Prison bars lined the exits, windows, even the break in the 3 walled room. Played by heart an ear for the beat of an opportunity. The fight or flight, do or die seizing of the day. While carpe diem is a tool for those lost enough to trick themselves into life, it echoes that old better tomorrow awaiting. The single most important bit of wisdom is the focus on that very same something. Excitement is nice especially where it isnt, but worry not for there will always be something nice. Bottled beer. PointContinue reading
I helped others out randomly. I’ve helped others on purpose a few times too. Just something else different so they can run away from their problems real quick. It’s always up to them to solve their own problems so it just seems better to harbor fugitives. And it’s just regular problems usually, the kind everyone has now and then. But I run away if they have a real big problem, or try to stay really still and pretend like it’s a big scary thing attracted to movement.
Now i’m on the run these days, because i’ve given advice accidentally to myself, and I took it too thinking it couldn’t be much harm in taking my own advice. I never thought it’d be such a big deal but some things that seem so simple are simply worse sometimes. It isn’t hard to explain, so I won’t and just assume you know why i’m trying to hide myself from myself from myself, from oh that’s right. Oh, that’s right, always means trouble usually. (please send me a line if your inner monologue feels a little like this, I need to know this kind of crazy is like the usual kind.)
I’ve taken up hobbies and started doing little things, baby steps, to become better at life. It’s what’s expected, but seriously would like to compare with other people. Just to see what’s so funny about when I do it.
what kinda image might i be promoting if i can’t get rid of all the evidence that places me at the scene of the crime? in some clever way, insentimentos: afloofayloufuei, a-where? a-somewhere. you saw me coming when that question mark came up, a-thing.
…and aha! knew a guy bordering close, borderwing rewards, and on that particular day that cycled another year for him to guard past his… ummm. well, embarrasses and is a good for nothin’ sort, don’t________. naut. not. not~}k]. ooooh, awvYoH. he. when you can’t remember the proper designia, just say he. old school, retro. fashion recyvles every 20 years, when we just abandon a style to the point akin to burying someone we care about. and in a blank wave of exhaustable gang of fly and sharpened exclaims of rejection…….! that crook, turned into a club. (eeeeerrrrrgh, the collective gathering of our times to shout, “pffffft” and roll all the i’s and ayes’ and eyes, and howoveruin, [he sits half on and off knowing those would only wrap him in an air of mysteriousness that smoulders in a shaking of the earth within and he wants to cry like a little girl and expect nothing in the way of meants to be gotten, only this line, this one coming up,; ‘justice called and left a message, “hmmm, @& par
“it’s kind a (5%27) of tU, things or §at[a’]wich’sunmeant coeurt’oOosi’lly.:
. mistake lion for cousin in french, (he thinks, confirmation at a whim’s throe, and the mauling his silence shuts out the old guy with the bangs. i don’t think it’s that nobody has the heart to say otherwise, but that 3rd person POV where you’re watching yourself shun the only part of you left to leave. imagine being the one that steps in.)
tap tap tap
i’m coming, here i come
thirty three years
i been running in place.
i didn’t know nothing at first
at second glance i’m somewhere else
and thusly, i don’t even capitalize “i”
in reference to myself.
touched an old way i used to do something i still do today
right hand left hand
was like i dodged a punch from Regret
i looked her right in the eyes
gave my half crooked smile
hello, old friend
we stood there, regret and i
he said i must be mistaken,
because he never forgets a face
i used to recognize
the backs of people’s heads
weird little trick i was given
like being double jointed
never forgot a face either
minded my time to foil dying nights
sad and runny my eggs
and a sausage link hit me bet
ween the eyes when it fell from a low
fly in a patchy sky-die was tumbling
in from another word split from another time
nobody’s gon’ believe your horseapples
and you loathe with nothing to gloat about
poop poor pout pine pacing passers by
mediocritize your worth
and your f*ckin oddities multiply,
breathe and fly. Quickjest
draw and widows make
a pistol pulled in his father’s wake
trash only looks like trash until in it, slip
to die for a lie that i do not
lie for sense of anything bigger
than I could ever
hope for my cell for myself
sacred and would eye this second
would I if I could,
i don’t care
I saw the moon and remembered
when i hid inside.
I saw the sun in a puddle
and remembered shackles
I saw the hurricane and
hit the snooze
Alarms. A loom. A late. A goof.
A wait. A fool. Aloof balloon,
let go when we were children
strings like tails on kites,
one come home after so many
alarm clock check, where are my pants.
A vessel sometimes lent to let everyone else speak. Taken apart at night through intricate mental balancing. My life is left tattered because, my loved ones help and are held ransom if i don’t. my waking up, remembering gets easier when i question the ransom.
Not revenge classical. I’m only. I see. I felt. “when i get loose…” I suspect. They’ve seen some of me. Yeah, the boundary personal that’s been crossed. I’m some guy. Some girl. a romantic mad scientist flexing all the wrong reasons. My ethereal body, astral, soul-form. I wanted a team, i’m more dangerous on my own. denominations, quotients, sum- “when i come back…” …I never left. Dust, an end… i’m there too.
Invisible, flick ‘o the wrist. My smile, my burial, my birth, my children, my memories, my life – my love will kill everyone soft, sweet and swift. Take a drink, smoke that stoagie because you already hurt. Listen. Tick, tock are my approach and the space in between i smell the flowers and trample the pavement. I see.
i was hoping to cheat and remember who i am after it was all over. sort of already in mid flight with a target vaguely visible and a hailing from something roundlike. ‘i’ve lost’ isn’t specific so much as it’s a short label for that already flying feeling. eventually a smack, but that wind and whistle and taking in the blur of the scenery best i could before i even realized i was doing it. am i an arrow? the distance closing in? the archer? the mark? where i once would have reveled in pondering possibilities i weave through in a blink like it’s the back of my hand. then i pause and moss grows on why the back of my hand is the back of my hand since i see that side more. rolling with it because examining the other side closely has left me cautious for dinner.
who i am. that’s a riddle like trying to find where the shot came from. admit something. no idea what but it’s like a riddle or puzzle everyone is trying to figure out like a password or secret code only those in the know, know. a river of i dunnos pushing one way. like time. like the closing gap.
I wanted someone to pull over and say, “hey, can i give you a lift?” and have no idea i was in one of the longest walks of my life. of course it had to be a cute girl. she had seen me walking the same path still on her way back from something she had gone to. because at one time, i wondered why girls didn’t do the asking out. maybe i did too much. and this path was a fluke anyway so i treaded on thinking it’s just today. i wouldn’t know why she picked up a random stranger but an overly kind way of speaking with me would’ve told me she needed something along the lines of kindness. secret sadness and a hitchhiker secretly nerve-wrecked and loud because she was pretty. that’s why they called me funny, kinda. my jokes weren’t the classical type. it was more of a, please cheer up. i was always kind. as long as i’d have wanted the trip i’d say something dull like, hey would you like to do weird stuff with me sometime? like it was an extension of my faith and trust in another. the funny guy is also a fulltime job and chances at romance are slim. the usual, please- i’d overthink a text and the time lapse and wonder if i should do something weird like call them, while factoring in how she’s also going through a sort of thing while i was being smothering because i’m nervous about making the wrong impression as myself. of those attempts, i can count easily.
and like getting workers comp, something changed. i didn’t want to try getting girls anymore because it was so hard to get weird with me. that kinda fulltime job was laughs on the scene, but took much alcohol and drug abuse from being cowardly. and i never once used the word coward in a belittling tone.
i was a legend alright. but for stuff i don’t really remember. i even wore glasses like a prop to show i’ve grown and matured and would like to adult the fuck up. nobody bought it, so this is what happened instead.
i live vicariously through my imagined conversations with women and sometimes i even pretend i’m coming home to one when no one’s around.
i feel it you know. that’s like a straight shot, bulls eye when i’m charging and just like that, i’m a train. i heard once somewhere that we aquarius’ are always a good time with everyone but when we weren’t having it, everybody knew. some times, i felt i wasn’t being a good person if i wasn’t being the funny guy.
12 was a common number to round things off to. in a general sense. a dozen. the surrounding numbers didn’t have that, a nickname like a dozen. a dozen eggs, a dozen months in a solar year… that last one technically counts but isn’t as common as it reads. a dozen hours in a day, on the face of a clock. i wonder if that’s because it was just a natural fit or because it was natural to stop before 13. i don’t know why it’s considered unlucky number. there’s so much mythology behind numbers that maybe stories were created to talk about the numbers. what if stories were teaching us math instead and moral lessons came as a by product. you know that feeling when hearing a story and how it reminds you of something else? or story archetypes? hero gets the girl in the end, is a phrase often mistaken as a regular thing. but just summarizes a part of our upbringing. I wanted to be a hero. who didn’t?
I really enjoy science and science fiction, but i wasn’t very good with math growing up. it didn’t seem like something i could get better at. math is cool as heck! when you see it do its thing, but i couldn’t see why there were people that called it fun. it was something else i like a free pass at not trying something to see if i liked it. like veggies. i liked veggies when i got older. I like science -fiction more when i got older. people have adverse reactions to things they didn’t understand. I count with my hands still. thinking back on my math classes growing up, i think it was how everyone finished off a problem with, presto! and i felt dumb because i couldn’t see how easy they did.
I remember i thought it was the coolest thing when i met somebody that knew the 13th multiplication column? I wonder if anyone else feels strange that i don’t see ‘the 13th Doctor being a phrase floating around. instead the original just does a last second cameo and doesn’t seem affected by meeting the 12th. time, man. i keep an analog watch and use military time because it’s the laziest way for me to show i didn’t give up on math completely! plus it made me feel cool and different, as if anyone cared. but, oh well.
waiting for the next hollywood remake to come out and numbers are like, times infinity.
math rocks! posters with the cheesy graphics and a pencil stabbed in a wormy apple, is what i picture when i remember math class.
The word necessary, when i learned to spell it without thinking about how many c’s or s’s went where was a very proud moment for me. but i still don’t know the i before e except after and when it’s this and that rule.
Kittridge High School Academy was about a decade old. Newly formed and originally re-enrolled with nearly a third of the students that attended Hornby High School, and thenceforth, split the district. They also took the 8th grade graduating class of Lawrence Preparatory and a few others. Hornby High School had overpopulated classrooms, and a big problem with delinquents. Gang violence and graphitied walls from buzzed haircuts and baggy jeans. H.H.S. didn’t have a uniform policy like K.H.S.A., but the third of the students that were taken didn’t seem like delinquents anyway. They weren’t as savage looking, nor did they look like they were in gangs. Like the cliched popular high school kids in some movies. I’d even heard that K.H.S.A. had received a 20 million dollar grant for construction and education programs because one of the departments exceeded expectations and others showed tremendous promise, or something along that line. I even felt a bit fortunate to be enrolled. But it seemed like K.H.S.A was life raft of survivors rowing away from a sinking H.H.S. I liked that idea, I thought as I looked at the newly built clock tower during break period. It read two minutes til the bell. I ducked back down and quickly scarfed the rest of my lunch beneath the bleachers. Pizza in the shade. I was a survivor.