It’s too comfortable to write
In light so bright my sarcasm wont bite

So I’d rather wax intellectual in the freezing cold
Let my icy lungs ****
In some tar and I’ll
Hold everything I say
As
True

If only we could compile clues
We’d see
All the bodies we buried to be moderately happy
But still I’ve done worse things
While eye’s rolled in the back of their heads

Averting your vision
Can be the only tactic in your book
Of smarmy one liners
That all seem to be blunt remarks about my size
Which is fine
Worse things have been said
During diner conversations
We counted off the ways in music how we’d be a bonnie and Clyde

And if the220 razor wires grins sewed of mouths off cheating friends
88 sharp teeth gleaming, of devilish plots we were scheming
52 white knuckles clenched over getaway cars, or benches in parks watching false stars
36 black stares something about face mauling and bears, but I didn’t care that we only had
7 seconds to make it out with the money
5 eye’s wide open to ceiling fans or a lack their of
1 reason to wake up

And in such a way we could be writing pings on sound recorders put it just goes silent with the senseless bashing of fists on porcelain/.

but in the end we can only hope it means nothing
or as empty as air
or as simple as breathing

-Kevin T

I couldn’t beat the ceiling fan,
or that wonderful breeze.
Closing my eyes at 4 in the morning
is a plea for something better. An electric chair
wake up call.

Then I think I can get famous
for writing my sweet nothings on a bathroom stall.
But falling asleep on drugs , I’m wondering , “Where the **** am I”

Then it’s a Denys and it’s 3 hours earlier
And we’re all shooting **** while Fried potato
sticks twist around in our mouths.

You were talking life
and all these pretty words you’d never seen,
I was too high to care.

But the come down left my stomach
like an old gravel road.
I wanted to throw up hot asphalt.

But you smiled like “Let’s light up again”.
I ran to take a ****,
Hid in the bathroom and picked up a pen.
Then wrote out.

“4:00am and you’re too ****** to know I can’t stand
you now. Here’s a note, and a ten. Get a cab
and good luck with the rest of your life.”


That’s what best friends are all about.
Rotting together in each other’s *******.

But God that ceiling fan is good.
Clicking away like a countdown clock
on a stick of dynamite.
Looking forward to that sweet mid 20’s self destruction,
I assure you.

-Kevin T 6/16/10

All my friends they smoke this things
And handed me a Chesterfield King- Jawbreaker from Bivouac

Lyrics I tried to memorize
with my friends, while *******
on the syrup crusted
mouths of  glass coke bottles.
Singing loud and off key.
On the side of a Ralphs in the stagnant summer swelter.

The soundtrack song when being a punk skater
was a profitable venture,
and landing a kick flip was an achievable
*******.

When we could play Lane’s boom box
just loud enough to drown out the whimpering
from our sprained ankles
and scraped up knees
that left the sidewalks on Foothill blvd. so ******.

The music we were hearing now,
was way beyond Sunday school.
It was the sound of the sixth period bell,
and rushing to Jeff’s backyard
to smoke his dads cigarettes.

As we got older
We tried to quit the smokes
and forget the lyrics. But sometimes
we’d still  proposition people
on the side of that Ralphs
to buy us cigarettes.
When we succeeded
We’d sing that old song coughing, hissing, and wheezing.

-Kevin Theal

Frozen above the sweaty masses a fleshy ocean, he’s the dive bomber.
His out reached hands marked with the black x’s, The D.C. kids clawing at the human Stuka.
He has unhinged himself from the crowd. untethered
from the pale white fingers of the misunderstood youth that would pull him back in.
The hungry human piranhas trying to ****** a piece of his flesh.

Now, where only music can reach him.
The off tempo cymbal crash and the four power chords furiously strummed
on a broken five string guitar,
the mad crowd shouts in tongues. Spit and sweat sprinkle his face like an ocean mist.
A vivid reminder of the human meat grind below.

His arms outstretched like a bird of prey ready for the ****,
the wings of Icarus over the blacked out
eyes of the faces below.

However in this instance he is at the apex,
he is captured in a quick second snapshot,
Suspend in the void behind him like a black flag
Waving and violently vibrating with the music behind it.

He is the stage diver,
Voyager before the malfunction,
Icarus before the sun.