greatness

i believe that each person can reach their own fulfillment

wiether it is in this greatness to be great or to be insignificant is to the individual.  we are all connected in the same way we are not.  if one individual suffers, than ever single person will suffer.  when peace and war no longer exist, which in this life i do not believe i will see, this time is when the human race will see its own beauty and be compelled to capture the beauty of everything it sees.

life is only compared to a single strand of cloth the electric buss that curculates the aurs around me.

therefore the only goal i seek is that of life, love, and peace.  but in this quest i stumble on the continuous rocks of reality.

yet, it is never time to surrender even in hard times.  and once forgotten it is remembered.

a dinner conversation part 2

She lifted the coffee cup as if it was any other morning.  Her heart pounded louder than the sound of the bed hitting the wall last night.  Her eyes twinkled with the knowledge they held inside.

He noticed something different, but didn’t care to comment.  He grabbed his bag and left for the bus.  His bus was five minutes late, but the weather was sunny and nice.  A single hair feel off of his full blondness as he signaled for the bus driver to stop his whale.  With a loud moan, the doors opened and the sun reflected in the black leather of his shoes.

“2 dollars.”  the fat bus driver looking dead into his corpse.  but he was the devil so nothing jarred him unlike the small woman with red shoes behind him.

Over the events of the day, he would loose 57 small strands of hair without even worrying about a single one.

AND THEN, he returned home.  Home as they used to call it.  the one bedroom closet.  She would wash, clean, cook, walk around naked, vacuum silence, and even work four days a week.

Yet, the smell was missing from the air when he opened the closet’s door.  Her jacket was not there.  There was no dinner cooking.  And there certainly was no naked her.

a dinner conversation

She looked into his eyes.  There wasn’t much more that she could take.  Did any of this ever matter?

He laughed as he left the table and placed his plates by the sink.

Her eyes melted into her feet.  It’s funny how cold his back was to her.  She got that chill she only gets when she realizes how alone she really is.
She’s tired of fighting against everything.
She’s ready to give up.

She used to worry about how he saw things.  She used to try to think of ways to say thing nicely to him.  but then she gave up, when she began to realize it never really mattered what she thought.  She was just a good lay.

Perhaps the love had just faded.  Perhaps her heart was just tired.  Perhaps her mind was just looking for a good conversation.

california

of all the places to exist

the only place in the whole world i would swear by to live in is California

the only problem living here is finding a place to live and making sure you have a car (if in L A area not needed for SF)  I prefer Los Angeles as a place to live and S F as a place to visit.

California is the best place ever!

analize nothing

he looks into my soul and i close my eyes.

why do i have to keep explaining who i am to the person who is supposed to love me?  why can’t he just love me for who i am?

he asks me why and i deny.  it’s easier than stating the answer, i’m just to insecure for you.

sometimes i want to scream at him to leave me alone.  i like to be quiet and never tell you the actual truth because to say it hurts to much.

i want him to be an asshole so i can leave him, but at the same time, i love him so much more that anything.  my pours bleed his name.

and now, i am lost in the question.

why am i doing this?  why am i in a relationship that calls into question who i am?

movie theater

the things i over hear can fill millions of pages in a book

and yet

every time i leave the theater i am tired of it all

i’m tired of the people

and the places

tomorrow will bring the same dragging existance

i’m not in a funk. i’m honest

i dislike the people who can tolerate me and right now i don’t believe that there is one person out there that could even understand what i want

i don’t care about being alone that doesn’t bother me. i just wish i had someone to talk to that didn’t see me as negative or a whatever label they choose

i never pretended to be a super model and i never wanted to be one. i am the girl behind the camera, directing the shot, in control of what is uncontrolable

i do not wish to sleep with 50 men but if they are all uniquely tasty then why not? too bad i’m quite a many short.

yet all i see in coffee shops are caffine addicted teen machines ready to find their one true love and have babies on this already over populated planet. and the ones who aren’t interested are depressed victims. i know, i’ve seen both, i’ve been both. and that i why i feel alone.

no where have i seen just someone in the middle. who doesn’t want to get totally fucked up on hollywood’s next big thing. who doesn’t want to meet mr. one and all nonexistant fairy tale man.

i am done with the fairy tale. i am done with the college life style. i just want a nothing job where i get a meanial salary in a small apartment with a fish and no one knows my real name.

it never was about that lost shoe or the bell at midnight. it was about doing the impossible. and i’ve forgotten my fairy tale along with my passion.

“Joe I have your vanilla soy coffee ice blended no whip.”

Open revelations about this century rest beneath the eyes of a hawk. However, with this impassioned rage for blood the hawk steers clear of the human path.  Bombs drop like leaves from tress upon the preschool playground.  Can we seriously wonder why this time has resounded to such decibels?

There was one moment in my life when I realized I could no longer be a child.  But in that moment I decided I would be.  For the rest of my life, I would never grow up.  It seems only now the time has been pushing me to mature. I feel like I have gone far enough until it throws another dish into the sink.

Water dripplets cascade down my neck.  I am a dishwasher for the human appetite.

It doesn’t really make to much sense now, that I should be forced to grow up.  It seems that the job of an artist is to remain young and bring some new perspective to an indolent group.  Perhaps, I like to sound more important.

Maybe I am just a youth corrupted by a cooperate idealist mind; no matter how Marxist I appear to be.  While the economy is falling, I only wonder how far will it fall.  Will we really find another depression?  It seems that this casual capitalist business cycle is not enough.

I felt the burns on the back of my hand expanding.  As if a lake of rubbish, it follows me down toward the rabbit hole.  I am never more of an anthropoid than I am now and will never find the correct answer to the problem at hand.  It comes from the way we write like a pink table.  I never exactly knew what to say to the white board in front of me.
Word vomit encapsulating the innocence of a forgotten mind set.  Pushed in front of a bus.  Deterred to go.  How can you force the like of a red light me to become your only truth.

because he smelled like candy

Besides the intrepid ill feeling that occurs every time the memory crosses the path of my eyes
The smell haunts my pours
Teasing me in a delurium of non-deemable particles
Tomorrow
I will be a wonderer of plains
And you
What will you be?

patetic tiles go here

The alcoholic takes another swig and doesn’t feel anymore cold than before. I don’t care what you call me, you see. I am the indolent asshole who sits on the couch wondering when it will ultimately be better than it is now. But how is it now? Caffinated cola with a nice shot of captain rum. If someone in real life really looked like her I’d fuck her harder than I’ve fucked any man.

I am lost without the mind of the soul that was banished from my brain.

When the whiskey doesn’t work, where should I go.

The alcoholic looks in a closet. The pharmistist in the cabinate. And me I look at a box. A box with colorful images across the screen.

Who is it that I play in my reality? What charater am I supposed to be?

When the music dies away, I only [thing i] hear my heart beating.

Confessions?
No there are none here
Confessions are for blondes in nail salons

Truthes?
What are truthes?

In this reality, there is only what I tell you and what you choose to believe.

Otherwise, why do we bother to read books? Why do we bother to write them?
To be the next Shakespeare, ee cummings, keats, bukowski?

Sorry ladies and gentlemen but I am to real to be lost in that fantasy. Real. Real a word that continuatlly gets lost in fiction.we write to get beat and we beat to get write and all in all it’s just circle baby, there aren’t no souls here for your takin’ there are only these things I call fingers by birth but now I know they are useless in the world of life. I am useless. In the world of life.

But then again, they never cared what I had to say anyways.

Fantasies. Disillusions. Portraits of a heart.

We become only pigments in the general direction of light.

Yet still I wish this whiskey would work better.

Tomorrow there will be not more dots to their i’s.