My Open Love Letter to Music


Feeling the quick-paced displacement of your heart, as it flutters to the beat of a specific drum, is nothing shy of facing mortality.  Music gives you the momentum to strive for inner greatness.  Immortals lack creativity, because that one moment that gives life meaning…never comes.  It hangs stagnant in the air, being ignored by those that don’t care; however for us mere mortals we thrive off of the thought of death.  We design our society around it– For death not only accentuates life…it gives it meaning.  Music is an extension of this elongated metaphor.  It makes my heart beat rapidly, just as it does when I think of Celeste, or put pen to paper.  It is an eternal muse, that I will always try to please, because it has given me so much.  Thank you musicians of the world.  Thank you.

Advertisements

Runnin’


Like a mad Mrs. Dash I hit the pavement running.  King couldn’t catch this “Running Man”; not even with a pen and a stack of pages. I  scratched back like a Jimmy Dean skimmin’ across a record with a vibe and a slick groove.  Electric…wait for it…slide.  More curvy than a thick 8-track and more retro than a phonograph I hit the curb and skittered off to the tower of Titans.  I heard a chirp; I heard a flutter.

I thought to myself, “Is it a blue jay? A robin?  Nah.”

I pushed it from my thoughts and thought about the universe.  Lightning and thunder clapped and rained down around me as I sprinted to an unknown finish line.  I’d cross it and cross it again before even the next lighting flashed like a ’58 bulb caught in time.  The Flash wish he could run like me.  Speeding by cars and trucks I leapt tall buildings to show that the Super Man wasn’t the only one who had hops.  The sun winked and urged me on—I winked back and the moon raised an eyebrow.  My sneaks sparked and moaned, they caught fire and split, but I kept runnin’.  I hit Mach 5 like Ani on a Swoop.  The sands of Tatooine couldn’t hold a speedster like me.  I broke the chains of the Huts just to take my disappearing shackles back to Houdini as he plunged into the cold waters of the Green River.  Pop culture at its finest.  Keanu may have had a runaway bus, but Bullock took one for the team and hit the high seas for round two.

“Just crusin’,” I whispered to myself.

Even my breath caught wind and broke the sound barrier.  BOOM!  Even a whisper can shape the future.  A butterfly effect in full swing.  It dances with the past and serenades the present.  Chaos theory organized and then reshuffled just to be jumbled by the muttering of words that caught enough velocity to break sound. I smirked and lurched forward.  I took a tumble caught a rock and sled to a stop.  The Mojave was hot, but it was about to get hotter.  I took a runner’s stance and took a step forward.  Faster than the speed of light I rocketed from my position into the stratosphere.  I reached the stars and then the heavens in less then a millisecond.  There I found the den of dead Gods and again I smirked.

“Freewill it is.”

I fell.  I crashed through the troposphere and hit the tropics creating a mushroom cloud of rock and foliage as it after shocked my system to the current moment.  I took off again.  I had places to be and my thoughts were already there.  I needed to catch up.

A Man Out of Time


I feel like a man out of time; not quite here, not quite there.  I have thoughts and revelations, capricious notions scattered throughout a contemporary wasteland.  I am told I am clever and witty.  I merely adore the arts.  The beauty inspired by others inspires me.  It wishes me to compose my odd prose.  What better career, in an age of doubt and atrocity, is there than to be surrounded by pure awe?  To hear an acoustic riff that sparks the electric soul to soar into a nostalgic cloud is an experience of humanity; to see the brush strokes of a master as they depict the sadness and happiness of a life is an experience of humanity; to smell the vast wafts of spices, sauces, and herbs is an experience of humanity.  They all propel the soul into a stratosphere of transcendental elation.  I want to be a writer, not because I believe I am talented or am deserving of the career, I want be a writer because it allows me to share a piece of these beauties.  It allows me to be apart of something greater than myself.  I perceive the world differently because I see the beauty of it.  The horrors are masked, eroded, and non-existent in a land filled with art and culture.  The written word is my avenue and the pen is my Mustang…all I have to do is drive.

Liquid Courage Makes Me Right Better


Preface:  In a semi-drunken stupor I decided to plop down and ‘write’.  Now, this can be a very bad combination and one that I have never truly tried before, but the result in my case was a piece that is oddly personal, radically different than my usual style, and very reminiscent of a strung out feline after reading the entirety of Hunter S. Thompson‘s work.  It doesn’t look so hot, he’s deeply philosophical, and your never quite sure where this cat ‘fits’ into it all.

Essentially I wrote a different part of this collection on four separate days, in four separate sittings, with four different brands of liquor.  They all intertwine and one reference usually leads to the other whether it be a pop culture reference or merely a play on words.  Hopefully you’ll enjoy this odd amalgamation of rants as much I did writing them.

Liquid Courage Makes Me Right Better

Suck that reality.  I just surreal lifed your ass, and you didn’t even bat an eye.  Stick that in it your eye like Wesley Snipes after eatin’ a rat burger.  Ever hear of Aldous?  Nah…only Hurley would ever stay fat when Lost.  Apparently he found plenty of burgers on the set till Weezer hit him up for a cover shoot.  Beverly Hills….please…isn’t that where the fuckin’ hillbillies come from, anyhow?  Why’d you want to hit that?  Fake hair, fake tits, fake smile…might as well be Sarah Palin’s hometown.  Fake all over, not worth a dime, and damn sure to either be eaten be a crazed badger contaminated by the oil soaked debt of an Alaskan publicity whore.

Speaking of which where’s that Lohan…trapped in the jaws of another outraged parent?  Cracked and strung out?  Teaching sisters how and what not to be?  What was it Uncle Ben said?  With great power, comes great responsibility.  I’m still confused whether he said that after or before he made his rice bowls, but either way Panda’s up late and he’s got Skinemax.  So sink your teeth into that blood sausage because those fangs ain’t going to retract them fuckin’ selves.  Again, back to tits, may not be fake but they’re still there to tantalize because who else would care besides a True Blood.  Sure beats a Crypt, because that Keeper is an old bastard…and trust me he was dirty.

Not quite as dirty as Pigpen, but damn would he give Charlie a run for his football.  I’d love to fuckin’ Spin this City half past two just to see two men run around lookin’ for the other half.  Speaking of a hard twist I just knocked the “A” outta that Honda bitch and now it’s hung up by a cord.  Still lookin’ better than my Protégé, but that sad bastard got cubed.  Couldn’t afford to raise it the forth, but boy did I try.  Like a bat outta hell I hit that brake like a pair of cubes hittin’ an avenged glass of Bacardi.  Once the sun fell behind those mountains that Friday the liquid courage was repurposed, rebuilt for a proverbial mind fuck.  To forget Sarah Marshall?  Nah, to forget the days’ events.  Who wants to remember, who wants to forget?

Here’s the quick:  those that know nothing…like a group of tea partyers?  To drunk, strung out, and hypocritical to realize that they’re a staggerin’ mob of stupidity all amassed to show the world that Americans are dumbasses.  They’re like a rave gone awry.  A 12-grain not worth the dollar bill used to harvest that crop.  New Zealand is looking more and more promising, but who the fuck wants to voyage to a land filled with Hobbits?  Pete better come out of that Warehouse soon because whose gonna save us now, Sully?  That blue monster sure looks like a certain cookie muncher to me, but who am I to judge?  Oh, wait like most other Americans I’ll take a moment to conserve intelligence and judge that muncher like they do.   Those that enjoy the drapes that match the carpet don’t clean just like a crazed Sheen because truthfully who wants to steam clean that bitch? Certainly not Bert, and certainly not Ernie, because when those two elope all New Yorkers will stand and shout.  That might get the stain out, but Johnson & Johnson might have a Danon Fit.

What’s that old saying?  When life hands you lemons, make lemonade?  Fuck that.  Hand ‘em back ask for limes…better yet squirt that shit in life’s eye, mug ‘em for oranges and make a screwdriver because if you don’t you’re going to get nailed.  Back to the gays…Michael J. Fox better chase that Delorean because once we hit the past we’re going to wish we went Back to the Future.

Ever chase that rabbit down the hole?  I did once and I ended up in snow covered field holding wilted roses asking for a slut that couldn’t give a shit.  Who lusts for a half-way houser?  One who cracks a crooked smile like a vulture defining “muffin top” to an Oxford scholar.  I more respect for a fucking clergymen with paddle. You bet his robes glisten with that off white hue that Ozzies out, “molester!,” because how else could he trick himself into being religious?  Like a doppelganger named Alice looking through the glass just pondering, waiting to mug that one sap that grabs the pamphlet from that tie-wearin’, bicycle ridin’ conversion machine.  Grouped, only to be bussed in n’ out of the residential.  With a chip on their shoulder, and a mission from God they eat up the ignorance like it were salsa.  But, just like a rotten watermelon the salsa’s fake and chunky like the cheese all in a sad, subversive effort to warn the normals that there is something a foot.

Full circle, I wore that white rabbit’s foot like a talisman to ward off evil.  Only Bruce Cambell and Stephen King could write in that chainsaw wieldin’ bastard and make it reach the pop culture warehouse.  Brian better be scribin’ because Peter’s escaped his Warehouse and needs his partner in crime.  Only the Greeks would beat that Griffin till he bleeds.  Fucked and drunk they fondle themselves just reach the present with a legen-wait for it-dary status inscribed upon their medallions and our history books.  Barney would tighten his tie turn around slap the nearest conversion machine, sucker punch the purple creeper who calls himself a dinosaur, and ask Ted to just get married already because his story’s getting’ old…quick.  Bob Sagat better find his career because who’s going to remember a Fullhouse when all of the twin’s poker chips are wrapped up in diet pills and Coke?

Mario’s the only doctor I get my pills from and even his door slide, reads, “plumber.”  No wonder Princess Peach wears that chastity belt…what woman wouldn’t?  He’s a mustachioed plumber with a deep tie to the Catholic church and even his hands are covered in more blood than Bowser’s.  Deep soaked in crimson, he’s pierced the hide of the lizard named Luigi.  Only R.A. Salvatore could write that dragon tale and have it be forgotten in a catalogue of realms.  Once again I’ll strike back like the Empire, and say fuck the hardships, fuck the supposed truths, fuck their way of life.  I’ll fix the corruption, we’ll fix the corruption because I am damn tired of corporations and politicians getting’ their personal fix from my wallet.  They fuckin’ grab for my idea again I’ll let a miscellaneous three letter acronym and their committee sitttin’, foot tappin’ proverts have it like Vader’s wrath on Endor and a force choke to the throat of corruption.  It’s damn hard to spew hate when you can’t breath.

Take a breath, drown in that pool with your sycophantic bitches in tow, because who the hell is going bring that ship back into harbor? To hell with that I say! Purgatory better open their gates because that’s the only group of neutrals that you’ll be able to shift in gear…to twist, to corrupt, into a malleable bastard that knows nothing, but does everything. A back to build a nation upon, a back to break as a greedy, fat cat politician line their clouds and pockets with silver. Better hire a strung out metallurgist because that’s the only way they’ll be able to cook their crack on their silver spoons. Fork it. Spoonin’ is overrated, because sadly enough there’s always a little spoon, and odds are you’ll be it. How’s it feel to be groped and grabbed by a fat fuck filled to his nostrils with caviar? As he cuddles you, robbin’ your pockets while you ‘sleep’ wide eyed and frightened starin’ up at the debt ceiling just hoping it’ll be over soon. Or, give yourself a break and break that fat fuck’s legs. Roll outta that down stuffed bed reach under the frame, grab that four by and end this shit tonight. Screw the second of August, beat that fat fuck to death, roll his fat ass back to China and let them settle their debts with a corpse, and hit the hay; sleep dreamin’ the American dream.