Almost made it to 200.

196 Posts in this blog, and life is so very different from the way it was before.

Time for a new chapter in my life.

So follow me here.

With A Head Like A Wolf

File under The End.

...

Their clothes are all clean.

Blankets are ready to go.

Their toys are ready.

The house is warm and waiting.

And because of some petty bullshit that was over two years ago.

I may not get to see them.

Happy New Years.

Loneliness of the long distance writer.

Its a week.

Sometimes I think to myself that it is going by really fast. Sometimes it feels like it is dragging on for fucking ever.

It is just a week.

I want it to be over to fall in her arms again.

But there is more to this. More to this ache, like a warren of hidden animals, it brings out other things that frighten me. I unfocus my eyes and pour down another pint. I will myself to think of other things.

I text Ja., "Is it strange that I want to be old?"

Mild conversation that makes me think, and makes me long for the idea to become reality. Wouldn't it be easier to flash forward. Get past all the pain and all the anguish, so that you could look back at your life and remember all the good times. Look back and hopefully realize that it was all worth it.

I can't imagine what is in store for me at this point.

I can see a future that is less than bright. But the end of it all is beautiful.

If I told you, you would think me mad.

So I won't. Not even here.

And I keep writing, always writing, to no end from what I can tell. Putting words down on paper, or typing them into a computer. Like some kind of race that I know I will eventually win, if only I could figure out what a victory looked like. If only I knew what I was supposed to do with all of these words.

They are good for wooing, for exciting, for tormenting, apparently when put to music they will get stuck in your head. But really what are they all worth. I just don't know sometimes. But I can't seem to give them up. I can't seem to leave them be. They are the only thing that keeps me sane sometimes. And this is one of those times.

Gentle reader. Thank you for bearing with me.

I will have better words for you next time.

File under vice.

Bits and Peices.

You said, You said, You said, This Time was going to be Different.

Da. comes up about once a month to get his braces worked on. And I make a point of going out with him every time that he comes down. His is one of my best friends, and I love to spend time with him.

He has a cousin. A young guy that has a decent head on his shoulders, but he likes to tell us what kind of music that he likes. And since Da. and I are bitter old men when it comes to music we are always ribbing him about the bands that he likes to tell us are hardcore.

But Da. tells me that he is coming to town and that K. really wants to take him to see Set Your Goals. One of the afore mentioned "hardcore" bands. Even though I'm supposed to be going to watch The Railbenders with C. I feel that going to hang with Da. is more important, and that means sucking it up and seeing a band that I'm just not that into. I want to go have fun with Da. so I find myself walking into The Marquis and listening to some halfways decent pop punk.

Punctuated by Comeback Kid.

When I was K.'s age, I was into hardcore the difference was that hardcore back then was a lot more connected to its roots. This music came from something and it is still evolving and I have to give some respect to that. I really do but to hear Comeback Kid, who has a pedigree and a sound that recalls that time. It reminds me of what that feels like to have that youthful spirit, that idealism that I haven't ever really let go of, but that I have let mellow out a little bit.

And to see Da. next to me in the pit was one of the best moments of bortherhood, of connectedness that I have had in a while. Comback Kid did their set and we old men stood aside and let the kids do their thing.

I watched them move the way we used to move. Jumping up on the backs of their friends to get closer to the mic and scream their favorite line. Swinging fists and yelling, having fun. I couldn't hold that against them, and suddenly I understood what K. was talking about. Suddenly I understood that they are hardcore, just in a different way.

They have a shirt that says, "May I never lose my youth, all of this is too unforgetable." I understand exactly what they mean.

Dear John Waters, Thank You.

The next night another of my best friends came down. Me. had been plaing this night for a while. One of her best friends is a transgendered. If you don't really get what that means I would encourage you to look it up. Past that all that matters is that Ra. is just like you or me. She is a human being. She is funny, and loved the fact that Repo Man says John Wayne was a cross dresser (a fact I have had a little trouble verifying even on the internet. For once Snopes failed me on an urban legend), and she pours Bud Light over ice with a lime, she is engaging and intellegent, and she is one of Me.'s best friends. Unfortunatley she lives in G. which isn't really a beacon of enlightenment and progressive thought, so she catches a lot of shit.

Her chance to get out and be with her people is to come down to D. go to the gay bars, and just have a good time in a place where she can be comfortable in a culture where she fits in. So Me. made plans to come down and stay at a friends house and just have a good time. And I was to be drug along.

I'll be honest I was really nervous about the whole thing.

I've never been to a gay bar. I've never really been around a lot of gay people (though I have had a lot of gay friends and have come to terms with the whole they just do it different and other than that are exactly the same). But I just didn't know: What to expect, how to dress, what to think, how to act. None of it.

So they pull up and and go out I meet Ra. for the first time, and my default greeting is to shake hands. She pulls me into this hug, and tells me how much Me. talks about me and how great it is to meet me. And I'm trying hard to not feel uncomfortable because I know that she will preceive it as being uncomfortable with her, when really it is just the hug.

My culture is about fist bumps, high fives, shaking hands and punching in the shoulder, not hugs, so this is a bit awkward. Me. does it to me too, and because I hang out with her enough I'm used to it with her, but with a stranger. When did I get so closed to human contact? But I was determined to not let anything hang me up. I know that Me. is a great friend and that she has great friends, I was trusting her.

We went to a friend of Ra.'s who was letting them crash there. And Then we went to Hamburger Mary's. It is a burger joint that is run by drag queens (who tend to be different than transgendered individuals) and has fucking amazing burgers. Honest, as a cook they were really good.

Then the plan was to go to Charlie's a local gay bar.

I was really antsy. I just didn't know what to expect. But we pull up and Ra. makes me feel comfortable with one sentence to a limo driver about what kind of CDL he needs to drive the Hummer limo. In that second it dawned on me, "These people are just like all of my other gay friends, they are just people out to have a good time." So I walked right in with the two of them.

The place was just like any bar, with good drink specials, and a lot of people having fun. There was honestly less desperation and pretention in the air than most places that I go. I had a great night, and was articulating that to Me. and Ra. through the whole night.

There were things that I saw that really weren't to shocking, that Ra. would glance over at me about. To see if I was "straight" freaking out. But honestly John Waters really prepared me well for a gay bar.

As the night worn on I was sitting talking to Ra. about how good of a time I was having and how fun I thought she was. And she said, "You are so sweet. Thank you." And leaned in a kissed me. It was strange, because I wasn't offended or put off. All I could think was about how Ra. was just out looking for someone to love her. Just like we all are. And I feel pretty honored that for that split second I got to be the person loving her, because she probably doesn't get a whole lot of love in her life.

We walked to Benny Blanco's and got some pizza after closing down Charlie's and while there Me. went in to order pizza, while Ra. and I sat outside. Some idiot inside wouldn't stop staring, so I told him, "Keep staring and see what fucking happens," he turned around quick. Ra. is my friend now, and I protect my friends the best I can.

Me. and Ra. caught a cab to where they were crashing and I walked home down the alley.

Un Beso de Desayuno

V. has keys to my place.

I've told her that she can always stay over. If she doesn't want to drive home, or just to get away for the night, or anything.

I lay in bed and pass out.

Then I hear the door opening.

The bolt slides open and then shoes thumping next to the floor. Then a jacket hitting the ground.

"Hey scoot over."

I scoot. We wrap up in each other's arms. Sleep evades for a while. Close comfort.

We lay next to each other in the dark. Soft kisses and then finally sleep. I have to be up for work very soon, but I have no desire what so ever to lose this moment. As I sleep I wake myself up over and over. Restless but because I want to remember all of this. This is what love felt like a very long time ago, and I want to grasp it.

We wake the next morning and she gives me a ride to work, asking me all about the night before, and really happy that I had the experiance that I had. I love to share things with her, and she tells me all about her night, and what she loved about it. And the she gives me a kiss, and I'm off hoping to see her sooner rather than later.

Bri. Bri.

There are some friendships that I'm very sad went to the wayside for one reason or another.

Bri.Bri. is one of them.

He played bass for a band that my first band used to play with a lot, and we became very good friends.

We never had any kind of falling out, we just stopped being around each other. And stopped communicating (something that was a lot easier to do about 10 years ago).

About twice a year I would try to look him up on the internet or ask some people if they knew what he was up to. Information was spotty. And then one day about three months ago he friended me on Facebook.

I met with him the Monday after waking up next to V. We caught up. I told him about my marriage and divorce, my three kids, my move to D. and my poverty. He told me about his alcoholisim, how he lost a woman (and her kids) that he loved intensely, and that he was a maker of primative weapons, and that he was learning about gun repair.

And we walked.

All over the neighborhood.

The restless feet of Agents. The restless feet that I have grown so acustomed to in my friends. These men and women that are waiting for that one spark. Something to set the fire that we can flame. Flames that we can use to forge.

It is good to know that Bri.Bri. still carries the fire.

It is good to know that Da. will never forget his youth.

It is good to know that Ma. and Ra. can find love.

It is good to know that V. fits well in these arms.

Where to even file this. There is no place except for all.

So File Under All.

This Second.

I feel haunted by this very moment.

The air is fresh and clean.

It is spring time in the city and I can't shake the feeling that I want to be in your arms. That I want you so much that it hurts a little bit. That there is an ache and a desire there that just keeps growing.

The cars pass by on Washington as Al Green softly plays on my stereo.

And everything is right with the world.

I have turned the TV off. Put away the books. Stopped working on projects. And have just decided to sit and look out the window while the world passes by.

Would you be content with a moment like this.

Soft music, people watching, fuck not even people watching, passing car watching. There is nothing happening, there is no exciting story here. No barroom brawl, broken light fixture, or punch to the face. Just quiet and solitude.

Some how I think that you would. And that you wouldn't ruin the solitude part. That somehow your presence at this very moment would make the moment feel more real without making it feel crowded.

A few days ago Mi. and I are walking out of work. He is going to give me a ride and we get into his Explorer or whatever it is. He sits down and rolls down his window, and in his accent says, "We gotta do something different today." He opens the sun roof on his car.

This is the same moment. I've been living in that moment for a few days now. Taking in sun and warm and beauty.

I'm writing this for you. You know who you are. And I want you to know this right now: As I look out the window at nothing more than passing cars, the occasional scene kid, and the brick wall of the building next door, all of these Al Green songs are talking about you. And I want you to be here curled in my lap in the chair like you tend to do. I want to wrap my arms around you and be silent. The passing cars hiss, a siren now and then, or an errant voice. Nothing more or less than this kind of simplicity that I know we both crave.

My man Al says, "Let's stay together." I couldn't agree more.

Now mind you, this isn't meant to make you feel guilty, or sad.

Don't take it that way.

I just know that I won't be talking to you on the phone tonight, I know that I can't text this whole idea, and that chat is a useless medium to me a lot of the time. I just wanted you to know that I'm still thinking about you. And that it gets my mind moving the same way it always has, and that sometimes writing in a little red notebook is great, but it won't get read by you nearly soon enough.

This is the best and fastest way to tell you.

I've fallen for you.

Now the world knows.

Or at least the three people that read this fucking thing.

I know that the world would have you bide your time elsewhere and I understand that. I've come to terms that I have to take what I can get. And I've come to terms with the impermanence of things as a whole. Its just that...

...

...This second would be better with you.

Nearly every second would be better with you.

That was way less obscure than I normally write. But tonight. Who gives a fuck? Not me.

I'm going to go back to watching out the window. Turn up the Al Green a little bit, who cares about the neighbors, its not like it is Doomriders. Who knows maybe I will see you coming up the block?

File under both.

To sleep in the arms of rain.

The world goes quiet.

Sometimes when I'm falling asleep this happens. I can still hear everything that is going on around me, but it is quiet. Subtly muted. Then I realize what it going on and I break the spell. Sound comes back into the equation, and I usually think to myself, "Time to start falling asleep all over again."

It never happens twice.

The second time the world fades I'm asleep.

The music plays softly. Her arms. Dear god her arms wrapped around me. I hear the music fading. I know, I just know that I should fall asleep, but this moment, I want every part of it. I think, "Don't lose this, don't lose this, never forget this, dedicate this one to deep deep memory. This is important. Burn it."

The sound keeps slipping. I hold her closer and breathe in everything I can remember.

-

She is right next to me the whole time.

Just like she said she would be.

And I can think of nothing that I love better. To know that she is there, with me, having just as much fun as I am.

-

She sits and listens to b. read a story.

-

She.

-

She.

-

She says, "Good morning." With that smile. Those eyes.

I just want to see those eyes.

-

The sun is behind grey skies. Rain is coming down. The smell is intoxicating. The sound means spring is coming. I open a window to take it all in. I turn on Black Joe Lewis because he makes her laugh, and I love the sound of her laugh. Today that I know that she is down. I know that those eyes are sad today. So I think of her in delight, laughing, smile, embrace. It brings a smile to my face. The smell of her hair, confuses with the scent of rain. The sound of the rain is her words.

Spring is in the air.

Spring is in her.

To sleep.

File under vice.

Homesick.

I watch as S & S lean over and kiss each other.

Envy.

Some days I just miss home. It is where my heart is.

File under Vice.

She can still fuck up my day.

I cant hear the phone call for shit.

The traffic on 13th is just to heavy.

But I had to take the call. It is the lady from Child Protective Services that called earlier in the day to tell me that J. is being investigated (for the second time in a year) by CPS.

Some ass hat in a muscle car with no muffler passes and the last sentence I hear is: "Something about knives and a white powder on the floor."

I feel my heart race, and my gorge rise. I feel all the same emotions that made me lash out at her all those months ago. That same kind of rage that seems only to be reserved for those that put my kids at risk. I'm that father. I want to rush things, to some how get them back in my arms tonight, instead of doing things the right way and making things safe and healthy for them here. Each day is one step closer, but how many one more days do I get.

I talk with the lady from CPS, and I get to tell her that J. has had a temper for as long as I've known her. And she starts asking me about medication history and the like. I try not to exaggerate, because I know that I'm very pissed, and that when fueled with anger I tend to blow things out of proportion. But I tell the truth.

The CPS lady tells me what they are going to do and how they are going to follow up. It reassures me as to the safety of my children. But it doesn't stem my anger.

I let it simmer.

I let it fuel these words. I let it fuel a lot of words in the past. And like sitting meditation I release the real anger, with the thought of anger.

I will see them this weekend. I will see them this weekend. I will see them this weekend.

New mantra.

F. says to eat dinner. Me. says to breathe. I say I will try and do both.

Out with the anger.

File under Vice.

Instead of going to church...

...I fell asleep.

And had this dream.

in the dream I was half asleep and you came in. Laid down next to me. And I fell asleep with your arms over my shoulder.

I have forgotten what that feels like.

I woke up aching for that.

File under Vice.

Oh, youth pass over here, which is to say ‘Ia Lda Baoth'

I hear restless voices.

And I see images of flickering light and far away places.

For all my grandiose ideas and all of my eagerness I still wonder in moments like this if I'm just driving myself mad. Is this apartment a cell (in the monastic sense) or a cell (in the prison sense)? Or is it refuge comfort and hope? I just don't know some days.

Tonight it seems cold and alone. Tonight it doesn't seem any better than the cots of jails cells. I'm no more or less free tonight. Sure there are better books. Adult beverages. Music that comes out of speakers instead of headphones. Sure there is no one to fight with over TV. But at least in that there is connection.

Tonight the full living world seems very devoid of human contact.

And sometimes I still wonder if everything I wish and hope for makes me any better than a mad man. But tonight there will be no mercy. There is no happy ending to this world. No warm embrace to fall into. Just drink and words and sleep.

Precious sleep.

Don't take this the wrong way.

Not sad, just wandering for a bit. Sometimes the mind gets aimless and losses its direction. Sometimes the normal beacons fade, sometimes soft music and dark rum is called for. Sometimes it is good for the captain to be alone. Sometimes the crew wonders where they are going and if he has gone mad. Sometimes he wonders if he is gone mad.

This is me being Thomas. Poking my finger into the side of Christ. This is my moment of doubt, my sleeping mind in the garden, my denial three times. The rooster is crowing and I hang my head in shame, only to become the pillar of something greater.

The worst kind of doubt is self doubt.

I can't imagine that any of this makes any sense. I should be resting my head on a pillow. Or better on your chest. I should be slowly slinking into sleep. But instead I listen to dark country in Spanish, and tip back the bottle some more. Maybe freedom is my downfall. May be happiness is a crutch that we use to convince ourselves that we can make the world better. Maybe the joy I feel more often than not is an infection that I only think I can pass on to someone else, when in reality the infection is just in my mind.

The world doesn't want another prophet of woe and misery and doom.

And neither do I.

I just want a clean, new world. I just want to start all over again.

And that may mean more woe and misery and doom.

At least this way I know that I love the prophet. And that when it is to much I can hold her in my arms.

And tonight, though I'm not alone in that task, I'm tired of feeling like every breath is a fight. I tired of feeling like the world will never understand. I'm tired of the wilderness. Fuck you sleep for evading me.

File under Vice.

Waking up.

"This isn't how it is supposed to be.

You so far away from me.

You should be by my side.

And this isn't how it was supposed to be.

The three of you not here with me.

And I burn inside.

Knowing how much I miss of your life."

-G.

I woke up this morning with this little emo ditty scrawled on a piece of paper.

And all I could think to myself was, "I had a good day, how do I end up falling asleep with such sadness last night."

All I know is that sometimes my life isn't quite the way I'm expecting it to be. And when the sun is down and I've had a little bit (read way to much) to drink I still find this strange dark place that I only like for the lyrical content it tends to bring out.

And I had such a good day today, just hanging out with myself. Quiet, TV, lazy, because even someone as high strung as me needs to just kind of mellow and be non functioning for a day. And it was everything that I could have hoped for today.

And now it is night time.

And I feel that slightly dark place creeping in. And I know what I want. V. and 3 little kids all curled up in be around me. Comfort in touch, and togetherness and proximity.

But I'm not going to get that.

And as I'm fading out, slipping into The Territories.

I get a call from F.

And he is having a rough day, and he wants to go and drink and talk and work through some of his shit. Get out a good laugh with an abortion joke and feel a little bit better about himself. So I do what I need to do, not out of obligation, but out of love for my brother (he is 92 he just doesn't know it). And as we talk and drink and I move from buzz to tipsy to drunk, that dark place keeps open wider and wider. A maw that wants to consume, that wants to take me to places that I know for a fact I don't like to be.

And I stumble home (thankfully not to late because I have to be awake at 3am), I know that I just want to put on music and pass out. And I want that dream to overwhelm me, fuck that I want that dream to be reality.

A bed, and my kids, and love.

I feel I'm cliche.

Remember down the river, not across the street.

File under emo vice.

First Day of The Year.

"They say that the way you spend the first day of the year is how you will spend every day of it."

"Is that what they say?"

"Yeah it is."

Smile.

File under Vice.

"Icarus thy aim is true."

I went to start this post.

Wrote the title.

Turned Pandora on "The Misfits."

Then realized something was missing.

Pause.

Walk into kitchen. Pull The Sailor off the shelf. Spin cap off. Take pull. That is a start. That one is for me because I'm selfish.

This pull...

...For Ja.

This pull...

...For her brother I'll never meet.

This pull...

...For her.

She calls me today.

The first words out of her mouth are, "Have you read Ja.'s blog lately." I hear the hitch in her voice. There is a moment that I panic. That maybe he has written something that I haven't read, and that things took a drastic turn for the worse and for some reason he didn't bother to tell me this time. And that I have failed my friend. So as she is bursting into tears, I'm pulling up the site and looking to make sure that I didn't miss something else.

When I see that it is the same thing that I have already read. That I have already talked through. That I have already been assured isn't going to happen any time in the near future, and that if it is I will be told. I breathe a little sigh of relief and start to listen again.

This pull...

...again for me.

Right now I'm thanking Jesus for Black Flag and 92 proof rum, and the ability to actually organize my thoughts into sentences and words.

This pull...

...moving to the brother again.

She has told me about him so many times. This man that was her brother. This death that affected her life so much. How it is surrounded by tragedy and pain and regret. And what it means to her to tell someone, to love someone enough to call them a brother.

These men that she calls brother, they don't replace him.

They never will. That kind of loss can never be covered, or filled. But in some way they stand in for him. They are men that she feels safe with, protected by, protective towards. And in all those ways she cares about Ja. So she reads his words and spins. Her heart swoons, and not in the romantic sense, in the drunken bed spins don't want to get up off of the floor because the world is moving and you aren't sort of swoon.

And she doesn't know how to tell him that.

She doesn't know how to tell him that he is her brother. Not her "brother". But her real honest to god brother.

So she breaks. Her heart opens and out pours pain and bitter anguish. She hurts. And though it is because she is afraid for Ja. And because she wants to know some way to help him. It is also because she feels her brother with her again. She feels that man that she lost so long ago. Just like we all feel the lost, the sleeping.

This pull...

...Para Pops y Grandma.

I don't know if either of them would approve of me anymore.

That makes me a little sad.

Just because I don't know.

But I look to them for advice all the time still. Their different way of looking at the world. How they were open to helping the poor out of their own poverty. How they were loving towards each other in their faults. How they loved even their wheto grandson, even when he showed up with a new tattoo and a wheta wife that hated beaners.

J. was pregnant with b. when I got the call from my dad. He sounded like her. He wasn't talking about a blog, but there was that pain there. That anguish.

"Your grandma she went to be with Jesus."

I don't know that I really cried.

I know that I sat on the stairs and acted the part. But I just didn't feel anything. I knew that my grandma's soul would somehow be in my daughter. That they were the same, and that she wasn't lost to me. sounds like some bullshit now. And I feel the tears that I missed that night. here, and now.

This pull...

...Again for me.

And as I'm writing all of this. Nearly midnight. Ja. texts me. And I dump on him how alone I feel right now. Everyone that I want to be with, I can't be with. And it isn't distance. It is complication. My kids are a divorce and a new relationship away. She is a marriage away. My Pops and grandma are a death away. My friends are real lives, real carers, and relationships away. That is how I feel tonight. I have these words, I have music, and books. I watch Serenity to keep me company. I have a bottle that loves me in its own way. I have a book that tells me of heroes and villains and how to live like either one. I have art, and dreams, and love, but this night reeks of solitude and black hearts.

I never want to shut down like I used to.

I never want to have the hard heart.

But some times would it be easier?

This pull...

...Wake up heart. Feel. For fucks sake do not give up on me again.

This pull...

This pull...

This pull...

...Where are my promised lands? My promised answers at the bottom of this bottle?

This pull...

...Is for living a life with no regret, and still finding a way to keep my head up.

This post is so selfish. Like all posts here. Like I've stated clearly they would be. I try to not focus on myself all the time, but I can't seem to help it. And tonight is no exception. But I have to say that these people that are out here. That talk to me, and tell me things. That encourage and lean and trust. You mean the world to me.

The fact that you can be open with your feelings, with your pains, with your fears, fuck with your plans to kill yourself. That means that you consider me a least enough of a human to love you back. To pray for you. To talk you down from the cliff side. To agree that Icarus has true aim, that we should aim for the brightest most brilliant thing we can see, even if it costs us everything that is in us, even if it costs us our very lives. Because we have become a rare breed. Us high flyers. We who dream and shoot for the stars. The whole fucking world has forgotten how to do that. I see it in the faces of bums on the bus, and in the words of a girl so alone that she will talk to the first stranger that sits down next to her. I see it in the men lining up to use the internet for free in the library, and in one of my best friends telling me that alcohol is going to kill him if he doesn't stop drinking.

I see it in that same man telling me, that in spite of the fact that he has a beautiful wife, and a amazing new son, that he doesn't feel like he is worth anything. That his life has no meaning, no drive.

And sometimes I can see exactly what he means.

This pull...

...It is for "our war."

Against contentment, complacency, against standing about and just letting life happen, instead of living it. Our anger and our hope is all gone.

And I don't want to just stand aside.

I want to take the girl I want into my arms like the hero.

I want to stand in on the soap box and tell you all what I think.

And honestly I'll do that whether anyone wants me to or not.

This pull...

...Is for Ja. Is for life. Is for Icarus. For brothers. And what we learn from them. For death. And what we learn from it.

Lets aim for whatever the fuck we want. Pain and fear be damned.

Lest we be damned for wasting what we have.

File under both.

Insatiable Urge.

I have a friend call me this week to tell me about his suicide plan. That day I'm thinking about how I'm going to buy food with my $20 and if that will last me till my next pay cheque.

I have another friend call me, breaking down because of the million things that are on her plate. And all I want to do is hug her and tell her it will be ok, because she is one of my best friends, but she is far away.

I have a friend call me to tell me about his drinking problem while I'm drinking coffee laced with hazelnut rum. I think the hypocrisy there is pretty obvious.

I'm not complaining.

Not by any stretch of the imagination. I'm flattered to know that people think that they can turn to me when they are having a rough time. And I think that I listen well. I love these people in the very depths of my heart and I want to help them. As a matter of fact I have this really intense fear that I'm going to fail at helping them. And honestly I probably will at some point in time. But I'm going to do my fucking best to be there for them until I'm not.

I see the pain that these people are in. These people that I love, and I see the pain that a lot of people are in. Walked over to a place that I know gives away free bred on Fridays right after work today. And as I was there this guy came in and said straight up to one of the staff, "I need a fucking job, is there anyone here that knows anyone that is hiring." No one did.

Found out one of my friends hasn't had work in 7 months.

Fuck I barely worked this week.

And yet I can walk down the street and watch some rich bastard throw away his money in the hopes of getting laid by some chick at the bar. And don't get me wrong when I'm flush I tend to find myself doing the same thing. But how is it that the split between the rich and the poor keeps getting worse. I remember my grandpa (and even my dad still) telling me that if I learned a trade I could always find a job in that field and that I would be able to work. So I learned a trade. I learned how to cook, and I'm good at it. So what do I do? I paint houses. Because I can't find work.

All of my music is about social revolution.

All of my books are too.

I hear people moaning and groaning. Playing woe is me. But there is no real fuel for change.

Our lives are still to easy.

Fuck I got free bread today, and it is good bread, and I could chose what kind I wanted.

No wonder we aren't throwing fire bombs yet.

We complain about how bad it is, and it just isn't. Sure it is for some, but to many of us are still skating by. Unfortunately I don't know what I would like to see. I would like it to get better but I know that it is going to be on the backs of the working class, and that is me. Or I would like to see it get worse so that there is change, real revolution, but I know that will be a revolution won with the blood of the working class, also me.

This time is a real catch 22. There is nowhere for someone like me to go and feel comfort anymore.

Even dive bars are to expensive.

And trendy.

This is just a rant at this point.

File under Vice.

Dry Bones.

"Thus says the Lord God to these bones 'Behold, I will cause breath to enter you that you may come to life. I will put sinews on you, make flesh grow back on you, cover you with skin and put breath in you that you may come alive; and you will know that I am the Lord."

- Ezekiel 37:5-6

There have just been a few to many days where I feel that aching dryness. A few to many of them strung in a row. And when they string together like that you can't help but feel drained.

Words haven't helped.

And paryers haven't helped.

No matter how many books you read on God's love you can't always feel it.

No matter how many notes you pass is class, sometimes you are still wanting another "yes" box checked.

And when those days get like that I feel this restless wandering come over me. This need to walk and pursue and look for adventure. You know what they say, "Wander about make a lot of noise and know that I'm God." Oh wait, it is, "Be still and know I'm God." I remember now. Why am I so fucking bad at doing that? At being still knowing that He loves me, that my friends love me, that there is a single person that loves me more than I can ever really fathom. Why are we all bad at that?

I constantly seek.

Constantly strive.

Never still.

Never really at peace.

Even as I read Thomas Merton telling me about the joys of solitude, and that even though the monastic life is a life of separation it is also a life of coming closer to your fellow man. Even though I'm seeing the fruits of that in the relationships that I'm building, and in my attitude towards the random passerby. Even though I understand all of that and practice it to a lesser or greater extent. Even though, I still find myself stumbling on the need from movement. For adventure. For action. Something must always be going on. And that is a failing. One that makes me human, and that will probably never go away, but a failing none the less, and that, for some reason, drives me nuts.

But the funk was at least a weekend.

And then God decided that I had had enough. Prophecy. He breathes through those around me.

These dry bones knit together again.

Thank God for kind words placed at the right times by people that love Him.

Siempre. Gracias.

File under Vice (because sometimes I just have to mope).

...dreams...

Day off.

Coffee, Coffee, Coffee.

Then her, in a surprise turn of events. Her.

I fight to gain the upper hand on sleep, at 10, then 11, then later, then later rolls by. My mind is Wild.

I'll Eat YOU Up!

I feel on edge with nicotine and caffeine. I burn mentally.

Like youth like youth, the fire burns in our chest.

There is no rest tonight. The scent of her. It is real.

She is real, and alive and coursing through my veins like plague, spreading, devouring consuming. My eyes open and I'm in this place I've been before. Under sheets looking into her eyes and she is asking me questions that I can not hear, and I'm giving her answers in the form of passionate kisses. Every part of her is the same as I remember it. Every part of her is welcoming, soft, female.

We toss and turn. we leave destruction in our wake. Calamity, hurricane, War. There is something about this meeting that speaks of dire times, and dire consequences, and even more dire men. Men who join and walk, and the women who stand by their sides. Fire burns clean. Fire burns us all. There is no escape.

There is no sleep here. Only beds and new vistas, changing worlds and music. Always music.

I feel myself catching fire. I watch as my heart burns sacred with ecstasy.

There is no sleep here.

Only War here.

File under Vice.

Heavier Than Lead.

There is this perfect night that I have played over and over again in my head.

Reagge music, drinks, dancing and kisses.

That was last night.

I have you in my arms and sing out, "25000 pennies in my pocket." You crane your neck around. That smile. Those eyes. And a kiss. I never want to leave you.

But I do.

Because I have to.

And now it is morning. I roll over and wrap my arms around a pillow and blanket. And for just a moment, I'm there with you. When I wake up just enough to realize that I'm alone, you text. Then call.

I'm out the door. Coffee. Cold. Ladders. But you, the impression of you. Your soft curves, and tight kisses that leave me breathless, every part of you indellibly imprined on my mind, and my heart.

The geese fly overhead. South.

The air smells like wind and autumn.

The beauty of the day is mezmerizing. I want to just stop. Look at the new found sky and breathe. I long to hold her close. To wake up next to her. To feel her hip under my hand. Her lips on my cheek.

"Heavy Heavy Low."

-The Aggrolites

File under Vice.

Shine...

Ahhh Den.

You are so good to me some times.

But sometimes I miss you when I'm there.

What can I do about it though?

There is so much going on in my mind sometimes. I just want to flee to you, but I know that isn't going to happen. So I just enjoy the city for what it is worth.

There is always so much going on, even when there is nothing going on. I can sit here and write, and know that there is a teeming throng of humanity so close that I can hear and taste and touch it. It moves, and I long to move with it. I know that there will be something missing the instant I'm here, but I think that there is enough of the white noise and beauty to distract me from that. I think there is just enough going on that I might just be able to drown out the alone time.

The time with no kids.

The time with no you.

The time with just an empty bed and the hustle of noise.

Sip of wine.

Drag of smoke.

Back to words, and hoping against hope that the knock on the door will be you. That by some magic you have decided to make your way here. That you made a trip just to see me. We would sit and listen to music all night. Head against chest, arms around torsos, small gentle kisses, and sleep. Fucking beautiful sleep.

I'm listening to The Gaslight Anthem right now.

Another sip of wine.

Another cigarette.

I cough and pray that god hears my prayers. This smoke is the incense from my lips. I'm begging now. Give me this place, give me this stability, give me this hope that one day I can be a real person again. I'm tired of living on others, and their generosity. I want to be free again.

"And we sing with our heroes thirty-three rounds per minute
We're never going home until the sun says we're finished
And I'll love you forever if I ever love at all
Wild hearts, blue jeans, & white t-shirts"

-The Gaslight Anthem.

I just turn the music up and try not to be jealous of all the people going home to some one. Someone that isn't me. Fuck some days.

Listen to the buses. They are moving the working class. People like me.

Even more wine.

Hear the jets. They are going somewhere else. I want to be on them.

More cigarettes. On this stoop, look at the sky that has no stars. The stars are all down here in this city. Shining from the sides of skyscrapers. In the studios on Capitol Hill. They are looking out over the city from the far east of Colfax. I'm sure that I'm one of them, but tonight, I don't know that I shine. Tonight I go home to no one.

Tonight that breaks me.

Just tonight though.

File under Vice

"I hear that train a coming..."

I hear the train too.

It tells me to sleep.

Hold me in your arms tonight.

Let me sing John Cash in your ear, while we fade into darkness.

All my life for that moment.

These are my redemption songs. Lonely whistles. And Sabor a Mi.

File under Vice.

Where are you?

I wake up lost.

I grope for her...

Not even fully aware of who she should be, or do I know and just hope that I don't. But tonight is no empty bed. It is a couch and I fall. Hard. Physically, mentally. I just fall.

There is empty space next to me, that my mind fills up with favorite spots, half forgotten words, and darkness. I hear songs that were meant for me, for her, maybe even for us.

I grope again, pulling a blanket close. I know that sleep has left for the evening, and that my only choice is here.

She looked in my eyes and asked me, right there in the middle of the dream, "Where are you?"

"So close. I don't know." I was lost again, in fear, in hope. Losing my mind while I find everything that I have ever wanted.

Where are you?

Where are you?

Those were the exact words I was whispering. I wanted closer, for the dream to never end. To never wake. This was my moment to be John the Revelator. I had words to write, futures to see.

I just push it all down inside. Pretend like I don't want to break.

But I do. I want to be crushed. I want to feel every moment of pain, every fleck of coughed up blood. I want to...be lost again. I don't want to know where I'm going or what I'm doing. To be the voice in the wilderness. I want to be lost in "her." In love.

I have a part of that.

I will take what I can get.

But in these rare moments I see the dark walls, and the dark nights as a dare. "Rise and wake," they taunt, "Hunt us and find that the air is cool, and the black runs deeper in you than you ever suspected."

---

I don't even know what the hell I'm talking about at this point.

"Where are you? Stop over thinking. Be right here."

I try.

You have to know that I try.

I try with the words. Fail.

I try with a heart (sometimes mine, sometimes someone else). Fail.

I try with the petty day to day shit. Fail.

Where did my capacity for reality go wrong. I have my head in the clouds. And when you bring me back down to reality, all I can seem to do is get lost again.

I just want to put my head in some one's lap and let them run their fingers through my hair till I sleep. All I ever write about is sleep. All I ever whine about is sleep.

I can hear Ja. mocking this in the morning. Fuck it is morning.

Where are you?

I know where you are.

The more important question. Is where I am. And why I don't know.

God give me rest.

I know that we had an understanding, but maybe I was a little to hasty. Maybe I should ask you back over here. Let you meddle a bit. You know I hate it when you do that, but I made you a promise once that I would try and follow. Not much of a promise. I just don't know that I trust you yet. You let a lot of things happen. Things that make me wonder about your love.

Amen

---

"Where are you?"

"I'm right here."

From you to me. From me to you. From you to Him. From Him to you. From me to Him. From Him to me. Over and over.

These dreams just keep getting stranger.

Full of couches, and stolen moments.

Fear, and stolen.

Over and over.

File under both.