my glacier.

entire landscapes inside of me
petrol veins
nitrates and concussive memories of loves lost
this is a different type of war, a different type of apocalypse
there is no smell of gunpowder,
just perfume residue and bleach

I'm not sure anymore of anything anywhere
especially you
my glacier
glasshouse
guillotinewife
the initials were pressed into the metal,
but they corrode in the blankets of ice

I am the soldier in the field, but I do not fight
I lay down my weapons and raise my arms in acceptance
close my eyes
smirk and nod

this is what was meant for us all along

born again from the rhythm.

she saved my life
I don't remember it, but she did
held my limp body in her arms as she
carried me down two flights of stairs
all ninety pounds of her
all double that of me

what happened after that?  did I walk into the hospital on my own?
did nurses come out and put me onto a stretcher,
like in the movies?

I woke up

even that is surprising to say, because I might not have
but I woke up
in a hospital bed, my first ever
psychologists asked me questions
interns, medical students were familiar with me when I had never met them
they knew what happened
I didn't

I'm sorry, and
thank you.

heels over head (correct).

my love,
when god didn't come home, finally, we became estranged
terrified of inconsistency and the revelation that perfection was dead
my love, we tried to make it work
you were drowning in dogma and I was numbing away certainty
who's shoulders felt more weighed down, after the collapse?
who demanded a right to feel gloom?
I'm sure years later you're still milking these tribulations for all they are worth,
my love,
who abandoned me in my greatest time of need,
/they found your conscience wandering the hillsides,
muttering incoherently and without clothes/
they found fragments of us scattered across miles
our legend will be our aberration
how we forced the pieces to fit out of pure reverie,
and then were shocked when the machine came crashing down,
my love,
as the years pass, so will my mixed memories of our curious experience
like an animation forcefully made real, given life and then murdered callously
we drew the characters and background in fading ink
oh my love, to whom you pledged death before us ever parting
enduring, immortal, in perpetuum and infinite
I'm sure you drown in concern and compassion from your friends and lovers
I'm sure many men have gained advantage from your woe,
my love,
I still remember you crossing a parking lot in Ohio, in disbelief
I still remember kneeling in front of complete strangers in the middle of an airport
/I can also never say the name Rene again 
or run my fingers down the length of my many permanent scars/
you crushed me in ways that Hollywood would spin into dramatic cinema
but the punchline lies within my reach, my love,
because my contentment is pure and abundant and my prosperity eclipses all
my love.
.
I couldn't have made all of those mistakes without you,
so thank you,
in perpetuum,
infinitely,
forever enduring,
for your 'love'.

she brought it up.

in the house made of balsa wood,
we commit to Ornithology
Ornithology Ornithology
injecting microscopes into veins and interrogating the atoms
"where did you go, those nights you didn't come home?"
"who named you, and your unstable orbital?"
I count the number of my victories like the pattern repeated
I check the boxes
tear apart the guts of each corpse to see how it died,
and what it ate before it ended

I press on,
drowning in Id,
Ornithology and the documented autopsies.

maelstrom heights.

these are the shakes
the crescendos of my skin feel like the world is dying
we videotape the end in Wrong Choice City
play it back over and over until the images burn in our memory

of tempermental and erratic breath,
we struggle in chains
you contemptuous man
how are they even still talking to you?
in the throes of dependency like waves in a storm,
waiting for the next wagon to fall off of,
waiting for it to pull you under

these are the shakes, yeah
and in times like these, no one is safe
I manufacture false realities daily, and justify hell on earth
"if they only knew", man, I've been saying that for years

and yet if I could just lock the door and leave,
condemn the house,

and yet if I could just lock the door and leave,

if I could only

just leave

St. Baldrick's 2013

also posted on the St Baldrick's website as my "personal message" for my participation.



My girlfriend is one of the most beautiful people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting; both inside and out. I never knew of St Baldrick's until I was introduced to it through her, explaining why she had extremely short hair. Swearing up and down that she wasn't a lesbian (something that happens more often than you'd even think it would when her hair is short). Not that it mattered too much to me, but she had a great reason.

The cause is an amazing one, a cause that I think pretty much every single person can confidently get behind without too much examination. It's heartbreaking to think of the pain and the hardship most of these kids go through on a weekly/daily/hourly basis... but it's also so emotionally powerful and compelling to see so many normal people donating their hard-earned money, time, and hair, to do whatever they can to help. It's hard for you to not constantly be teary-eyed, your heart surging with hope and positive vibes. Yeah, I'm not usually "this guy."

But this year I'll be taking a seat in the barber's chair and letting them take my hair away again. Last year, her and I managed to raise over $2k between the two of us. But really, I'm not taking any credit at all because it's all her. What type of woman does it take to have her head *completely shaved* for ANYTHING, let alone a charity? Do you know what it's like for a woman, a normal grown woman, to have a completely shaved head in today's appearance-obsessed and perfection-obsessed society? I sure as f*ck don't, but I can damn well imagine that it cannot. be. easy. And 2013 will be the 5th year she's done this. What type of man would I be if I didn't follow suit, knowing full well that men walk around with shaved heads every day and she's the one that would *really* be taking a huge leap (once again). She can do this, and I'm just going to sit back and applaud from afar? No thanks.

Some types of heroics are so outright inspiring that you don't even have a damn choice. (even if my girlfriend looks like Sinead O'Connor for a few months.)

So yeah, I'm not taking any credit or looking for any appreciation, I'm just "following suit" as it may be. Please donate towards mine or Carlee Resh's goals, and read more about this brilliant charity. Because kids are innocent and full of love, and dreams, and hope, and absolutely NOTHING should be allowed to stop them from carrying these out. This is for your future kids, and our future kids. And thank you for reading this.

a dance.

these words that slip out of my mouth
they do nothing for either of us

either I have trouble with how utterly small I have become
or I need to prove myself
or

sky scraping.

how high is the passage that ends in your image
mentaphysical
we distanced planets in order to escape the thought of you
yet still
like the remains of the day collapsing inward with the sundrowning,
it comes crawling
back

hallucination
please me to no end
a lucid nation
to live in again
I'm free because of you

there's an anchor in my chest, the sea's in disarray
your flickering image has circulation
a beating heart
I bet in three more years I won't be able to remember your face
I bet
yeah, three more years
keep it coming
keep it coming
charge me with desertion, oh it's coming

this, one.

I shouldn't see stars when I stand up
only when I stand up
or lift my arms above my head, or walk to another room
stars, little light specks flickering past my vision
miniscule comets
and as I trade in my remains of the day
thieving those around me
sinking to new lows
I wonder if this is redemption for all those I have wronged
while chasing that which will surely
end me

it's been raining for months.

I found this on my old livejournal, written Sept 5th 2006 at 12:30am.  I liked its commentary on what it's like to work retail, so I figured I'd post it again here.  enjoy.


_



 you find yourself in a strange mall, in a strange town, in a state far away from your own. somehow, you are behind the counter in a retail store, fielding endless requests from an endless sea of hungry consumers. you are sick, weak, tired and hungry. they are fueled by objectives and impatience. round 241 begins.

their only goal: to get in and out as fast as possible with all of their boxes checked.

your only goal: to get through the day in one piece.

in every direction around you, a person is standing, their eyes stuck to you. they are waiting until you make eye contact with them so they can stab you with words. nevermind that you are doing 3 things at once, while helping another. nevermind that you are blowing your nose, or taking a sip of the bottled water you are running out of because you've been working 6 hours by yourself. dodge verbal bullets, dying ninja. jump when we tell you to. your beads of sweat are the points we are keeping track of. one of us will win, and will get to pillage your corpse. we will drive the wrong way on the other side of the road. we will demolish your home to make way for our convenience machines.

drive home for years.

arrive, and get assaulted by the Nonsense Entity who faults you for that which is not yours, and puts you on the list for future disposal.

Close your eyes, daytripper.
You must be the cheetah.