GussE Nov 2017
The angry tortured Screech of a long-awaited shot of fernet.
It was filled with chatter.
It was never good enough.
It was Salesforce lingo.
GussE Jul 2016
sunshine can go **** itself
GussE Jul 2016
To Whom It May Concern:

I have been an artist since birth
but clearly not genetically.
My mother was a dentist’s apprentice,
while I was in the ****.
My father was a quirky astrophysicist
and still amidst the devils,
he is yet to find himself.  
I on the other hand make sandwiches.
I make sandwiches,
I take photos,
and I write the things that I sense
or that I think I know.
Very simple.

I have never been one to understand the American dream, but I do respect my need for it.
I knew the idealistic trend of the Internet very well,
as I was raised in Silicon Valley,
but the phrase “From rags to riches”
never really penetrated my questioning soul.
I found that the world was my oyster
and I gregariously lived my life in the pursuit
of one-dollar oysters.
I have watched the seasons change.
I have known the plight of love
and I’m even wise enough
to lead my heart by it.
Elisa would tell you.
I have gawked at knobby shadows
falling on a wall traced out by a winter tree
and then been entranced by the odds
that I might be the one
who sought out that beauty
having been there to see it too.
But more so,
I have seen births.

I have seen the vibrancy from which life unfolds.
And I have seen the clenches of deaths fingers
wrap around the neck
of my most honored and beloved people.
I’ve seen beautiful cities fall prey to oversaturation,
I’ve watched the crashing waves
of the Pacific Ocean **** in pollution,
I’ve seen fires blaze through
the mountain sides of Santa Barbara,
and I’ve watched the shoals bats that fly
at the twilight summons from underneath bowels
of South Congress Bridge,
which is never bad.

I’ve made friends,
and I have made enemies
both of which I love.
I have been sick
then been healthy
and respect the values of their lessons.
Some of the other things I’ve seen
I’ll admit are unimportant.
But I still watch the trickling patterns of rainfall
and ponder at their stories.
I still squint at the gleam of the ocean
and beg it to tell me its origins.
I will always gaze at the sky
and I ask for a gust that might make the hairs
of my arm tingle with delight,
or nostalgic sorrow,
or anything at all.

I’ve questioned everything but what my mother told me.
Not until I turned eighteen, did I start that.
I’ve built batteries out of vinegar, aspirin, pennies
and copper wire.
I charge the insight of my peers
by poking and prodding.
I can braid hair,
I can hop scotch,
I can play the juice harp.
I fight for the underdog.
I fight for the tormented.
I speak for the scolded,
the hated,
the sad,
the abused,
the forgotten,
the forsaken,
the foolish,
the sinning,
the begging,
the beaten,
the overworked,
the shy,
the lost,
the hungry,
the bilious,
the old,
the gruesome
and the dead.

I feast on alcohol
where there is no other sustenance.
The rhythm of chagrin bounces in my chest,
as a drum would beat
in a symphony of regret.  
But I strive on
as if it was a sacrifice to the holy aliens
that made the Maya sacrifice too.
This is my blood.
It gushes from my blue veins
as I apperceive the meaning of that throbbing pulse.

I know the consequence
of the truth behind our movement.

A world founded on humanity,
imperfect and failing at all.
Life in this universe must be special.
It’s the stardust in our physical,
human elements that makes this magic true.
We ooze with the likeness of nothing else.
Our ancestors welled up with stardust
and DNA from somewhere else.
Our sweat, made up of passing galaxies,
dripping tears of organic thought
into the trickling river of time.
That alone must be something
to capture an imagination.
GussE Aug 2015
The crucible was a battle
fought by two sinners
both likely to sell the other out
or to shoot one another.
One wore a necklace
of tight inlaid shininess and red.
It was laced with a satin bow
and imbedded with an insignificant little ruby
tied around her neck,
her lovely ringlets hid in the sunshine.
She knew her life was sacred.
Mostly she was right,
but christened in her own right,
it was never suggested to her
that there was any other way around.
The darker side was originally ambivalent
to the nature
of the afflicted golden ringlets.
Thrashing and fighting it,
he, the darkness,
was finally struck with love.
The ambivalent subsided beneath
the imaginary plinth he prayed at,
and there he prayed.
Retorted only through silence as most gods do,
*** responded.
Each time the ambivalent shook
and chattered his teeth
as his fears were becoming
all so real.
Waiting to hear a sound
And nothing was there.
He understood the emptiness.
He was truly suffering,
but ultimately obliged to the goodness
of every single perfect ringlet
that made up the woman’s hair.
He knew the repercussions
of going on in other fashions,
and chose instead to end it there
before he had her locked in all their passions.
GussE Jun 2015
Pleasurable, they break.
Kid with soul decides his future.
Walks down hall with door,
man with soul divides.
Door opens.
Leads to nothing.
Man dies.
Man grows back.
Chances take a hold.
Congruencies clash together.
Metal sounds of clatter.
These divisions are the fractions of human kind.
Trickles and patterns are hardly literature.

Thick is the heart.
Thicker is the melody.

Man defines himself by patterns near.
Man dies once again.
Theories change.
Hearts do too.
Man does as well.
The life is what they seek.
Never to be obtained.
Man lies.
Heroic he overcomes.
Then he pulls at her shirt.
There he beckons.
Then man rests.
GussE Apr 2015
Deceptions finest monologue
was that sorrowful speech that you let yourself utter
the night before last.
I let our identities spiral about the universe
and for a few moments,
I gathered a few passing glances at some other worlds.
To me they look like better possibilities.
Withered feathers best described
our flight patterns.
Some storms blocked our way,
nocturnal entities from the next dimension
gather at stations and vicariously
live life
through your eyes.
I wont be the sacrifice,
I don’t wanna be a prospect.
Your soul is distilled into spirits.
My was made into mead.
The confidence is hardly in low stock.
But decisions are.
first words in a while
GussE Mar 2014
Various disorders divide the dimensional drift that separates you, from me. The telling tale of loss, regret and the missing links still bury truths. Truth is told because I’ve lost my hope. Persons call my name and shout out what they think. They make insecurities look pretty **** secure. All the while, my sweet tooth is out of sync.  And my internal combustion radiator is radiating harmful soliloquies. “I still beg of thee, he who hears my prayers. It’s been bout half a century, and I have yet to pray but give me strength where it is not.”


Anyways, feelings of retribution will come a forward day. Tantric beginnings fold under pressure and again we find our futures. Oh and by the by, the only thing who saw the crime was about eight inches tall and blind. Punch drunk and sucker punched, what will us suckers find? A fetching question for the ultra pressure.

letter to a friend, who knows their grammar
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