Fire

Less than one week and I head to the fires. More later. I miss the girl.

Fuck! and the Fuck Manifesto: A sleepless night with new knowledge and a familiar pang.

There's times when the world seems fine and tailored to happiness. There's times when peace and love "grow from the barrell of a gun." There's deep understandings and total losses. There's time and times again, standing by, I witness the girl engage and be engaged and worse, wet and warm in affectual delinquet arms, wanting, perhaps, as much as I to be on top. And though memories serve me well and I envisage sunny days past together, he and I on the beaches, working, commiserating sharing the same cigarettes and hoping similiar hopes with laughs when he called me "little brother", I fear there is no other way but that of temporary silence. Despite these sunny days and convergent dreams adversaries arise, inherant, pure of form and destined to be so through will and wish. And though one never dreams or dreads it should come to such affairs, it does. So, as a stone thrown into a pond emanates a wave of energy, that wave may be extinguished by that of another tossed stone. All is permitable in love, fuck war.

Monday Lucky Thirteen and her B-Day.

The years fly when you put a flag down into ones day and look back at it waving about. Of March: slammed and crammed for some heavy tests in IR and Philosophy, got drunk again, and again, hiked a bit, smoked a pipe on the hill, thought about Mary, thought about Mary on her B-day-today, bought some wicked flashy new kickeroos, bumped into a flock of McCallites I didn't know, found out one of my old good friends is, in fact, a real pornstar whos starred in over one hundred feature pornographic films and learned what a creampie on the table is, although my estimations were damn close, got a haircut that charms the pants off everyone, continue wearing the barstink clothes I've been in for a week or so, and finally, produced another show with Jesse Jams for BSU Radio and the University Pulse Network that streams 24 hours a day para todo el mundo.
I've a hammock in my house in "Little Mexico"and late at night, after scouring the nicknacks and lonely pockets for lost herb, I swing and smoke the sticky cleanings and dream. I'm on the beach with the girl, I'm in in Buenos Aires with my Croat-Irish amigo haunting the streets and getting drunk in the plaza, I'm in old real Mexico with Mr. Lewis, I'm not here nor there and I'm never alone. The smokey dreams of my youth will not pass. I'm realizing. Adonde vas mi amor. Feliz de tu compleanos.

Fat Tuesday

I know I said I wasn't going to drink, but this is a day to celebrate. New Orleans, still a cespool, trucks rumbling all over carrying debris, is getting down tonight. And though I might celebrate for New Orleans, aunt Donna who survived Katrina, and all the strugglers shaking their naked breasts, we must not forget the New Orleans Doctrine. The true celebration is therein; Mother Nature will fight some battles for us. And the new meaning of Fat Tuesday is sieze opportunities before they sail down your street in a river that never existed before the winds
Also, I have been accused of cesorship of my site, for which I am guilty, as I removed some chitter chatter that one person, in particular, thought a legitimate rebut to a post. And as much as I want to be the lord, master, administrator, and dictator of my small island of ramblings, for the sakes of keepin it real I'm never going to edit anyones comments again, unless my penis is mentioned. In which case I reserve the right for complete censorship. Stay Up.

Reductionists

I find it raining when I emerge from my white, cracked stucco residence behind the depot in Little Mexico. The moisture has covered the streets and mixed with the soil and that smell hits me, brings me good memories. I walk down the tracks toward the station; walking them makes me think about leaving. It's a good morning. It's the kind of morning I wish Brendan or Sky or Mark were ambling along with me, telling me, laughing, breathing in the ozone and saying something like, "Damn it smells good." I stop into Starbucks and order a venti regular and the paper cup dwarfs my hand and I feel like an ass walking around with such an enormous vessel. If Sky were with me he certainly would have made protest and tried to sway me from the corporate brew. I would have gone in anyway,reminding him of how well they treated us that night in Victoria when everything turned purple. When I get onto campus I feel strangely connected to the scurrying students. Maybe it's the morning smoke. I pass the bikes if front of the business building. They're all adorned with shocks and scratchless paint jobs, everything on them looking less than used. And when I pass the pawnshop, suspensionless cruisers outside the liberal arts building I realize the micro metaphor. I reach the student union andsee this short little devil wearing all green about five foot two. I can't tell if the rogue is a male or female and it has this demonic smile on its face as it passes me, making these strange little noises. I look back as it passes and see it kick an empty soda bottle up at some other students. There's so many wierdos out there it will blow your mind.
There's a couple competing theories on the behavior of people worth noting. The boys up on Guemes Island will tell you there's two kinds of people in the world: tyranasaurs and chamelions. Brendan explains he's a chamelion while I'm a tyranasaur. The difference being tyranasaurs go around thinking they're the shit and trying to eat everything in their course including chamelions, a world of black and white. While chamelions sit back, with no angst, watching the world go by, a colorful existence. "What about Mark?I ask. "Mark's a chamelion who pretends he's a tyranasaur,"I believe it, Mark's got his shirt off leaning on the port ratlines of the Santo cracking dungeoness crab legs with his teeth as crab juice dribbles down his chin.
If you ask Mike, he'll tell you, very matter of factly, "Women have mental problems and men drink. Not just because of the mental problems, but mostly." I believe them both.

The Leftovers

Mary Magdelan was Jesus's favorite apostle.
They consumated their affection every night beside the sea
Most folks deny it because they don't want
they're savior drinking with hobos and destroying the markets
with tyrades on the shoppers lost souls
only to go back with his best friends
sitting by the sea all night, slipping away with Mary
and never holding down a job.
But if they listened he said take care of yourself,
closed in that closet, get high, close eyes,
dwell on love, live with positive, vibrate honest.

I found these pieces by the water washed
they were bits of my previous knowledge
I held them close, forgetting they were gone I
tried to recall what they were but
my memory decieved me as it always had
I never learned from mistakes, taking the same road
twice, sleeping late every time, I thought of you, american city
holding my comrads and love that I rarely know
I think of you sitting naked touching yourself, flying all over
with them in the pit of your greasy hand, telling lies
like greater things will come if they shop and plug their ears.
There was a line I could decipher:
true life and romance are dead
by the hand of financial equities, securities,
go south if you want to remember,
go south if you want to live.
GO, Go, go south by Brandon, Brendan and Federica
Sit by the sea like Jesus and Mary, balls to their markets,
balls in the salt.

Bin Laden didn't blow up the tower. It was you.

Imrovised Spontaneous Explosions

Something happens inside when I hear him tell me to get out of his life. He sleeps on my couch and refuses to finish high school; can't get along with the teachers or jump through the hoops we must traverse, no matter how easy. Honestly, I can't blame him. High school is a joke, a big hoop youngsters must do a fancy little trick through. So, when he loads a pipe and reflects I often join him.
He got a tobacco ticket the other day and thinks he can handle it like a man. A boy that would sleep on couches, as his predecessor, for years until he lost touch and upgraded to larger accomodations and freedom from the dishes under the Capitol Blvd. bridge. There he could hear life, real life. Water moving slowly over the round flat stones and slipping beside the bank, his chime and comfort lull. The King Fishers and Mallards could be his brothers and the Tree Squirells his conversationalists.
But, that is a dream, however dreadful or free of convention. The reality is I spat upon him in a rage this morning after he told me to get out of his life and leave him alone. "I wish I could but you sleep on my couch. I'm not your Father!," I yelled as tears welled in his sockets and fell over his face. I pushed and harangued him hoping he would throw a punch from his imposing six foot seven frame so I could teach him a lesson of brut respect he hasn't learned. He doesn't punch so I can't either. I'm glad, because after I think about it I feel like an ass. I know the huge kid, my sixteen year old brother, would follow me into hell screaming death to the devil and shooting if I called his allegiance.
Today I walk with the guilt of a fat, misguided playground bully. I feel like I whipped the smallest, nerdiest, smelliest unimposing dork I could find. I'm smaller than he is. I always will be now. I'm smaller than all the dorks and weaker than every nerd. I'm smaller than the fuck you I threw like a fastball to the unasuming gut.