Right Tight

I know, I know...there's a bluebird in my chest Bukowski, I know.  I fear to let him out for when I do, he screams and shouts.  His havoc reaps blisters that heal not quite right and I, ensnared by his charms, left much the same.  When he returns from his travels abroad, he's colder, harder, with a crazed look in the light of his eyes.  He doesn't want to go back for he's lived fully for a time and my insides are no place for something so delicate.  He abides only out of obligation and a strange sense of attachment that could only resemble the love I've fed him.  He's had troubles out there.  Nothing compared to what is expected of him in here and yet he often returns in no passing at all.  My bluebird friend returns...always a little hurt I think that I ever so willingly embrace him and drain his juices once more.  Precarious our relationship, yet the most stable thing I've ever known.  Misery loves company...and bluebirds, incidentally.  I really do my best to listen to his version of the world....it always seems so saturated in whimsy and reverence.  I ask him questions(as if I don't already know), and he responds how I knew he would...transitory trial passed.  I am always validated by my winged friend...he never disappoints and always returns.  He rights my rights and soothes the turbulence I so enjoy to spread and share and suffer in.  One day i will suffocate him in my chest where my heart once beat and he'll know why...oh yes...only he will know why. 

Bill Pullman

It is truly remarkable to me how a few words of nonsense can bear so much weight.  Not the kind of weight that holds you back or carries you beneath the surface of oxygen and sunshine...but the kind that permeates your very being and gives life meaning.  sigh.  I hate this feeling.  The, "I am liberated and elated yet absolutely miserable"...one.  I could take flight and simultaneously sink to the very bottom of existence...lost there amongst the darkness and Sun fish.  I long, like no other...desperate for contact yet terrified of the repercussions.  Terrified.  Terror rules movement of mine at every juncture...what a joke I am.  I preach spontaneity, connectivity and meaning yet I refuse to emancipate myself from the bonds of fear and admittance.  Suffocating surely with the concealed creatures of the deep, I strain and squirm emitting fraudulence and frailty...I want to be one...with you.  I ask a lot and expect it all...anything else is every failure I've ever participated in.  Anxious over outcomes and occurrences, I push and pull then push again...how much can my fellow sea life take until a mass exodus erupts on my behalf and I yearn alone once more?  Perhaps the river is where i belong.  Moving currents of change and inconsistency.  Insecurities dissipate, love endures and longing lost to the flow.  The river brings me home regardless, thusly warped from experience.  I wish i had the words...ALL OF THEM.  I would give them to you upon kisses and unfettered fright.  We'll thrash about, only the other to maintain equilibrium until it makes sense in evolutionary degrees.  One monster of the deep grotesquely entwined, satiated...walls burnt to dust debris.   

LOST...One id

No, wait a tick...IT'S RULING MY LIFE EVERY SECOND OF THE DAY!!!  I am a prepubescent boy with a raging hard-on for aggression and "uncoordinated instinctual trends."  When this hard-on rages...look out every corner of the room,  cuz you bout to be covered in nut juice.  I am a mood disorder given to movement.  I am impressed by others yet lack any ability to impress myself.  It's been nearly a year since my last true immersion into creativity and I rot with doubt and loathing.  Morose is a cloud which hovers, diminishes but never really dies.  Clouds don't die...idiot!  I berate myself, for who else will?  Who out there has enough sense, courage and stamina to welcome my inabilities and dysfunction with gentle good natured ribbing?  A dog may...but only cuz I feed him and whip him indefatigably.  Weariness will never plague me as I am consumed by terror.  All this time and no results?  What fruits have I labored so that they be returned to me?  If not in time, then when?  Then fucking when...Others, so keen on the machine seem to struggle less and joy more.  They receive and suckle at the tit of accomplishment and fulfillment whilst i look on in despair, disgust, jealousy and slavery.  I slave.  I drudge, I disconnect, I reconnect and suffer.  Who inside wants more?  Nay, demands it?  What do i crave in this deep still, but silence and warmth?  I reach for instantaneous pleasure in drink, in smoke, in love...all of which, mere distractions on my road of detriment and dolor.  I can replace and repair but never escape...myself.  So I carry me with me in remote pieces that never quite fit...killing time with emotion and nonsense.  Staring back is always someone better...smarter...kinder....apt in every way I wanna be and judging me with cold indifference.   Judgement with indifference...not an easy task at hand, yet somehow so effectively proficient.  Gratitude is a fickle fiend who befriends me when it deems me worthy.  At other times, always the inopportune ones, I am abandoned by the side of the road, this road of being...left to my malaise and insecurity.  I fend off these troubled thoughts for as long as I am allowed, they always resurface however and I am plunged into turmoil and angst once more.  I am a secluded malcontent hack with time for unsavory thoughts and far too much to achieve in the empty space allotted.  I'll take my peg from the square it will never quite occupy and drown it in sorrow and cheap wine...ugh...only people with talent and drive are able to admonish such claptrap...I am just a drunk.

I Don't Have To Be Clever All The Time...FUCK YOU

Ah, titles.  If I could do one thing for the rest of my life, it would be to create magnificent titles for shit that never quite cut it.  I have to poop...I've eaten a shit tonne of vegetables today...excuse me...

There is nothing quite like a really great shit.  Comforting, expected, final...a great shit is like a full life - it's over before you've read enough.  If I could translate a great bowel movement into a life, I would, and be done with it.  No more pressure, expectations gone unrequited, or regret.  A moment of transparent tranquility and then...nothing.  Left in its wake, a void colon, happy intestinal tract and murky yet forgiving H2O. 

I'm moving out of my twenties soon.  When that thought enters my cerebrum, I feel like fighting or fainting or fucking.  Like the zombie apocalypse...you only have a few options.  Eat or be eaten kinda junk.  Minus the inconsequential details of the "party" and the sharing of my meager years with someone consistent, I am terrified.  An era is literally over.  It's as though I've slept til now, realized I've wasted ten years and settle into a deep, dank, dismal end.  Have I really accomplished so little?  Did I expect the Rhandi of now to be...here?  Gross.  I'm going to require more wine.  I've tried things.  I attempt intelligence at every turn.  I've gone crazy and come back...mostly.  Are my really splendid tricks complete?  Performed, applauded and remembered only in passing vagueness?  Does everyone freak out such as I?  When people grew older in the twentieth century, did they lose their minds and purchase a new penny farthing?  Wander on over to the local watering hole and bang fifteen "ladies of the night"?  Nope.  They had better things to think on...didn't they? 

Irish Whiskey = Punching

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The Best In Me

I see it sometimes you know.  A promise of a whisper of potential; Fearlessness.  What we long for is the very shit which keeps us embedded in fear.  We fear "it" the most, cuz then what?  What happens when we reach that peak and that's the top?  No more trekking up an unfavorable distance straight into the arms of whatever awaits...just you...and the air...and the view.  Nothing but down.  A brilliantly molded moment of anticipation fulfilled....................................and than nothing.  Death?  I don't think it goes down quite like that.  More anguish and solitude is required, I do believe before the "peak" reaches it's bony ass hands down your throat and takes the breath from your very chest.  So i ask myself, What do I want most?  The answer is glaringly honest, simple and altogether pitiful.  I shame myself answering said quandary.  So why do i spend so much effort and time divulged to rendering a response to the query when I have always known the answer? 

"Go West,  Young Man."

That has been in my head for some time.  As if it matters.  Here, there...it's all the same disappointing madness.  The same, the same....always the same.  Forever the same in fact.  Why must I rage then?  rage, rage against the dying of my spirit?  It's far more impactful(not a word) with a question mark, no?  The best in me, by the way, is alcohol and the right amount of weed smoked at the perfect time.  Timing.   

Do You Validate?

Will you please?  ME?  I am desperate most days for confirmation.  Some form, some sign, some veiled notion that informs me that I am doing the right thing for my life on a daily basis.  I attempt to collect tiny affirmations from others throughout the day, perfect strangers suffice most of the time, little nods of approving content directed in my general vicinity.  WHY???  Why do I crave this sentimental approval?  I want hard, cold evidence disputing where I've been and directing me where I should go.  It doesn't have to be a manual...a brief listing of when and where would do nicely.  Where am i to be?  Does location change anything, really?  I would still wear ill fitting clothes and long underwear when it's five degrees.  I would still long to see the world in all its particulars.  I would still work some shit job I abhor for no reason other than a paycheck and something to occupy my movements.  I would still search for love under every rock and in every crevice...cuz that's where boys reside.  So why this constant and stifling need for acceptance?  Approval from randoms who unbeknownst to me, don't have their shit figured out either.  I know everyone has their own version of what it means to be happy, what the fuck is mine?  Shall I dedicate myself to one endeavor for the rest of my life, forsaking all other desires and pursuing it till I'm alone, wrinkled and covered in cats?  Or shall I be a scourge of the options open to me and dip my toes in the drink of it all...scurrying about continents, learning languages...and dying alone, wrinkled and covered in cats?  I suppose my great search for enlightened fulfillment finds me...daily.  So draped in fear and self loathing that I scoff at its arrival and scream to the stars for answers.  Silly kid...