of youth.

Saw a lady at the spirits store asking for captain morgan with a baby on her hip and I thought, wonder what captain would taste like mixed with baby formula? Funny story bout the happenstance at which I arrived at this spiritual clusterfuck. I had to make a run to the conjoined liberty inn/ spirits store for my manager. See, he's not quite old enough to buy his own liquer but he's plenty old enough to run pj's pizza place. Very respectable guy. He's got his boots laced well and keeps his nose clean and his belly filled with liquid courage.

sunday morning jitters

I'm an idiot, a con man like my father. My father and I differ mostly on the points of style and poise. I stay cornered at all times with my art, fending off the big bad finger prints prying to get their hands on my product. This product is mine, no roots or points of origins, a phantom of my wishes. I said, "God grant me a crutch, of which I can lean on and call my stoop. I will rest upon it for all my days. " God came down and laid this heavy birth in my hands and only said, "you hath what you desire." I milked it till blood flowed from it's tit, until the areola chaffed, dried, and cracked like the surface of an empty desert lake bed. These elitists attitudes creep out without making a sound, they find a way to my limbs and execute ignorance. I'm left behind to think on it all. Why do I use so many defense mechanisms through art? If I was going to turn out this way, I could have worked at Walmart and not seemed like a bum. Maybe that's it. Maybe I need to feel degraded and shitty, a nod to my father resting in his cell 5 hours away. I'm not sure but there are differences between our overall shittiness towards mankind. My father is more of the literal sense of a con man. A man without empathy or the foresight to ponder on "...what next after I steal this man's car stereo?" Fiends rejoice, there is another lowly man drooling at the thought of filling his pocket with loose money. I wonder late at night how many men in this world have the same urge, how many act on it, and how many are fathers? Are they sitting up late at night thinking the same on artists? We're the greatest con men. I write this as a declaritive statement because I don't think I've ever been so sure of something. I'm never sure of anything, this is why I always look like I know what I'm doing. People like me work this way. We have society tricked into thinking they need us. Grown, intelligent men and women using their insecurities as kindle for self empowerment. Somehow for being so fucked up and weak, people sing our praises. We count their applause like we're looking for change to pay the toll. One toll down, ten million to go. The grave will be our last stop and we're fine paying for our ride to the grave with your acceptence. We're sad and immobile creatures.

walk

I wonder if I will ever miss my sketch walks all over Scottsboro. When you live in a small town like this one, you get strange looks for walking anywhere. It could be the times, I'm not sure. I've walked everywhere in town since the age of 13 so as I got older, I didn't feel too bad for still walking. It's not a sign of financial woes, it's life. A walk is the most honest thing you can do with your time. I walked to work almost everyday in 11th grade and then again after I graduated when I worked at the soda shop on the Square. I walked every afternoon and on the weekends when I use to skateboarded. I walked everywhere when I was living in audobon park in New Orleans. All these times felt honest and good to me. They are not memories I have to bend with imagination to feel good about them.

limp ears

I listened to limp bizkit
I wore their shirts
I blacked my own eye moshing to break stuff
I also used to shit myself when I was a baby
The comparison is notable
fin

Fake knees

faking knee problems to get out of gym class in junior high
I did it, sorry coach bull dyke, my bad
you were right, I'm fat now and unhappy
I guess the joke's on my skin now
cause I'm physically ripping at the seams

an intro to nothing uncommon

American stomachs have ached with the rapture of a promise, a promise to conquer the world on an arrogant whim. I'm just another American waiting my turn. I'm staying calm, not squirming in my seat, just being a well behaved student. The dreams that have created our national identity since the organization of of public schools, clandestine speeches, and all that shit we're afraid to not believe are resting in the tree tops: plucked, they legitimize years wasted on a guitar and random notepads in several families homes all over Jackson County; ripened and wasted, they legitimize a society critiques on a wayward mind. I'm fucked from toe to top. Chords, clangs, and beats are the only sounds I can stand to hear longer than a week. My writing is atrocious to a English major or a gifted junior high student, pretentious to the rest. Oh if only life was a simple as a run on sentence. If only I could say what I want and keep on adding my thoughts from second to second, all motivated by these chemicals excreted from glands and making their way to different areas in my brain, creating moods and this horrid fucking frame of insolence. I bore you because I bore me. AND this is the intro to nothing uncommon, someone wanting to do something they can't. With me, it just so happens to be writing.