Thursday, March 29, 2012

Man, Meat, and Tissue

Man, Meat, and Tissue

His self induced living hell
It's a script he wrote
for a lifetime tv-movie
It sells more issues
Than just man, meat, and tissue

No one taught him about the journey, so
In a hurry he staked his flag
at the mountain's base
He wildly screams at those still climbing
Behind his mirror his reflection is blinding
The world is not molded to his liking
All we can do is look down hiking

His sermon fades with altitude
Listening was like drinking crude
At best it gave thought for food
I guess there's times that I miss the dude
But I had to be
      Man, meat, and tissue

Friday, March 16, 2012

Bus Crackers - Section I

(preceding was omitted for reasons that will not be disclosed)...that beams off the page, and is as suiting of a label as K.Y. Two letters now synonymous with ease, lubrication, and an assortment of sex. Two letters. Do you see what they did? They took water, two letters, a couple chemicals and created a literary masterpiece.


Bus Crackers
Chapter I
"Fear and Loathing on the Bus"

        This sick fuck reality show. All of these morons are fighting and fucking and breeding and spreading disease. It makes me want to puke.
         After work I walked to the bus stop as it waited to leave promptly at 10:52am. The bus ride there was at 8:50pm. My feet shrieked as the corns on the left side and calluses on the right hardened. Back stabbing cannibals. The sour aftertaste of this planet is unrelenting, makes me squirm, and drives me to pour bleach over myself. In the beginning I was able to manage this job. Now I need a constant stream of nicotine just to maintain and suppress. Whether I suppress rage or laughter I do not know, but both carry the same consequences. They both arouse the same contempt in the weak fools. I'd get my way more if I massaged their egos as much as they beg and plead for validation and recognition of non-existent achievements.
         The bus wreaks as always. Pathetic as ever. Faces recognized and unknown alike. On the bench to the left is a fat sow who last week was vomiting profusely all over the bus stop. Good thing her fat ass hogs the entire stop's bench and did not provide a place to sit. Her filth would have certainly splashed me as she heaved the disease of her day-to-day wasted liquor and doughnuts. The stain of her purged DNA still remains baked at 115 degrees into the cement. A sidewalk mural of celebration noting her great achievements. Her parents would be proud. I was certainly impressed by her matter-of-fact attitude towards the event, and the will power that she showed. A certain twinkle of depression due to lost doughnuts that sure enough took amazing strength, despite passionate temptation, to not slop back up the entire mess. Instead, the sacrifice was left for the great spirits to devour and as a tapestry for the morning rush of bus riding school children to ponder. I'm never surprised when I have a hard time sleeping. 
         The bus trods along. Bumping and swaying us all to sleep. A sleep analogous to the complacency of poverty. The bottom 25%, not to be confused with the 99% - because the 74% who find it charming to group themselves with the bottom...I've digressed. As I was saying, the bottom 25% are perfectly discontent and accepting of the madness and decay. The bus driver always tends to be the happiest participant. Whether talking to the occupants reading or trying to sleep or simply mumbling his bliss and greatness to himself. "You're looking at the best driver in the world," he proclaims in an almost incoherent slurring of Saturn like dialect. I look in his direction, smile, and give him a patronizing nod. The class of bus drivers make use of the most random subject matter to carry on their daily conversations. "You don't see too many cement trucks these days. I wonder why that is." I choose not to engage in the speculation in person, but it could be the rise in more fuel efficient, cost effective, and convenient cement trailers. (Or maybe there's just no more fucking sidewalks to pave. Or maybe he shouldn't be looking for cement trucks in the first place because he's driving 20 people around the valley. Or maybe he should shut the fuck up and let me sleep.)
         I wake myself up snoring just in time to ring the bell as the stead slowly approaches my stop. I am dripping in sweat and drool. I feel foul and my face burns.

Lay Down Your Weapons and Raise Your Fists

I recently read a quote by Cormac McCarthy that stated exclamation points and semicolons have no place in literature. I did not put the quotation in quotes because I am not sure if I worded it exactly. I immediately came to the realization (again) that my use of the exclamation point is downright abusive, but I was somewhat stuck on the semicolon. The input received by many about the exclamation point is somewhat obvious. Elmore Leonard's 10 Rules of Writing does not negate them entirely, but does advise against their abuse. A friend also made the statement, "I fucking hate exclamation points." I did not ask for clarification because I do not need clarification. If what I am trying to express needs further impact with the punctuation I have not done my job. I have not made the impact necessary with the words. The bastard is a crutch and should be cast out of the land. Without venturing to far and researching what exactly Mr. McCarthy's semicolon problem is I have come to my own conclusions as to why this little fellow may be necessary for some academic purposes, but should be eradicated from my "art" of writing. The semicolon differs from the exclamation point in that it is not a crutch. It is an incredible waste of time. If I am sitting around trying to figure out where the jerky punctuation should be placed it is clear that I am not writing. And I am certainly not writing like the whole event is not happening. It becomes a mechanical process. I am focusing on format as oppose to the words, and I am not attempting to convey and purge format. I am purging words.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Oddly

I hate the word blog.

Bus Crackers - Prologue

There's times that I find random writings from random times in random spaces and hidden places. I recently found a seven part piece of writing that, while severe edits are necessary, I decided to serialize randomly. I will will edit slightly when it lacks universal coherency, but will attempt to keep the piece as true to the original as possible. I did not read all seven parts, so I'm not exactly sure if a story is being told or this is simply a serialized rant.


"Bus Crackers" 
prologue

        People say that I am extremely intelligent. Many use the expression, "Too smart for your own good," and the sentiment is at the top of my list of phrases I loath. There have even been a couple of fully insane people who have stated that I am more intelligent than most people they have ever met. Thank you. Nonsense. I think I've just read literature written by people much more intelligent than I can ever hope to be. Now, I will not let that become an absolute truth because then I would be self-limiting my own intellectual growth, but as it stands now I'm simply well read. I also have impeccable taste when it comes to reading selection, and like any classic ditz I let every word wash over me; reciting the parts worth using throughout my life...Out loud these fucking morons know that it is better than gold. They can taste it at the end of the yellow brick road. This is an interlude to what will be and what has been. Henry Miller's tongue is live explosives. I do not share his penchant for whores, trollops, and cunts, but his language cannot be translated for some. This place reeks of evangelist ball sweat. I live to let it out. In public, under the watchful eye I must watch my mouth. While these seething perverts recite scripture and their burning desire to cum on a greeting card girl's face, I must watch my mouth. Orwell's pig loves Ronald Regan and drives a Mustang. I must watch my mouth as they climb the ladder. I worked hard and they gave my a $2,000 life insurance policy, $350 a weeks, and 3 days paid vacation. Please hold the applause.

        A 200,000 year life span that took less than a percent of the time to show our Roman habits. We wiped and flushed our whole shit pile like a crack head trying to ditch evidence as the D.E.A. kicks in the door.

                                                                                  It feels too late.

Tuning Frequency

Can you touch the moon?
Reach out and caress the mountain tops?
Breathe in fire and hit like stone.
Feel the atoms in your bone.
Can you see your future soon?
Do you know the perfect time to harvest your crops?
Shift the wind when you're alone.
A tremor as earth shifts and moans.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

The G.R.O.W.L. Initiative

The Grand Revolution of Worldwide Leadership Initiative.

A Tool for the Toolbox

I'm learning to let go of much of what eats me up inside. The swarming flies and gnats will always be bothersome, but I only have so much time to give them attention and shoe them away before I finally wise up and relocate. 99% of people are best described as cunts. It is true, and 99% of "The 1%" are included in this number. That still leaves about 70 million cool, generally good-natured, and sound-minded human beings. I could be wrong. The number could be as much as 100 million or even as great as 1/7th of the world's population. At the very least, 85% of the world's population equals a lot of cunts. I will not venture here to determine which side of the coin that my face is imprinted upon. When I say that I have learned I am being somewhat misleading. I'm not so sure that I have learned anything in this department outside of a jaded perspective of general population and a strict judgement of character. The neo-tribal mentality prevails. I stick to my clan, and networking is merely a means for financial gain. The series of disappointments that have led me to the fork in the road and my decided upon path seems to have merely generated an apathy as oppose to learning. I simply no longer care, do not have time, and am down right fed up with my time being wasted with bullshit promises and people. I do not welcome the world of man with open arms. It may appear to be cold and cynical, but that is not the issue. My love and warmth have only grown under the light of shutting my blinds to generally deceptive, self-centered, and otherwise toxic people who seek to rob me of precious integrity, time, energy, and just about anything they can get their hands on.

I am "sick and tired of being sick and tired" of worrying about the general conception of who and what I am. I know who I am, and the subject does not arose confusion of those who are truly important and know me. There may be gaps within the story or even the perspective, but who gives a shit? All I ask is that the general outline not be confused. I am privileged to have some in my life with exacting definitions. Those who can only examine the minute details that take away from the big picture of me are only doing so because I scare the shit out of them. While that statement sounds ego-maniacal, I am only presenting an analysis and factoring of life long observation and outcomes. The fact is, these people should be scared; they hide their motives, make attempts to "torch the truth", and bask in self-aggrandizing mediocrity. I seek to expose myself and them.

I am a father, a husband, a filmmaker, a musician, a business man, an artist, a writer, a punk, and a list of many other titles that deserve mention but have stylistically been omitted. There is nothing that even the world imploding upon itself can do about it. I am what I am and always will be. I have deviated from a quality over quantity policy, and must now bring the two together in harmony.

Accomplishments should not be measured by the amount of attention that is given to them by the outside world. How an individual measures their own accomplishments and successes is how an individual's accomplishments are measured within the spectrum of cosmic truth. I do not need to get a single hit on this entry. I need to write it and submit my assignment it to the ether, the spirits, the gods of 0s and 1s, or whatever. I need to artistically satiate myself, and maybe somewhere along the way someone will either relate or talk some shit. This is merely an added bonus.

I have run out of time. I will summarize with three words, and they will simplify this entire entry making it seem somewhat "wordy." Feel free to use them as a tool for your own use in life. When appropriately used they can give the wordsmith power and liberty. Attempts should be made to not water their substance down with overuse. However, I'm sure that they are suited for many situations and circumstances. I hope you find them useful. If not, well...

Go Fuck Yourself.