hello atmosphere.

I keep the eyes of a rapist in a jar by my bed
walk lightly;
for that part of the room is glass
modern-day sorceror, am I:
blueprints and otherworldly photographs in my drawers
beakers and tubes filled with dust
the cold makes it feel like home
and when the mirror talks to me, it only says
"I will wrap you in a sheet before this night is done."
well so says you, my sweet, but look what you've become.
all my furniture, ghosts
rooms rife with other lives
no doors
my paintings are stolen from churches and are hanging backwards and are numbered one to infinity.

a seizure in a sharp suit.

"All roads lead here."
now I've gone and done it
I'm crossing lines like they didn't exist
my eyes never close and everyone knows
I hear her crying every second of the day
it will not let me sleep
"I've been waiting for you. Take what is rightfully yours."
I am the shadow, and I am the snake
I occupy the body of this person you refer to me as
the sound of her crying never stops
it lives in the air ducts
"You must meet with the Devil. You must shake his hand."
the puppetmaster's remnants decay (as the sky)
I am covered in flies
they burrow in my ears
easy now, brothers and sisters; keep your eyes on the screen

focus on this bogus missive
now look away and exhale entire galaxies

"I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so. I told you so."

curbstyle.

wet, cold 2am street concrete catches my feet
I am the arrow flung from the bow after the defeat
assembly line streetlight eyes watch as I flee
ignition switch positioning complete
her pleading's my pedestrian parachute
but I was doused in this petrol so long ago
I've got gears for organs and oil for blood
I'm the engine in the hearse of the funeral procession
I am the man who invented regret
I am the match; it's lifespan and action
I deteriorate all I see
magnesium paper carbon oxygen
I ignite and burn
I am

in the blue light.

Today, I found an old cassette in my car that's been hidden away for god knows how long. It wasn't labeled, and it was one of many mix cassettes that have seen the insides of my car stereo at one point or another. Many of the blank cassettes in my car are/were horrible recordings of songs that were "under construction," from quite a few different projects. The point of them was that I could have a recording of the songs sans vocals so that I could listen to them and be able to write to them at my leisure. Often times the outcome was me singing at the top of my lungs while driving to any destination.

I threw it in and pressed play and was surprised to hear what was probably one of the last practice sessions of my old band. We had recorded instrumentals of some of the newest songs we had written so that I could write to them; 3 songs in total. Right away the notes that I had in mind for certain parts jumped out of my subconscious and into my throat, and before I knew it I was humming the tentative vocals I had once written to the songs. It was both exciting and somewhat mournful as well. It made me think about that point in time in my life, what I was going through, and how important that period was for me.

After releasing an EP, a full-length CD, writing a multitude of various other songs that never saw the inside of a recording studio, playing both tiny and huge shows (in our eyes, anyway), going on east coast tours a few times, and signing to a small indie record label, I made the decision to part ways with them. There were quite a few reasons why I felt the need to do it, but the one that overshadowed everything else was that my heart just wasn't in it anymore. I remember the last few months leading up to my decision felt so awkward and uncomfortable; I loved the band, but I was bored and disenchanted. I felt then and still feel now that I'm far from the typical "band dude." By nature I am a fairly introverted, closed-off type of person. When I had first met the guys that became my bandmates, I couldn't even sing in front of them, much less in front of an audience. Public speaking was definitely NOT my forte, and I thought I was going to perform music with a crowd watching? What was I thinking? If it wasn't for the patience and persistence of those guys and their surprising belief in me, I could never have gotten over that fear.

Playing in a band and touring is by nature a very social activity. You're always meeting new people, jumping from one conversation to another, traveling, bonding with your bandmates. It was this aspect that never sat right with me. I don't know why. I had nothing against anyone involved, in fact I really liked most of them. For some weird reason I just couldn't successfully combine my musician side with my social side. It was like I felt the need to keep the two separated. I wasn't in it for the "cool" factor. A lead singer with a fear of attention? Come on. I needed it as an outlet, as a vehicle for my creative drive and my emotions. I never felt the urge to use it as a way to gain friends, or sex, or ego boosts. And I'm not saying that all people who are in bands are in it for that, or that the guys I made music with were, just that it wasn't my thing.

Maybe I ended up leaving because I knew it wasn't what I thought it was, or that it turned into something different over the years. But I still miss it terribly, and I always wonder what I would be doing now if I had stayed.

sir, you must speak into the microphone.

Trophy Scar City:
I am the rat behind the dumpsters you will never know about
a politician's smile
I etched the maps of hell on my skin so I won't be so lost when I return
I compose suicide notes and send them to myself while driving in the rain

Yes, broken record man broke all the records!
We are live via flesh satellite.
Go on about your business, and so will we.

soon, this will be a museum.

pray for this circle of strangers
for they know not what they do
comfort their new reptilian skin
clear out the fog they are in
barricade the doors behind you
quarantined deadly ecstasy
keep the truth from the children
make up stories to fill their heads with

sometimes we all need a lighthouse
we can't see the wreckage of those before us
and those rocks...
what teeth...
someone please climb the stairs.

getaway car.

There is a man with snakes for hands.
Devils for eyes, and a tongue made of lies.
There is a man with a heart full of fear.
A bottomless stomach and food within reach.

screaming the blues.

"The Blues."

Can you see it on a person if they walk right past you? Sometimes yes, most of the time no. Is it a scent? Is it visible wear and tear on the soul of a stranger, that you might somehow just notice semi-consciously?

Can you listen to them without them saying a word? Like putting a seashell against your ear, can you hear what the lines in a person's face are trying to tell you? The man with the dark circles under his eyes, the dirty jeans, the anxious way he taps his old sneakers on the floor while he nurses a cigarette; his eyes. His eyes... can you even fathom what it would be like to have seen what those eyes have seen?

Can you visibly tell when the human being you are looking at is a broken man or a woman? Or has been at one point in his life? Can you even imagine what it means, what it takes for every inch of you to be broken?

I know I can, because I was in a room full of them tonight. Broken souls. A room full of so much pain (and continuous healing) that it took every living ounce of strength that I had inside of me, I kid you not, to stay inside of it for an hour. No more, no less. No casual hello's before the meeting, and a quick exit at the end to make sure I wouldn't be subjected to what I was already in denial about, which was that I was at an NA meeting. Narcotics Anonymous.

Every week, one person "shares" his story for the others there, but they say it's mostly for the newcomer, so he or she can understand and not feel alone anymore. I put "share" in quotations, because, well, to me the word sharing is what a kindergardener does when she gives one of her toys to another classmate. Javier, probably in his early to mid-thirties, was not "sharing." As it was explained to me, it was the first time this particular member was telling his story to the group, even though he was there for quite a while, through many relapses. What this man proceeded to do was conduct a visual autopsy on his emotional and mental self while he was still alive, and talk us through it. He told us his story, and through his story I could hear what I could imagine to be everyone else's stories; I have a very vivid imagination. I did not know these people, but I felt them because they've struggled harder than you or anyone you know will probably struggle in their entire lives. Each had a story easily worth a million, or more, of mine and your tears. I know because my story has collected many of it's fair share in my short time on earth.

Javier sits there in a church all-purpose room, in a folding chair. He is part of a circle of people in folding chairs, and they are all listening to him speak, when he can. Some of them are looking at him, faces proud, yet eyes welling with tears. Some of them listen to him while they hide their faces in their hands. Some look ahead at the wall directly across from them, seemingly numb from all the stories they've heard. Javier sobs quietly as he tries to get through the part where he tells us all that both his parents were alcoholics, and both his brothers were alcoholics and drug addicts, and that he never wanted to be like them.
This is a confession.
This isn't a real worlder complaining about their roommate. This one confession, as with the few more he carefully, somewhat uneasily let out tonight, shook the earth. He studders at parts, takes long pauses at others. None of this is easy. He admits to certain actions, feelings, emotions that only someone else who has also hit rock bottom would know and relate to, and those people laugh with him out of compassion. I am one of those people laughing.

Javier is just a man. A smart guy, too. He isn't a monster, there is nothing wrong with him physically, mentally, or emotionally. He is just a man dealing with life. His life, and where it has taken him to. He is not making excuses, he is not placing blame. He is just a man who is suffering greatly, and will continue to suffer every single day for the hurt he has caused the people who he loves and cares about the most. He is a man who is lucky in every sense of the word. He is a man who feels guilt like I hope you will never feel in your entire life, a guilt I would not wish on my worst enemy. He is a changed man, changed by the confessions he had heard before him. He is a man with white chips in a drawer, every one of them painful to look at. I hold mine as close as a wedding ring. I am scared.

Javier gets to the part where he tells us about the laptop that he pawned one night to scrounge up money for drugs, and falls out of his storytelling mode, now just talking to himself; "why did I do that?" He starts to cry again. "Why did I pawn that laptop? I loved that thing, man. That was my laptop..."
This is a confession.
He digresses and moves back into his story, and meanwhile everyone in the room, including myself, knows exactly why he pawned the laptop he loved. I'm beginning to understand that since I understand, I belong here; if someone didn't understand Javier's journey, if someone had never walked those same footsteps, they couldn't even fathom it. I am Javier. Everyone in this room, filled with love, hurt, guilt, fear, redemption, god, pride, pain, and shame... they are all Javier. I am Javier, and thank you Javier for quietly lighting the path. He's not saying a word, he's not pointing in any direction, he's just lighting the way for me and then walking it himself.

I could have been acquiring nations;
now I am one man rebuilding a single castle by himself.
all we have are choices.

the sunshine state of affairs.

Florida is a waypoint for the transient minds and souls of the citizens of every nation on this earth, drawn to it like moths are drawn to bright empty parking lot lights. Florida is every one of it's street intersections, where the homeless beg for change at stop lights, while the drivers of the hundred thousand dollar cars stopped there say pages of nothing into cell phones. Florida is oil and water culture clashes, language barriers and invisible walls at every turn. Florida is a portrait of the land of opportunity hanging askew in a condemned building filled with society's unwanted. Florida is a giant edifice of Christianity, a huge solid gold cross embedded in a foundation of narcotics, tears, and blood money. Florida is a library burning on a picturesque beach. Florida is a spear filled with inebriated, half-naked young Republicans dancing rhythmically to the beat of Ignorance, being surgically installed into the side of a mock Jesus Christ. Florida is a tired, wide-eyed family of immigrants from a 3rd world country being painfully searched for diseases and fleas before being eaten by the giant mouths of Visa and Mastercard. Florida is shattered windows everywhere for miles from the screams and piercing cries of a daddy's girl because Li'l Jon wasn't paid to come to her sweet sixteen. Florida is a mutated, steroid-filled, tanned, chiseled and groomed modelesque monster waiting to devirginize the newly silicon-enhanced and Brazilian-waxed Daughters Of America in the dirty alleyways of South Beach while tourists stop to take pictures.
Florida is a white man in an Armani suit doing lines of coke off of the carcass of a washed-ashore Haitian, who is clutching a postcard of Miami.
Florida is a trailer park named "Happiness Grove" next to a garbage dump covered with grass and shrubs, a cell phone tower which is built to look like a palm tree, and giant billboards shouting Walt Disney propaganda.

security cameras everywhere.

so steve left last night.

picked up at work by justine, the only friend I had in florida left for west virginia, and eventually long island. I had come to get used to him being at work; when he left it instantly felt like a different job. am I going to feel differently about FYE now? I hope not.

I have an amazing wife, and an awesome apartment, and two crazy cats. I am surely blessed to have these things. Aside from those things, there is no doubt in my mind that this is the loneliest I've felt in my entire life. More than a year into my move to florida, nothing has really changed since I got here. there is an unavoidable, uncontrollable sense of detachment. It's a different culture, a different people, a city in which I am the visitor (sometimes I fear it's so obvious) and I am trespassing onto ground I shouldn't be on.

I fear I am the tree that is uprooted to the point that it can no longer be re-planted.