How it be - 1

While this weekend was jumpstarted with furious homework completion in American National Government, Algebra, and Seminar, I still have not touched the grammar workshop that was assigned Tuesday. I have sitting next to me, neatly and intimidatingly, twenty-five pages of grammar exercises. I not only have to work through these 100+ grammar questions, but I also have to grade them myself.

And I am writing a blog post.

I'm running low on weed too.

To be fair, I have gotten a lot better at work distribution and organizing my papers (it seems). I can't think of a time so far that I have entered panic mode to do anything for class. If I can keep up this academic sprint, I might not drop out and sell crack.

Discernible Direction

I'm not really sure where this page goes these days, but I don't intend to take it down or archive it anytime soon. I started posting on here around freshman year in high school after reading through and being encouraged by a mentor's blog. Those last couple sentences were written briefly before my first week of college, and today I just flunked my first college test - two weeks into the semester.

School days generally consist of me briefly blazing up in the morning, followed by a review session, and then finally dragging myself to wash up prior to class. I come home from 3-6 hours of exhausting myself mentally and make an attempt to organize my assignments. To be fair, I did finish most of the homework for the test I just (miserably) failed. I'll get my test back on Tuesday, and that's when I'll see where I went so wrong.

It's funny, the only class whose ice breaker in which I referenced wanting to do well in college is the only one where my grade is below 90%. This is nothing like high school - there's not a day I don't go over my notes, and that's not just because I need to study for my grade. I can do well in most of these without studying, but I want what comes into my head to stick this time. I want to know exactly what I'm studying.

Poetry 59 - Memory Redesigned

I’ve written hundreds of poems from March 31, 2017. However, they have shared a home - an abundance of thematic grieving. These works reflect best what I will refer to as my Elliott Smith era. Poems from that time, roughly the last four or five on this blog, would express that era of work well enough. That being said, I am ready to return to my standard sequence of writing.

Memory Redefined

There were hippos, sparks,
thought sharks lurking and flashing
from dark matter frog to dark matter
lily pad from the fog to the projector.

Spark
Spark
plugs, outlets, conductors -

copper falls to rubber whispers
muffled screams of once muscled dreams.

Broken circuits burn, the gears no longer turn.
Water and gears - a rusted desert to which
nothing healthy can return.

Poetry 57-58 - Mother and Father

Before I wandered too far
into the night sky,
there was you.

And after that sky devoured my soul
and after it spat it out - 

mangled like the kitten

who dared share food with the dog,

there was you.

Thanks, Mom.

-

You did not follow me down

all those sketchy roads.

No, and that's okay - 

you stayed

and made sure in the end
I would still have a home.

When I drove through walls

and into lives

undeserving of devastation - 

you were there

to pull me out of the wreck.

Thanks, Dad.

Poetry 56 - The Medicine

Sometimes,
the medicine tastes like
muffled screaming.

And others,
more like
the first sip
after a long thirst.

Poetry 55 - Keep the Scraps

If everyone kept the paint
that peels from their walls,
they could turn rooms
into rainbows.

Poetry 54 - Gentle Apathy

I spotted it land its funny little body on my left arm.
Innocent black wings,
and I did nothing.
And I will always remember
when I let that wasp sting me.

"Thank you," I said,
"for allowing me to feel so profoundly."

Poetry 53 - Resolve

And so the pain dissipated.
That deafening shriek
shrunk to an echo.

Poetry 52 - The First Night

The first night without you,
I woke up twice.
"Nightmares...
these are new."

I had no clue what terrible things my mind could draw

if it only had a muse.

Poetry 51 - Smoking in Your Home

There is no more spark
in our voices, our hearts when we talk.
And the future is an individual dream -
In it, us, we will never see.

I know that you did the best you could,
and I know that I derailed the last train
that may have brought you home.

It's been six days since the incident,
but it had long been an antiquated fire
by the time our home fell to dust.

You doused it.
You bought gallons upon gallons of gasoline,
left it there and abandoned its predisposed destructiveness-

yet I would not stop smoking in the house.

Project #1 - Education Blog

My latest project is a blog that follows changes and proposed changes to public education over the first 100 days of this new administration. Despite its title, the focus of this blog is has an infinitely finer focus on Congress.

trump100.blogspot.com

Poetry 50 - The Fits

Here's a poem I'll hate in two days:

The seas seizing epileptic passengers,
drowning the disabled rebellion,
Octaves of time deafen the ever-afters,
casting graves from former medallion.

Tape rolls in pieces.
Fuzzy screens convey nothing,
but abandoned dreams.

Life, a caliper on an empty cup,
serving only to measure the emptiness.

The Second Reflects #2 - Return of the Jedi

I am getting better, and if anyone, that makes me happy. The waters of futurama (the concept) feel cleansing. There's no particular catharsis, as washing a wound does not heal it, but I have been easily moving forward. After meetings with my guidance counselor and attendance that is close to restored, I believe that things are getting better.

No, I didn't finish the fucking novel, but I did give it a shot, and I don't foresee my writing to cease as it is now December 1st.

There are good things ahead, even for the optimistic depressive.
Consistency is key.
So it goes.

The Second Reflects #1 - Numb and Dumb

I don't smoke pot or drink.
Every couple of weeks, I'll smoke one cigarette if I'm in the mood.
I'm not a druggie, and I've never been on a long-term medication.

Despite this, I feel like a junkie that's falling apart. I wrote more poems last month than I did the entirety of the 2015-2016 year. These poems have mostly been marked with the time and date they were whipped up.

My writing is deteriorating at an alarming rate. My WPM is down to roughly 25-30. It's like my fingers just don't flow the same. They were these liquid wands that were randomly dammed. I have not attended school in roughly one month. Things just aren't what they used to be. My brain is the Detroit Auto Industry. In an effort to combat this, I have decided to take a serious jab at NaNoWriMo for the first time in three years. The title of my novella is "Confessions of a Tranny Slut." I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere. I will keep you (all two of you) posted.

Friday is the day that I will seek help.
Until then, Godspeed.

Fucking Films

Please just put Jonah Hill and Michael Cera on the same screen again.

Poetry 49 - Spoken Word Rehab

We're getting worried about you

You seem to be focusing
More on your smoking
Than your breathing

I haven't seen you in...

literally six weeks.

You used to limit yourself
to one cigarette a day,
stopped smoking for months,
and now you smell like an ashtray.

We just don't know what to do

Your words were once so intoxicating.
Release. Refresh.

You can let the wine breathe,
but that's only before the roaches slide down
and make it smell like vomit and pee.

You used to say that beer was just ethanol and piss and I don't know how you let yourself become that.

I saw the lights were out at your house,
and I'm scared it's the same for your head.

Come home
Come home
Come home

We miss you, damn it.

Your girlfriend misses you.
Everyone misses you.

Come home.
Come out.
Open up,
we're here to help.

Believe it or not there is food
other than hungry howies delivery.
And there is life
outside of the TV.

Poetry 48 - Goodbye

Goodbye
is the shopping cart quarter.

Goodbye
Goodbye
Repeat
Process
Repeat
Goodbye

The words you vow to never say again,
cut-outs of which will literally be buried.

Seventeen misfortunes
in angry longevity.

Misfortunes
will not cease,
though privilege will not ease.

Story Time 2 - Tonight

This is a short story I've been writing since December of 2013, and I find vastly underwhelming. However, this post is celebration of its completion as of tonight.:

Tonight: A Story About Music and Jesus

Tonight’s the night, behind which centuries of thought crammed into months lay inside.

From a young age, I’ve been told it’s childish to undermine the sanctity of marriage between two lovers. However, I will always choose to stand on the playground than sit in a box, hiding. I pick to be a child over a coward. Dressing up and dancing and inviting your peers to watch. That is what marriage is. I can’t pull through them without thinking, who are they trying to fool?
            I’m not even going for them, I’m going for her. My tie is blue with off-white stripes, matching the theme of this winter wedding. My thin, black hair is slicked back and parted from the right. This is attire is not native to my life. Slacks, a white button-up shirt, and a tie to match my surroundings. She’ll like the way I am tonight. I check my breath for the pleasant presence of mint, smell my body to only detect only a modest sense of cologne. I glance at the mirror, see no inconsistencies in the flow of my hair. I dig the white on this suit, Ditrac is the best pocket square.
            I grab a flask filled with acai vodka from my cabinet, slip the euphoric container into the pocket of my black suit jacket. I look in the mirror again. I look about the same. I step outside. I amble perfectly to this streetlight lit Camaro I’ve rented. It is black, noticeably yet incrementally darker than my suit jacket. I turn the radio to the modest sound of older music. Delilah.
            The ceremony does not begin until 9:00PM. I needn’t deal with anything before – oh, let’s say… 8:20PM. I drive aimlessly around the little city of Newark. What people would wed in a swamp? The clouds are barely visible when the city folds into night. My car is consumed by it, only my lights are visible once the sun takes its daily break.
            She slips into my mind as I fall into the night. I cruise through Main St. and pass a barber shop and an adult movie store. I want to stop for coffee, but I am turned off by the craving for it. I spot a church ahead; lit with Christmas lights and a plethora of smiling children. Out front is what looks like a handmade table, probably by the congregation. Above it there is a sign in a bubbly, neat cursive:

Hot Chocolate – fifty cents
Warm up, love Jesus

I pull over on the grass.
          There is a little girl wearing a jacket with the same blue and off-white color scheme of my tie. My eyes fall to it, and I see it so calmly laying on my abdomen and snug around my neck. She is spinning in circles and singing a song. Her boots light up as she spins and the adults running it let a smile come to their faces and shake it off with their heads. It was so peaceful and beautiful.
            I get out of my car. The music, Come ye, come ye Emanuel. “Emanuel,” is sung but I keep hearing another name. Delilah. I make my way to the stand of hot chocolate. I smile at the old lady running it as I place two quarters in her hand. She is shaking by nature as she gives me my small foam cup of heat. Her former skin is what an average Caucasian person’s would appear, but there are spots all over her that is white as the dot of whipped cream in my cup. “Thank you,” I hold a happy eye contact, nod, and walk back to my car.
            I start it up and spot the time on my dash. 8:39PM. I wait until 8:40 to drive away, for God’s sake. The oldies play, the world is set on fire, and I make my own kind of music via melodically beating the steering wheel and tapping the foot that doesn’t drive. It feels like we were just fantastic yesterday, though it was years ago.
            At 8:58, I mostly arrive on time.
            A series of suited supporters slip into the holy domicile. The pure tables provide a shoulder for the drink and the happy drunk at this grand occasion.
            On these tables, fresh boxes of Marlboro for everyone. The groom greets and points to the bar, plates of cupcakes and treats. Their table stands untouched and ignored by the shroud of congratulating companions brought in by the families and friends in search of the man of the hour and the woman of his eternity.
            To that table I slip, a flawless arrangement had I not tripped over a chair. A gentleman with rough hands pulled me up, her father was also so nice to me:
            “It’s lovely to see you could make it,” the man tells me.
            “Always show where I can,” I show him a genuine smile.
            “Don’t be a stranger, Son.”
            He walks over to Delilah and they have a kinful chat, typical of marriages. Meanwhile, I spread the rat poison on each of those cigarettes.
            My love ambles to see me, a distant friend – romanced by nostalgia. She gives me a solid hug, reflective of former friendship. I offer her a smoke, to which she respectfully declines. Her father is beckoned over, and he – respectfully – accepts. And – in sighing respect –  I light one to match this bond.
            The small talk ensues.

Poetry 47 - Cappuccino Blues

I'm sure these might-time cappuccinos
will amount to something.

If not, a dozen shitty poems
make a solid portfolio.

Please make the Static stop.
The pulses don't rest,
and they're high as a Colorado Castaway.

It sizzles around the heart in bacon grease
and gasoline.

Electric fires are pleasant.

Poetry 46 - 70 Sheets

If writing is anything like time,
then these seventy sheets might as well be one.

The countless files of thoughts
is just a paper ball.

I'm sure the purpose of all my words
is to lead to the next.
And I know most won't make sense.

That is irrelevant.