Tuesday, December 2, 2008


streaked and smeared. pilliars of light form across the wet asphalt connecting me and everything. the cuffs of my jeans hug my ankles as i walk parallel with the blue line below. a grainy fog coats the sky with a slight hint of a merky moon glowing in the distance. the homeless stretch along market street under scaffolding. lifeless, yet restless. My head is still ringing from the rebel love songs of past generations that infiltrate my headphones and speak to my heart. Waits, Dylan, and Bragg- thank you.

Pitchers with Pete

Our voices harshed and open. we reconnect over overpriced pitchers and underrated clash songs in the newest hipster bar to reach northern liberties. the table: cut from an old bowling alley lane, still had the marks of the bowling balls that put smiles on faces. we disucussed our individual madness, and distorted perceptions on the way things were. Our smallest sentences spoke volumes to our souls, and for once- I felt okay.

add your own ending.

Engines remain calm in single file lines outside midnight toll booths where the enlightened and disenchanted meet. the bright lights reflect off arrows freshly painted directing where to make your exit. The bitter smile of the teller shows how welcome you really are, but neither of you are happy to be here.

Changing radio stations is like pulling teeth. The arguments are the most exciting part of this four hour drive. Passing through county lines, the medians are the only sights worth seeing. The fast food wrappers and cigarette butts make up stories of hopeless commitments and the lost art of addiction.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

when it rains...

brick walkways are glazed the same way my eyes are from the sleet, and this Irish Cream and coffee. A dismal Thursday night. Not worth the ink my pen. I can feel the romance in this park. The love that's left it's mark here. The smell of sweet nothings whispered from the hearts of the soul-less and the souls of the heartless. Weather beaten, I've grown too comfortable being lonely. My engagements to my possessions are nothing more than my pathetic attempts at looking important to the pathetic. Chances are, I'll write this down. Make a quick attempt to finish this horrible concoction i've made, commute home, drink an over dose (or two) of nyquil, and wake up and do it all over again. now can you see where I'm getting at?

Route 25

I caught the shower of petals and leaves just before the bus picked me up to take me home. Typical people. Typical conversation. The restless complaining, but rise bright and early to make sure they're miserable on time. There is a slight stench of stale coffee, and half smoked cigarettes. The grave like seats that we have jumped in are warm from the asses of the last batch of poor saps that rushed home to prepare their TV dinners in hopes the programming would be as satisfying. The fear I had that I would end up like this grows deeper with each pull of this yellow cord. Bitter strangers break my concentration on soaking in the scenery of the car cluttered streets that only soundtracks can explain.

Friday, October 31, 2008


Oh, it's Fall, alright. In between the downpours, thunderstorms, and heavy winds, I've found warmth to grasp to. October showers and Amaretto Sours. Beneath my feet, is cracked and soaked concrete etched with initals dated 1993. My words just linger on the tip of my tounge so much, I can only illustrate my frustration through a grin, as I exhale my soul. My earlobes are a tomato red and my nose lost it's color before i walked out the door. My feet struggle in these Bo-Bo's meant for surfboarders and Sailors. Sometimes, this weather makes me wish i lived in seattle.


The feedback covers my thoughts spread out through this small, over crowded house show. I tried to kiss her but she turned away saying "it doesn't feel right". I can't remember the things I said. The drinks blur out everything, and I've got the headache to prove it. She lingers around trolley stops, and the taste of this Chesterfield (the beer, not the cigarette) that leaves a smile on my face. I was always bad at first impressions.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008


A swagger layered in cheap liquor. My lifesavings is in debt to bar tabs, and Marlboro Miles. Painted by the neon, and burdend by apathy. My only vice is breathing. This self-destruction is a necessity. I'm known to smile as often as groundhogs see their shadows. Six more weeks of winter...

What I Wish I Could Hear Pt. I

"Can you hear the ringing of the church bells? I remember when faith was found in the hands we shook. Now, I find it in the bottom of a bottle, and the slow burn of cowboy killers...

Listen, kid. The world is a horrible place. This is the way God intended it. We scrutinize each other, while the murderers, theives, rapists, and purists run free. If bliss is what you want, then remember this...

Ignorance is bliss. The martyr is a damn fool. Take it from me. Wake up everyday. Smile, and remain aware. Nothing can scare them more, kid. Nothing WILL scare them more."

Smokey Orange

I stretched my legs to touch the floor. The blinds, half opened, help to form a weak shadow along these smokey orange walls. My finger tips smell of pot resin and whiskey. I guess those thoughts finally took their toll on me. Laying back in bed, I trace the cracks along the walls. I find it gives me a sense of direction at a time that makes no sense at all. But where do i begin? I am a friend I was meant to forget.

Nauseated head, sick to my stomach, and filled with the chirps of birds perched on powerlines. Singing psalms to the sneakers hanging beside them. I'm alive.

Heroin Sheik, My Arm!

It's been dull around here these past few years. Same old shows, same old jokes. That seems to be the way it goes. Maybe it's just me, but what ever happened to this community? If I broke out and left this city, would you remember me? A license is useless when I'm made of excuses. I've got nothing stopping me, but my own conformity.

Grow up, work my job. Save my money, fall in love. Have some kids, and build my fence. Take no chance on how to live. Get a mortgage, pay the bills. Work overtime just to feel fulfilled. Repeat the history my parents taught me. Take no chance. Just live comfortably.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Dictated Puff Piece

Lets paint our cars up with flames and decal them with honor student stickers and religious concerns, while our highways and crime rates plow through our very own back yards. The patron ratio of graveyards and bars is starting to landslide but the real estate's still killing. Lofts for 600,000 meanwhile the inner city's schools are losing heat. New subjects this year: Surviving The Homeland, and StreetMmarketing. hat if words ended wars? What if the paths we crossed were just that and nothing more?

Us Lions Love Jokes

Have you heard the news? The clientele's been dismal, but we're still bringing in revenue. Auditors, accountants, they cease to exist anymore. They've deducted the wealthy to kill off the poor. The IRS is one big IOU in the wallets and pockets of me and you. We need to rewrite our wills, add in gravesite rent and water bills. No lie, prepare to pay when you die. The security deposit alone will make you roll over in your grave.

this was more of a song i was writing that was and probably never will be written.

Bad Dream, or Busy Morning?

Nervously waiting for this train to leave. The smell of piss and fast orange linger from every corner. Commuters against communes, ears against volume. The woman next to me is kniting a sweater. Was it for her daughter? Window seats often occupied with the disheartend, and synthetic. Curious eyes never seen so much out these here windows. The walls that coincide with the rails are cluttered, at best. Graffitti owns them as we own the rain. Deep, I sink back hoping I could catch a glimpse of the womans creation, my wandering eyes express a moment of distress, as she stood up at the exit and left.


These earthtones radiate a neon glow, and at the right angle, you can see the sun collide with skyscrapers and bridges in an attempt to reconcile with the way we breath. The bend breaks the way we walk in and out of this place, but not the way we stand. A vivid vision of life blends in with the cemetary scenery. Painted along the fence are the marks of past generations saying "make your move".

My feet are keeping a beat that my hands can't keep. The sounds of flickering streetlights and car alarms decide which streets to burn. And all at once, air becomes weightless, and my eyes wait on the green light to pass me by the motorcade of cars on the graveyard shift. Regardless of the time, we still feel early to our own demise.

My First Post

This is going to be a blog for random incomplete thoughts that I have written down over the past months. They are completely unedited, and are 100% original ideas. They will be posted by each individual thought, and the title will be the title of the thought/tick.

Thanks, I hope you enjoy.