at first it's grey,
that's the only way i can describe it,
it's like you can't hear anything but white noise
or see anything but fog,
and then the clouds form,
and it rains,
sometimes for hours,
and sometimes for years,
and you're just sitting there in the downpour,
looking at nothing,
because your eyes can't focus,
and it feels like your heart isn't beating,
and your lungs aren't breathing,
and it's just you,
all alone,
in the rain,
staring at nothing.

I feel like a slug
sometimes I feel like it might be easier just to be one
Faced plainly with my own mental lacunae
I feel the vice grips of creative sterility
Only exacerbated in my willingness to idleness
I am struck by two Slavic language words
Toska and litost
Both have a meaning akin to boredom and existential depression wrapped in one
It is a curse really
To be constantly bombarded with thoughts of my own inadequacies
And having no will to do anything to change them
Maybe that is why I have always been drawn to those long dead souls
Who barely clung to sanity in life and plunged forward like grand ice breakers through the social convictions of modern life
Those desperados of intellect who did simply as will
It is only in the presence of this kind of supreme will that I have found any comfort
And I fear that it is only in the juxtaposition of this and my own disposition
That I have ever lived at all
I mean really is any body picking up what I’m putting down?
This kind of Petulant absurdity is where I thrive
I fear again the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Which in this sense is nothing more than rejection and the knowledge that I really am nothing special
For self-conscious references to Shakespearean texts that lie still unread on my bookshelf cannot bar my consciousness from the near constant obsession
Of simply getting so far out there in the water that nobody can even see me anymore
And I can no longer see the shore

Hey, Sara
do you remember me? I'm
the neighbor kid
from 2006
we were kids
and reading from ***** books
you found in your moms dresser
and you let
me try your
cream soda
at 2 PM
and your parents were at work
and I was so happy
I kissed you.

Put me on a pedestal,
Show me off to all your friends,
In your mouth like vanilla frosting,
In your car, Mercedes Benz.
Tell me I'm the best and there's no one like me.
Tell me you're afraid to ever be away from me.

I'm your favorite girl.
I'm your favorite girl.

Watch me like a movie,
take off my clothes in the middle of your childhood bedroom,
Your parents house for dinner is so boring,
Baby, let's go home soon
We can **** until we fall asleep,
I'll reward you for pleasing me,
You're such a sweet boy, it's so easy to see.

I'm your favorite girl.
I'm your favorite girl.

I could be the one you've been looking for,
I could be your dream.
I know when I'm away, all you think about is me.
With the flowers in my hair,
My vintage dresses and curls,

Put me on a pedestal,
I'm your favorite girl.

It's only pornographic if you look
It's only lust if you feel
It's only hard when you touch
It's only fornicating if you squeal
It's only heartbreak if I leave
It's only grief if you stay
It's only pity if I comfort
It's only lies if you believed them anyways
It's only justified if I'm the *****
It's only excused cause I did it first
It's only love if it hurts
It's only hate if I no longer quench your thirst
It's only pain if you remain
It's only this
It's only that
It's only a kiss
It's only a whack
It's only a life
It only takes time
It's only a matter of getting yourself by
It's a matter of feeling
It's only hoping it to be real
It's only a hijack
If you get caught mid steal
It's only everything
It's nothing at all
It's only a line with a baited hook
It's only pornographic if you look

Selling souls is the business
And Dunk’n ugly words is the slogan
For a long haired fickle mistress
and buzz sawed swashbuckler
Nothing is as it appears
It is only as I see fit
When a man loves a woman
And people sit on the sidelines

I bought a book today
I probably won’t read it

I don’t read much
Or ever so maybe I shouldn’t be sitting in a coffee shop acting like I can write

Because what makes a man anyway? What makes a women?
Plagued by funny thoughts and prompted stares
I’ve been talking to people on the street more recently

Today I think I learned that everyone is Jesus reincarnated
And I don’t know if that’s the problem or the answer

The wickedest man in the world once said
That he was the beast 666
With Ian Flemming playing reindeer games the bright nosed one knew that he could be nothing else
As do I

At the 14th street station a hispanic man, medium height with a cowboy hat and a guitar slung around his shoulder walks onto the subway

passengers look on suspiciously...

as the doors shut he picks up his guitar in a well practiced fashion

the eyes of the train are weary...

he begins to play a classic sounding mariachiesque tune
spanish lyrics

A woman with green eye makeup and dark lip liner rolls her eyes and tilts her head back in exasperation

at the end of the short song a sigh of relief sounds through the car
he timed it perfectly to end as the train came to a stop

he takes off his hat and gives a short speech followed by "gracias amigos"
as he walks through the train with it upturned for donations

i regret not giving him money solely because of the expression on the green eye-linered woman's face

i walk out into grand central station and am stunned at the beuty of life

Beuaty is an interesting word for me because i cannot hear it with out thinking of the Jim Carrey line in Ace Ventura "B-E-A-Utiful"
this fact however does not save me from spelling this word wrong nearly every time i write it

Later Quietly drinking and crosshatching an old comic on a saturday
with a train gang of long islanders

miller lite is a heroes welcome
for a repugnant anarchist antichrist superstar
hidden beneath the semi-amiable skin tone, ****** orientation,
and likewise social status

the only thing left to do is commiserate
in the trappings of convenience and leisure
and the clash of Hadit and Nuit
thrumping thrashing in the sea

1000 troops to iraq again
and i don't mind to much
beyond the travesty is great comedy
for miller lite is a heroes welcome
to pennstation in late noon
and two corn dogs for breakfast

In the ancient shadows of illicit eons past
and only existing in the shadows of the now
I stare at the reflection of myself in the eyes of my sunglasses