It's a new age in blues. It's hidden under fluorescent stars and rafter skies. Where the concrete spouts light posts and parking meters. The rain makes everything look new. The headlights stare back. It's in the deep sinking feeling you get right before you say to yourself "Aw, man. You know this bus ain't coming. Are we gonna stick this out, or are we gonna hail a cab?" You hear a lonely trumpet playing in your head. The cab driver makes the wrong turn. "Right on Richmond, man". Drowned out by the AM radio stations. That lonely trumpet playing in your head.

My words hold water, and drift further apart.

I'm purging existing memories, watching suns rise from trolley stops along empty avenues home. My chapped lips tremble in pain with each gust of wind that finds my face. Giving personality traits to inanimate objects, I blame them for mine. There's a comfort that warmth doesn't offer. That winter is the most loyal season. Loyal to disappoint and hurt.

@Life

I'm leaning against the telephone pole and watching the mist dance with the street light. Humming along to the sounds in my blown out headphones, I catch eyes with the cars that drive by. They welcome me back to my past and show what I've missed all this time: The comfort of cold air, wet asphalt, and late nights. The purr of a bus just started up, the smell of exhaust and rain, the possibility I'll miss my next bus on my way home. There's a beauty in these thoughts. There's life in our past that we sometimes forget.

whiskey bender

a nervously given frown. she looked up and smiled as i bought another round. she pushed my hair to the side and said she'd never seen such lonely eyes. i remember what it felt like to hold her hand. her fragrent hair upon my chin. the touch of her lips upon my cheek. the embrace of her arms around my spine. my eyes will never be this lonely again.

5496 3971

My age fights my interests almost everyday. What can bars offer that can't be offered by back yards and public parks? Either way, the condensation will wrinkle our fingers. I guess I'm jaded on getting wasted and forgetting faces.

no subject

I'd rather die alone than live with an understood vision of love.

Reminiscing Richmond

I was playing quarters in a Port Richmond bar after hours while finishing out the final stretch of sad songs on the juke box. Underage, I was watching patrons faces swell and wrinkle with each drag they took. I skipped the 2:30 bus to have a few more drinks with a few less friends than the night started out with. We payed our tabs, and grabbed a few forties and stumbled our way back to Earl's house where I found myself smoking joints in the backyard, and watching Pat devour an 8ball off the dining room table. The wind was frail that summer. The drugs were just the same. They weren't the strongest things we had, but we didn't need them to keep us warm.

10/25

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.

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.

Seattle

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.

10/17

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.

Swaggers

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.

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?