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.