Hey Buster,

I see that cloud above your head

That beard can't grow any longer. 

Whistle that rhyme

Are those are your evoking thoughts? 

But don't speak, don't speak, don't speak. 

The fireplace is searing 

There is tea on the table, yet you can't tell us your story 

The indistinguishable murmurs, the "umms" and "ahhs" unease me. 

You have this habit, this eruption of unseemly laughter. 

Numb those feelings and don't speak 

Don't speak

Laugh,

Just don't speak. 

You are no dumb kid with a gun, 

You were born with that tongue 

Can't conjure up the words to look in our eyes 

And tell us your tale, 

Your momma, your papa, your sisters and brothers

From ol' grandpaps to auntie carolina 

You have a saga to tell us. 

Is it vital to camouflage yourself with the whistle of the bird?

The cry of a coyote is still apparent through the song, 

Tell me your story. 

Just don't speak, yet. 

Don't speak.

Poetry: Young Man

Young man lives in such poverty each breath he endures
Without an apprehension
Deficiency of angst
His bed sheets immersed in the blood
I know he sees
The Virgin Mary lies on his bed stand,
Gaping, wide eyed, Mary.
Bloody Mary, he utters to himself,
6a.m. His morning train to work,
Loud music he plays to drain out of the guilt he holds
The strangers passing by seem well acquainted with his folly
Enthralled in a woman, across the aisle
Young man is distracted,
Fingers full of rings, an exhibitionist of a sort, perhaps
Shoe laces tied in perfect knots
Creating obscure scenarios in his head he ponders,
Chopping the saloons with a hatchet
Burning her bra on a pedestal
Yet timid
Very timid
Her eyes not wavering from the soles of the rusted brown shoes, she wore
But then again, after all he is just a young man
Young man, heart of sulfur
The fiber is absent of thermo-plasticity
His back varnished in cuts
Bruised inner thighs, merely on the surface
Young man, owns a new car
The smell of his newly bought car is potent,
Without the mileage it dwells in the garage
The time will come when his vehicle will rust,
Consequent to several uses,
The blood still on his sheets
Virgin Mary still on the bedside table
Cuts still masking his back
Bruises on his inner thigh
Young man currently, sulfur heart
Hindered, perhaps but flawlessly veiled
Wounded young woman
Neglected.


(Artist: Egon Schielle)

Short Story: Hey Kid, tie them shoes.

My shoelaces were untied, I knelt down on my left knee and tied them. The stranger in a black coat, has a bruise on her, knuckles. The vagabond, on the street corner of Hyde, had a glistening tear down the tip of his chin, it might have been a raindrop, but I like to imagine it was a tear for now, because then I would know he, or was it she, was not content living the life that was not meant for her, or was it him. I was in a book store this morning, a conventional Sunday morning hot spot, I would say. So its Sunday morning right, quite the array of human beings, engrossed in their novels, magazines and comics, they sat, stood or strolled. A few loiterers among them, I could espy, the lack of captivation in their eyes, they really couldn't give a rats ass about the pages in these spectacular novels, their disinterest could not be more apparent, well to me, at least. Anyway, as I sauntered this bookstore, in search of a vacant spot to "kick it", I observed the silent freckled woman, a ginger, nibbling on her croissant, she wasn't from around here I don't think, she looked too naive, she was reading some cryptic science-fiction novel. Oh dear, what about those "tweens" as we call them, fixated around the "Twilight" paraphernalia; calenders, posters, bobble heads, which I find quite moronic, but that's really besides the point. So, I find a place to sit, right? Across the table is this elderly gentleman, I sure he used to be a handsome man when he was younger, he was wearing this sweater, which I'm sure he's had for about 23 years now, he was reading theses books, I didn't really get a clear vision of them, but they had something to do with astronomy, I think, he was quite the grumpy fellow, misunderstood I'm sure. Right next to me sat this younger man, Mexican I believe, he was an architect, I could tell, not only by the books he was reading, but the structure of his face, it was quite inevitable really. As I sat, quietly observing both men, while only pretending to work on an assignment, I hear a frantic voice in the distance. " Maria said she was coming home for dinner, but she isn't." And then a chuckle. I muttered to myself, "Damn mother fuckers on bluetooth!" A deceivingly poised elderly women scurries into the art section in a frenzied blitz, talking to herself, seriously, no bluetooth. She laughs, hysterically, in complete delirium, I'm sure. " Oh yeah, we are here in San Francisco, it's beautiful outside, ( it really wasn't, it was gloomy and miserable). Oh, how's Clara is she going well?" She seemed like a nice person, in her imagination. It was quite bizarre, as this white haired, well dressed woman in her what seemed to be Michael Kors-esque heels, ran to the illustration section of the bookstore, she picked up a book, I wasn't sure which one yet, and corressed it gently,back and front, with her eyes closed, and then placed it back on the bookshelf. She hesitantly stepped away from the books, and returned to her erratic behavior and uncanny conversation. As she walked in a distraught manner, past the shelves of books, she tripped over the wall that she had built in her mind, she laughed psychotically as she stumbled over her invisible wall. I walked over to the bookshelf, where she corressed the book, it was an Illustration book, Egon Schielle. I found myself in a sullen trance, the woman's vague innocence somewhat comforted me, but at the same time, unnerved me. She was laughing, she seemed so happy. Is there something she knows that I don't? Is there something more she sees? Am I wrong to have fingered her mental? The Mexican architect next to me didn't even flinch at the slight of this woman, neither did Mr. Grumpy Sweater Grandpa. It's quite mind-boggling how acculturated these men had become to such insanity, it's sad, really. I cried. If they live their life with a blind fold on, nothing will ever change. My shoes would still be untied.


Artist: Edward Gorey

Short Story: WILBUR

I don't know if it's just me yeah I'm pretty sure it's just me, that has these vague thoughts, but not just once, on multiple occasions, and I don't think they are strange at all while I think them, or even after, but sometimes I might just say it out loud and then, then I realize that's not what other people think, ever. Like I was sitting next to this stranger on the muni the other day, older gentleman, attractive, but nothing special. I wasn't physically attracted to him or anything of that sort, but strangely I was oddly enough think about him a few hours later, I kinda missed him. A man with beautiful bone structure, not my type at all though, white v-neck and a black double breasted jacket. I've seen him around, to be honest, I lied, I know him but not very well. I've had a few acquaintances with him. He's a nice guy, an intellectual type, but not at all, he's an asshole really, but the good kind, not the bad kind. I sometimes like to plan his day out and hypothesize what he is doing sequentially. I know it's obscure, I use that word a lot, but its very, very vague. I think he drunks a cup of hot tea in the morning, he seem like he would sleep with his sock on, yeah so his socks are on, and he get a cup of tea, a flavored green tea, I presume, then he sits and reads the newspaper, the section on the economy first, but then he lances over the comic section too, just when no one's looking, not that he cares what people think of him, or so he says. So yeah, after "glancing" (actually intensively cracking up at the morning comics, he takes care of "business" in the bathroom, you know the usual routine, whatever that maybe, I don't really want my mind wandering in that territory, I like to think I'm not that twisted, yet. He picks up his dictionary off the bookshelf, opens it, and closes his eyes, turns to page 72, of his Oxford Dictionary, from God knows when, and scrolls his finger down, it's the word of the day. He puts on the television, The Discovery Channel, Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, as he stirs up some gourmet omelets for breakfast. He scurries it up quickly, he's a fast eater. It's 9:30 am, I just like to plan his mornings, before he leaves the house, because I don't want to think of the people he meets durning the day, and especially not the night, I'd rather like to day dream abut the time he spends in solitude. Hopefully he spends his nigh alone, reading Whitman or Thoreau or Keroac. Maybe he reads wikipedia, some random facts. I would like that. Yeah, I would really, really like that. 

Poetry: That Bitch

"Heel toe, heel toe"
The bitch wails from across the narrow hallway 
She digs her five inch nails, into the heel of my hooves as she creeps up behind me 
She has obscure notion that I'm putting on a facade of a burden drunken teenager
She places a thick novel on the roof of my hair engrossed skull 
"Back erect young lady!" she demands
Impolitely, of course 
I tap the tips of my fingers on my upper thigh 
As I hear the melody of the leaking ceiling from the rain pounding onto the kitchen sink from the moldy deteriorated fixtures
"Stop your perpetual mind numbing behavior" that bitch yells at me again 
Like the German guard, protecting the flame engulfed chamber, she stands ridgely 
With her mind clouded with judgment conceived from aesthetic appearance 
Dark skin
Hair of ashes
Powder stained gums
Blood varnished lips
Constantly pondering my existence 
It's not vital for her to enrich her soul, so why must she pry? 
Palms bruised with the whip of a ruler, like horizontal strips that take over my fist 
Decorated with gold rings in hopes of concealing the pain, 
But the gold doesn't permit me from quenching my thirst of the acceptance of this woman, this guard, with her ruler of steel, her infinite amount of pages novel, and an endless amount of discretion.

Poetry: Baritone Saxophone

The wooden floors of the quaint cafe tremble 

As the baritone saxophone is being delicately rendered 

We write in our times of distress 

But as the violin whispers in the ambience 

As the rain plunks onto the pavement 

And as the strange bald middle aged man, without a wrinkle on his forehead

Drops a needle on each key of his piano 

As I glance at the faces on the relatively unfamiliar people 

Whom I feel rather connected with to 

Not a word of hatred is on the tip of this ink stained page 

The chronic circumstances that I find intolerable 

The obnoxious couple in the corner being grotesquely in considerate of the world around them 

The rude elder gentleman, with the thick mustache going about ignorantly glaring at me 

The young women constantly gabbing, chattering away

Doesn't even seem to perplex me, 

The baritone saxophone 

The violin 

A drop of the needle on the keyboard 

The attractive mans deep soulful voice and vaguely identifiable sounds like an accordian 

Harmonize this  dim lighted room 

And motivate me to initiate a step into the brightly lighted room 

Across the poorly paved street. 

Creative Write-up: Abnormal Love

The other day a somewhat of a stranger used the term abnormal in describing me. So you ask, why exactly did this stranger do that? He was basing my personality affliction on the term love and how I never have loved. It's so strange that how he based one sure fire proposition and placed it into a box of normality. How can we be so sure that loving is normal? Is it really a pure tangibility or is it a manifested feeling? Holy shit, it's driving me crazy! This whole love concept, it's so fucking obscure. I mean yeah, I am still young, but why does it kind of make me feel inhuman not to have emotions that most people my age have had. 

A movie I watched, just tonight actually, Closer, made me realize things about myself, not to be self-absorbed, but it was really made me come to the perfect conclusion to sum up my thoughts on love. We go through life loving, loving, loving this one person that we marry, but after  years of sex and hatred, do we really know this person? Is it really who we think it is? Do we know their name? Do we really know who they really are?  

"It's a lie. It's a bunch of sad strangers photographed beautifully and... all the glittering assholes who appreciate art say it's beautiful 'cause that's what they want to see. But the people in the photos are sad and alone, But the pictures make the world seem beautiful, so... the exhibition is reassuring which makes it a lie and everyone loves a big fat lie," says the character Alice in the movie. Which I believe is a metaphor for the photography to symbolize what love is, love is just a facade we use to portray beauty, but it is a lie.  We put on our make up in the morning and look beautiful and some stranger on the street falls in love with you, because of your beauty, but the real beauty is behind the picture that they will never see, because it is camouflaged the glitter that we sprinkle on, which make everything a "big fat lie." So the gospel comes to an end, with the crucial statement saying; love is a lie.