Oh, to desire
To appreciate
To be thankful for
The touch, the taste, the sight, the smell
Every ounce, a heaven waiting for me
To want so much it literally hurts
Aches, pains, bores
Into my soul, my very inner person

But

It’s the same, stupid cliché
It’s the old story
The one told
Again and
Again.
Repeat.

Pain is a cancor sore on my right cheek
it hits me like a splash of light when I brush my teeth.

Why oh Why oh Why oh Why did I buy that toothbrush with the tongue scrubber on the back?

Like oil prices, pain races to my brain unexpected and devastating
And simmers down slow despite how much I want it to just go away.
Like my heartbeat after seeing a beautiful barista: so fast,
but I want to slow slow
slow down.
So as to enjoy every
moment.

or maybe that’s the coffee…

Cancor sores stay with you for weeks growing bigger every day until you just can’t stand it any more.
Then it pauses at the threshold of pain as if to say, “never forget me.”
And I won’t. Dear God I won’t. At least whenever I eat a ketchup drenched burger
or a bowl of spaghetti.
The cancor snarls at the acid, but I pour it on anyway. I’ll not let nature decide what I can’t eat.
No sore is the master of my mouth. Except
when I brush my teeth.
The rough ridges of the tongue scrubber scrub the wrong part of my right cheek.
That is when the tears finally arrive.

I wish I liked coffee more.

Then I’d have a good excuse

to walk in and flirt with you without hesitation.

But instead I walk by, nervously

rubbing my hands together

to clean off the shame I feel

for letting another might-have-been fly away.

Whispers in the cold scratch the thick air

a soft, quivering sound nobody but the keenest would notice.

It bounces off walls and echos off the ceiling

blanketing the small, lonely room with holy torment.

Pleas and confessions surf the static sound

bulging with liquid desperation

and moistening the air like a London fog.

Wisps of sadness and bolts of anger

hum and twirl as a defeated soul rests his head

on a damp pillow

with only a frightening silence to comfort him.

Whatever happened to running around in circles?

Energy overflowing like water in a cannonballed pool

the happiest you ever felt

was springing back and forth over a jet of water meant to water a lawn, greener than the salty ocean and brighter than a smiling face

Allergy bumps, skinned knees, knotted heads, scabs, scrapes, bruises, and scars.

Testimonials of fun and fun themselves.

An entire day poking rolly-polies and climbing impossible mountains

Playing in the invisible kingdom of maypretend

and humming to yourself the themesong of your favorite cartoon

while driving a race car along the wall.

I just finished Flink by the insurmountable Doug Tennapel, one of the greatest graphic novelists of all time. He’s one of the few authors (or creators in general, really) where I can just pick up his stuff and just know I’m absolutely going to love it. I own 6 of his graphic novels, all of them masterpieces, but my absolute favorite has to be Earthboy Jacobus.  It’s about alternate universes and falling in love with comatos girls. But it’s also very much about what it means to be a father and what it means to grow up. Tennapel has an uncanny ability to wrap up really insightful views of humanity inside a blanket of weirdness and fantasy.

I’ve also recently become an addict to NPR podcasts. I know, I know… Just call me Mr. Johnny-Come-Lately. But, yesterday’s episode of Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me had me cracking up so bad I was literally in tears. And last week’s episode of This American Life was truely captivating. And I’ve also become a bit of a Garrison Keiler fanboy. I not only love the News From Lake Wobegone, but I’m also really into The Writer’s Almanac. It’s both really interesting and inspiring. Indeed, I even wrote that poem the other day after having listened to an episode.

On another note, I just found out that the new movie, Wanted, was directed by the guy who did the Nightwatch movies, which are the best thing to come out of Russia since Dostoyevski (okay, maybe that’s going a bit too far). But they are extremely entertaining movies. I had no idea. I, personally, thought the comic book was a bit mediocre (much like the rest of Mark Miller’s work) and Angelina Jolie is so thin in the previews she actually scares me a little (Seriously, it looks like her hair comprises half her body weight). But the movie’s got this awesome director and it’s 73% at Rotten Tomatoes (which is really darned good for an action movie, an action comic book movie.) So now I have to see it. Dang Summer season and your constant array of must see movies.

This is a very good summer for movie watching.

A poem is never born out of nothingness

like a storm over a midwestern field.

A poem rips and shreds its way into existence

devouring all it sees.

A plague of words and phrases fluttering about

and clouding the mind black as pencil dust.

A poem’s favorite dish is one like itself, another poem,

perhaps even greater than it will ever be,

echoing through the brain unaware that its scent has awoken the unrelenting beast.

And when the birthed poem is finally satiated,

gorged and satisfied on its comfortable paper couch,

it too will be plucked up by another curious soul. Eaten and digested

in a bloody display of beautiful, predatory cannibalism.

So…. I haven’t written in a good long while. Sorry about that all you faithful ITWAGBF readers out there (all 2 of you).

Anywho, a friend of mine recently posted about one of her dreams on her blog. It’s a common occurance, but, nevertheless, it inspired me to recount one of mine that I had recently. The fact that I remember it is really quite amazing because this rarely happens.

A couple of notes before we begin:

1.)I always dream in color.

2.)I always dream in the 3rd person. (I remember in the 3rd person, as well. I don’t know if this is common, but I’ve always thought it weird.)

3.)”Me” in the story does not always look like me.

Anyways, the dream began with me and a group of people I didn’t know going into a theme park. But this theme park turned out to be a cross between Jurassic Park, the island from Lost, and the underwater empire of Bioshock, Rapture. Basically it was somewhat jungley, full of deteriorating equipment, dangerous creatures (including dinosaurs), and 2 factions of people out to kill each other.

Anyways I got separated from my group and kidnapped by the “bad” faction of people along with the “good” faction’s leader and a bunch of others. These were all denoted by their orange jump suits and the “bad” guys had blue jump suits. We were all in this compound which reminded me a lot of an open air version of the bunker from Lost. Suddenly, several of us escaped, including the leader and I, and we booked it into the jungle towards the other faction’s compound (which was sort of a long, large, and underground pipe). Once there I met someone I recognized from the first group I entered the park with, and realized I knew her from way back when (she looked a bit like this girl I knew from college, Emily). I also realized I was desperately in love with her. But, before we could talk, I found out the leader was set to bomb the other compound and I thought, “That’s stupid, his people are still there.” So I ran off towards it, and I got there just in time to see the explosions and people running out wearing both blue and orange jumpsuits. I thought that it was lucky that nobody got hurt by this stupid maneuver. And, suddenly, I decided to run into the compound that was exploding.

Inside it was chaos. People were running around everywhere and things were exploding all over the place. I ran to a platform where the “bad” faction’s leader was and quickly jumped on it as it descended underground (it turns out it was a freight elevator). As I stood up, everybody realized that I was actually the son of the other leader. (at this point I should tell you that now everybody is wearing normal clothes). Both my “dad” and my “mom” were glad to see me, and this was the reason why I decided to go into the compound rather than back into the jungle.

Once we were underground the chaos continued and my parents and I decided to run out of there and try to quickly escape the theme park before the whole compound fell apart. My “dad” said he knew where the “flattrack” was and we could use that to escape. “The flattrack?” I asked, “Isn’t that a myth?”

“No,” he said, “It’s been lost for centuries, but I know where it is.” And then we proceeded to run through various rooms and tunnels full of old and dirty cafeteria equipment (dirty dishes and trays, mostly). Each door we ran to we closed behind us, and I would pick up a metal bar and fit it into the conveniently placed notches attached to the door and then bend it around so nobody could remove it. This is when I realized that my dad was Superman and I was Superboy.

We ran around with several people until we reached the top of a parking deck. The people around us were looking for cars to break into and escape with, and my “dad” was trying to run through to get to the flattrack. I hung back and decided to reveal my Superboyness to several people. I did this by opening my shirt in the classic superman style. They all looked at me in astonishment “You’re Superboy?” And I smiled and started to float. And then one of them said, “Wait. You could fly all this time and you didn’t tell us?” And  I said, “Oh yeah! I forgot. Why don’t you get in one of the cars and I can fly us out of here.”

This is when I disappear from my dream and, instead, my dream is now about groups of people in cars escaping from the parking deck. They drive down into the lower level and out to a large door which slides open, only to reveal another door, and then another door, and then a final door which doesn’t open right away but does after the cars wait for a little bit. This final door opens up to a department store and one by one the cars all escape out into the street while some construction workers in the front of the store all stare in awe. One guy lingers in the store for a bit and hands one of the construction workers a coin out of gratitude. The coin is like a quarter made of bronze except George Washington is a Native American and the words “Not for Reproduction” are printed on it. Then the last guy to linger in the store is another Native American who’s wearing a head dress except instead of it being made out of feathers, this one is made of leaves. The construction worker turns to him and says, “You’re a funny looking guy.” And the Native American laughs and nods.

And then I woke up.

That’s it. I hope that wasn’t too long or crazy for you.

I’ve always wanted to be Punk

I’ve always wanted to be Punk

I’d shave my head into a tall green mohawk

Held tight together in spikes by glue

Not that white Elmer’s but the blue stuff

 That gets harder than stone

I’d light up my last cigarette

After snuffing the previous on

The Surgeon General’s warning emblazoned

Upon the crumpled corpse of the pack I’d just destroyed

I’d take a swig from the bottle of Jack

I’d pilfered from Thom down the street

Because he spelled his name with an H

To accent his cool sideburns

I’d wear striped golfer’s pants

And two different kinds of combat boots

Spray-painted black despite the fact

That the left one came in black anyways

I’d wear a metal studded trenchcoat

Over a tattered T-shirt I found on the ground last week

It says, “It’s Hard To Be Humble When You’re Scottish”

But my great-grandfather was Welsh and his Irish.

Whoever makes safety pins would owe me some gratitude

They’d hold up my pants

Accessorize my ear

And, apparently, affix my eyebrow to my face

I’d flick off roadsigns and puke on walls

Angry about the goth girl whom I loved

And met at the party last night

She wore checkered Chucks and liked Weezer

But only the first album because the last one sucked

umblehH

 I’ve always wanted to be Punk

But really I’m Mark Twain

After he’s had a really bad day

After he scratched on the nine-ball,

Put out the stub of his last cigar,

Laid down in bed,

And wishes he was still Sam.

_______

Music Party

Rock and Pop dance in the middle

Secretly thinking they’re better than the other

Metal and Hip Hop sneer at each other

I’m pretty sure there’s going to be a fight

Reggae philosophizes with Ska

Who cracks jokes and tells him to relax for some reason

Blues tells country that his girl just left him

Country tells him the same thing but adds something about his dog and truck

Emo cries in the corner

Grunge lights a cigarette and tells him to shut up, he doesn’t care

Classical tries to organize the whole thing

Nobody really listens

Punk drinks himself into a stupor,

Kicks down the door and goes outside

Yelling, “Fuck You!” to anybody who’ll listen.

I secretly want to be Punk.

Luck is a rather common topic in my thought life. Mostly because of how non-lucky I am. And I say non-lucky because I can’t necessarily consider myself unfortunate and I’m most definitely not lucky. Really, as a Christian, I shouldn’t believe in luck at all. I mean, I know that luck is a relic left over from a conglomerate of pagan and defunct religions hailing mostly from the island country of the United Kingdom. And I also know that God is out there and He also happens to be in control of pretty much everything. So, whether good or bad, things that happen in my life can’t really be outside of His grand scheme. But I just can’t bear to blame God for all the stupid and bad crap in my life, so I tend to blame myself. Or, at least, I blame the part of myself I have absolutely no control over: meaning, my fortune. So, when something good happens in my life it’s God’s blessing and when something bad happens outside of my control it’s my bad luck. And, I know I know, that is a pretty stupid and depressing outlook on life.

Well, I think, on that uplifting note. I shall end this first, disastrous blog entry and call it an evening. Maybe Old Sam’ll inspire me tomorrow.