Tonic and breweries.
This home is beginning to resemble a boy again.
I don't remember moving in but
I don't think I'll ever forget each wall
As they stood around me, and
how unsafe I felt within them
Without them really knowing that I was there.
I've always had this theory that
Non-habituated houses collapse more easily
Than the habituated ones.
When put through a hurricane, you were the non-habituated one
And you didn't recognize my presence inside of you.
When we collapsed you only felt your own pain,
But I felt mine as well as yours.
I don't know if you know that I still feel it.
I don't know if you know that I feel it every single day.

The first time I looked for shelter again I found one of your floorboards
In the space where my heart was supposed to be.
I didn't know how to cordially invite you
To walk all over it again-
So long the creaks it would produce wouldn't scare people away.
It gave motivation to the dreams however,
I was in an empty home and you were always sending me postcards without a return address.
You claimed you were always just about to move in with me, in these postcards,
But everyday it said the same thing.
It was a recurring nightmare.
I hope you never need a return address.
I don't think I can stand the pain of feeling you smell my tears on paper from 100,000 kilometers away.
I thought I could, but not anymore.

The scent of your presence always reminds me of tonic and breweries.
Because you drink when I'm there and you drink when I'm not.
I don't know how I associate heaven with the scent of someone
Who loves to fill bottles with secrets and then swallow them down with someone else's pride,
But I do.
And now and again I still wait to see if heaven will keep me sober enough
To watch me get drunk without actually drinking anything.
We burnt down bars, night-clubs, wine-galleries and cupboards of bottles,
But I don't know why I felt the same euphoria then when you threw me into the flames.
Maybe heaven was really a smell after all-
I'm still trying to find a way to love its wrath without smelling its scent.

The beaten path is hardest to go alone but it makes one stronger. One never wants to admit to oneself that misery is the predecessor to change, ushering it like the pilot ushers the plane down upon the runway.  This is a new destination you'd never have known. That is why we go up and then down, otherwise you wouldn't care for clouds. They'd be like stop signs posted on every street of every town you can't escape from. Don't you think whales like to take a dip in our atmosphere with the same exhilaration we dive down into their ocean? Marine life has it's trials, it all seems so buoyant and peacful, but its another jungle down there. Beautiful until you live it and predators lurk every corner and algae field. Everyone eating the next guy, if its your residence, it is no vacation. Its not so simple just cuz they've not got rent to pay and corrupt politics. Babies on the way while no financial burden make most species crazy. Try being a single mother just trying to keep your kids well enough hidden just to go off to find good eats for them. They have very emotional lives out there, full of pain and suffering. If whales could get drunk, mermaids would charge and set up breweries. But the ocean would dilute any profits, and two tons of blubber each would call demand too high and so whales throw themselves into our world just to escape. They could gulp the air so low key, surfacing like submarines, instead they splash mountains with their ferve, the same way we get down, tossing cares across dance floors. And we wonder why when  they take a breath, they reach for the sky, they just want to be free, where nothing of their world can touch them. And we wonder why when it's not enough, they just give up, just like us. Massive escapists desensitizing to the joys in the depths of their waters. We wonder why we find them so sad layed up on our beaches, you see it in their despondent eye. They just want to die in that memory of exhiliration. One. Last. Time. But they're not happy. Cuz they were always chasing a high that fleetingly springed them from all worry. They lay knowing its the last time and they wonder what's gonna become of them when its all over. They just figure what lays on the otherside, or even nothing has got to be better. Maybe they're right,  or maybe all the off kilter chemicals got the better of them. Full moons got them all emotional just like us, gravity pulling all their painful memories to the surface, pulling them up out of the ocean all hopeless. Shoot maybe some of them dont even mean it, they were just so tired of the krill or baby seal murda life, or sharks poaching their babies and needed longer and longer til oneday they got too sleepy and the tide snuck down too low. Like when I pass out in the shower when it's hot enough, I swear I was about to get out..then, ****. Maybe that's why they're so ******* sad. They didn't mean for it to be over, they just got caught up in that feeling. I bet the old ones though go on purpose, just to spite the sharks that took their babies out they'd rather rot in the sea breeze they loved. Or maybe they're so depressed at the loss of their child they just want it to be over. They carry their babies in their bellies just like us, I bet they get depressed like us or the smarter dogs. Being a whale, or any sober creature can be very hard, but at least if you're not running from it, you might see through the storm for the beauty of its strength, releasing fear to just stand in awe of it. You can learn to cope with pain in at least better measure to sprinting in laps, without intention, you're just on the track, even if its as vast as the pacific, adriatic, atlantic, doesnt matter all the waters you cross, they all just ran back into themselves. See, the whale can only cope, no emotional escape route, so no matter what comes, whale is miles wiser. Their calls sound a little sad but so hauntingly beautiful. Do not beach yourself humans, in your little ways everyday. Stop feeding this disbelief in yourself. You were given this brain to choose to overcome this pain, to communicate in new ways. If you get tired of something just cuz you're used to it, you've done fell off your rock, you slipped to drown in your own riptide, to get pummeled to death. Or as my Papa woulda said, you're not playing with a full deck. You drown in intoxicant, whatever your vice, liquor, uppers, downers, shopping, food, flirting, ******* to numb life's beating. You're running from sobriety, from reality, from those people you don't love anymore cuz they can't jive with your illusions. You'll look for every reason why your psyches not the problem. If you'd not only accept but seek the need to heal,  you wouldn't need constant change of scenery just to feel something, to feel snippets of sanity, mini vacations from your daily miseries. New people, places and substances are just so exhilarating, cuz you can't handle yourself. If you could, each listed above would be blessings of oneness, not necessity. Running is only blocking your life from mattering as much as it should. You squander potential wandering in circles inside yourself. I smoked **** habitually since I was twelve, it didn't really hurt me right, just my dump trucked loads of brain cells? Wrong! Sobriety is the hardest but most rewarding excursion so far. I delight everyday in the opportunities I can receive just cuz I can think so clearly. I have an occasional shot or glass of wine with coworkers and think God I feel good. Then go home and think and plot, how can I attain that joy without consuming a dollar, compromising my body?  How can I be so at home in my skin that I don't need that just to feel like this?  I'll let you know if I ever figure it out. It's the big ******* mystery, isn't it. I THINK my point is,  we would never know what's so good to be cherished if we always had it made. They call it a beautiful struggle, and i really think they're onto God with that one. Wherever your feet lay, next time you look down at them in dismay, remember your pain is the best teacher you never had to pay.  It makes you great, it makes you an epic ******* trilogy of the past present and future.  You'll get through this day, I promise you. Whatever it proves to be to you, I pray oneday you hold the kingdom. Oneday you'll praise yourself for holding on. Oneday you'll stop running. You'll just wake up and feel at home inside yourself how the wise whale makes peace with the ocean. Tempering the binges to the surface. As above so below. You just have to find the thrill within the hand you're dealt and make yourself better for it.

It was a neutral, fair weathered, mid October Friday night in downtown Raleigh, the sky painted with stars, but barely visible as lights are strewn out everywhere, glittering as they are draped across buildings to create a corner hidden from the rest of the world. There are also lights from the many expensive cars lining the already tight streets; Chrysler, Infinity, Volvo, BMW, but also there’s an array of Hondas and the Chevy I am currently riding in to get there myself.  The lights continue to follow my evening as the holidays are approaching, accompanied by Christmas lights hanging from local breweries. The skyline is made up of buildings mimicking an array of Christmas trees on a Christmas tree farm in December; one my favorite times of year.

The spirit of the air is carefree as people gather to unwind from the week before and have a good time with whomever they are with or alone. The variety of people is similar to that of Candy in a candy store; all there for the same purpose, but different in minor ways. Groups of friends occupying the sidewalks outside of restaurants, breweries, dessert bars, coffee bars, boutiques, and galleries. Hipsters walking proudly and dancing in the streets owning who they are in their hometown or possibly visiting to experience the uniqueness the beautiful city has to offer. Most people dressed their best to welcome the night before them and enjoy the company of their friends, walking around to whatever comes their way.

The atmosphere is quiet, peaceful, and chill but the night is nothing short of alive just like the people I experience. Young couples and individuals line the streets exuberating their young lively spirits into the air as they exhale smoke from their cigarettes. The streets are also lined with a couple individuals that seem a little sketchy, but that’s just because they keep to themselves and walk alone, not effecting the safe atmosphere Raleigh exuberates. Everyone seems to be focused on only who they came with, concentrating on what they will do that evening. My plans included dinner at The Pit, one of the greatest BBQ places I have ever been in my life.

The first place I went to this evening was a Chocolate Shop called Videri Chocolate Factory with the most intriguing vibe I have possibly received upon coming into a store. There are lights strung from the ceiling and a glass case containing expensive, gourmet chocolates made in house. As I continue to walk around the store there is a whimsical feeling I get when I notice the coffee bar and more Christmas lights hanging around and intricate glass cups behind the counter. Continuing down the corridor there is a large glass window displaying where the chocolate is made, making the experience even more real. As I continue to look around the store I notice most of the people are middle aged to older; the people with money. The chocolate in the store is not cheap, but I think most of the people who come to downtown Raleigh are also paying for the experience.

Upon leaving the shop I notice the outside of the store and this is one prime example I think of when I think that people physically impact the place in which they live. The picture shown above of the chocolate shop mimics so much of the personality of Raleigh that I have noticed. The store is made of bricks on the outside that you can tell have been there for a really long time, but displays a modern, exciting font and the final touch of bright white lights adds a perfect finish to the display of the store. The people of Raleigh (or the ones I have noticed the three years out of living here myself) tend to migrate towards vintage, old things and appreciate the beauty of unique sights that make you feel special and unique yourself upon going there.

Another key factor in the imagery of this shop that reminds me of the people of Raleigh is the artsy aesthetic that the door holds with the lights. There are so many art students who consistently go to downtown Raleigh and they are a part of what makes the atmosphere so bright and exciting. While the people who visit downtown Raleigh are looking for those vintage vibes and artsy aesthetics they are also incredibly modern much like the font the door holds. They are caught up on what is currently in style and trend setters themselves, but interpret it in a way that fits them personally. This to me is the only thing that people of downtown Raleigh have in common; they are old fashioned, vintage, modern, and unique all at the same time, perfectly mirroring the city in which they live.

The cigarette butts were piling up out front
Where was that steady breeze?
So she wouldn't have to get the broom out
So, they would blow off to the trees
Way back in the corner though
One man continued to smoke inside
It was a right given to him years ago
No one ever argued, no one ever tried
The bar was smelling musty
No matter how hard she tried
The owner couldn't make it fresh
That's because all the food was fried
In the window, a brown and crumpled card
Notified the world "We're Open" now
But, outside of the old man, and the crew
No one in the outside world really knew
Visitors never came here,
they stayed away from here
The regs didn't care though
To them, it meant more beer
A college game was on TV
Two crap teams from the west
No one was really watching them
The regs liked the East the best
The carpet, full of burn marks
From cigarettes long burned out
Dropped from pursed and drunken lips
Who also no longer were about
The barkeep could tell stories
Though there was few there who hadn't heard
The stories of the past long gone
The regs knew every word
The posters drab and dreary
Selling beer from years ago
From breweries long since empty
And with tag lines nobody even knew
A poster for Black Label
and one for Jolly's brew
In the back sat a piano
Out of tune and never played
It had been out of use forever
The keys were cracked and grey
The bar itself was dying
A relic inside four walls
It was dressed in papered squalor
Like an old man with no *****
The windows showed their age
Shaking when the wind did blow
Ice was always building on them
There was more inside that in the snow
A breath of life was badly needed
The bar was really already dead
They hadn't made a dime in decades
They always ran it in the red
Today though, things would change
The door opened from the past
In walked a man of substance
Another character to the cast
He sat down on a bar stool
Ordered up, and looked around
And there standing in the corner
He saw the piano...with no sound
Asking if anybody played her
The barkeep said "No, she's long since died"
"Do you mind if I go and play her"
"It's been a while since someone tried"
He rolled it out from dark in hiding
Hit a key, and hurt his ear
Lifted the lid to look inside her
And then he ordered up another beer
He hit the keys and played a little
"Let's give this thing a whirl"
The sound it made was flat and pokey
"There's lot's of life in this old girl"
"I'll tune it up and come and play her"
"If you'd like...that is of course"
"Mr. if that's what makes you happy"
"But, I think you're beating a dead horse"
"By the way, they call me Johnny"
"Johnny Fingers if you please"
"I'll tune her up and play a while"
"I'll get her clean and bang those keys"
The barkeep offered up a contract
Tune her up and play for free
"If you're good, I'll pay you extra"
"The jury's out, we'll wait and see"
Johnny laughed and said "You got it"
"I'll play whenever you decide"
"I'll play whatever's asked for"
And he had a smile ten miles wide
The barkeep said "The venture's on then"
"Let's have a talk, and grab a seat"
"There are some things I have to tell you"
"Johnny....welcome to The Street".

Stilted lingerie that fashions a kneaded traipse between trap-door destiny of double-take simultagnosia is a harder fright to outfox that even the most ghoulish amicable maskirovka of a throttled sapience beleaguered by the tropes of a tattermedalion class of Scarface vigor in the face of benighted tomes of a cruised palindrome of efficacy bromides flickering on the outskirts of esoteric thrones of catapults droning on about the listless squalor of philandering phronesis of ecdysiast *** in the cyprian hedges of limited wealth bemoaning the poverty of deprivation because of whiskers through feline sight languid in the remedial dances of captaincy snuck between the edges of destiny cordial only to Home Alone. We must sneak through the verdant pacification of an accordion grimace flanged by the eked snide spite of termagants of termination ruined by the future flickering into past distance because of spartan brutish mannequins of pasteurization glimpsing the thanatousia of death vindicated by vengeance brazen with a Colorado snare of a pinned etiolation of marauders of corsairs that only brave the delusion when the eternity is a trick-or-treat truth and dare consummated on the flimsy agape lychgates of constraints in flair that damage the ragged hypostasized engine of a blinkered hubris belonging to an anointed rigmarole fashioned into the pottery of fungible metamorphosis rather than frangible pulverization that scrapes through liturgy with abnegation rather than relishing plumage beyond the apes of apish planetary scares.


Trimming the blockbuster wearisome hardihood of plumes of fumigated regal ******* in the softened epigone of whiter masks of screaming scares
The times aplenty of swansong ignorance are a plaid disaster of Twister renegades that spar against the visagist carapace of hearkened live aware of ghosts that fuel the hypocrisy of belligerent mares
Forever stranded through the finifugal heaves of a 32 leaves magician of rollicking base jumps with acidic tatters in King of the World stunts the hirsute body politic is a pump and dump trumpery of livid thrills on the substitution of funk for skunk rather than grooves for humps
Nevertheless the scrappy schlep of a foggy dreary destiny is ablaze with Sergeants blistering through Forest Gump bumps as the alighted 80s returns with a vengeance in empires of victory rather than slippages of slump
Renewed by the litigable menace of oilers ****** with crudity and swimming in the askew verdure of the lewd and **** we bolt through the coltish demiurge of fastened fascination flaming with firebrands of deliberation scampering away in blemishes of profanity too rude
We scrape the legacy of elegant injustice and injury because the flamestun hypocrisy of leprosy caused by time is a rustic blue suede shoe that flummoxes in hibernation because of staggered queues ravishing too much of a screwball to be nailed because black artifacts are always unscrewed
Thanks to teamwork the cosmogony of regalia knows the Montana providence of a lissome liposuction radical in renewal because of the Morrison Hotel rather vacant but always populated with a carpal tunnel of slick oleaginous dramatics for histrionic history likable because the news is a purple hue relishing the paradise of cineaste rundles of candlelit mood
Imagine searing the sunlit halidom of the peak-time grooves of unbuttoned blarney frank and swiveled on sclerotic pretense slippery in fashion only to be ironclad in personas of the whispered woo in termagant liturgy that is a colporteur of genius hinged upon collective suitcases of IOUs blameless because the criminal is always hatched upon a 108 pentagon of newsy gripping footage of managerial flames of a barnstorm beyond booths but never above the scarecrow minister of the voguish tempers of trudgery spawned into the folkspun homely ties and wrinkles of wizened love too Titanic to be used
Parker hobohemia scowls at the punitive warbles of marsupial kingpin southern flashes of hyperborean ramshackle ruins of pooches scampered around like littoral fragments of a cinematic crudity in defeated torpindage blistering with foresight in vengeance because the clockwork hour is amazed but horrified by belligerence in overdosed ledgers of legends amused
Time hearkens that craven radication of rhizogenic demiurge blinking above the sleeping awake ringleaders of sedition enthused because of malapert princes crackling with homage to honed sharpened edges of a double-edged whisper reversal into the antithesis of the heaving red serrated by the vindication of impertinent criminals flustered by the pinpointed genius of the Primarily Blues.
Time sees past the sedative fliction of fictitious mangers on primipara  tunes that the euphoria of the now is the cement of every LP belonging above the charlatans of chavish sutured into a surgical effigy of the whitewashed preeminence of discernment into the discs that surpass the ashen cordiality of permissive and permissible leaky faucets rasping through the headlines because of craters of love becoming glabrous above the halvorked entropy of newsy Newport News living above Virginia in Deep Impact legends tipsy on shipwrecks happening too soon to be  immaculate in any crimson style of an inescapable rhyme scheme trying with clambered witticism to achieve belletrist while escaping capstone filigrees of untouchable Terry Crews.
Flickering whimpers of the scary impenetrable Kansas City brain of the touchy hedges of fumigated marstions of erratic flackeys of breweries enthused in an amazed skullduggery of time slipping on crackles of fizzgigs of clambered retinues of radical roots between a tight avenue and a broadened broadway limping on the cinemas that belong to the truth and not the rickety barnstorm of ostentation encased by bonanzas to pontifical to create a topspin of HappyGilmore erasure in bridewells of roomy litigation in uncomfortable contortions of contacts without lenses to excuse.
In the cavernous spelunk of 1990s crimson bleeding into the  expansive liturgy of the ripples of percolation cornered into diminished vacancy anointed as ritualized contrition craving a tighter grip on the tightest swank that could ever be parlayed into New England madcap screws the hunters of the hunted hypocrisy become the travail of the antagonized epiphany of flackey rice in avaricious retches beyond the squabble of punks in due times for clockwork tickers and tickets swarming with infested blemish
The ridicule of sapience is the knowledgeable manicure of livid lurid hypertrophy in exaggeration of the knowledgeable tongue of the Flemish foundering on seaworthy chemists of menace and muse too suburban to ever be urbane bourgeosie limited rankled rancid rancor of ramshackle rackrent gouges too much of a Beetlejuice excuse.
Rhythm for the fulcate furrows of the hypogeiody of epochs slinkywith aced endeavors for misadventure likened to the greatest oiler in the 1980s terror list is a craven capture of photogenesis in rapture that fastens seatbelts of strawberry deaths of crackles of blinkered hubris accelerated by the twisters of vulcanized culmination blasted for history for headlines in ravines of mastery beyond the persnickety prestidigitation of magic sarcasm in the avalanche of dynasty never nastier than violence vile in acerbic posterization of plumage that is blacker than Rush Hour in the menace of Dennis in fractal philosophy funneled into one brittle muster of height rather than weight in freakish geometries of squirrels battering a home run cast away in fracture

I sit in the garden to think
she sits in the kitchen to drink
from the bottle of gin
hidden under the sink
didn't know that I knew
but
I help myself to a few in those moments of stress
when it seems that the more becomes less, the more you imbibe.

I go inside to find she has slunk to the floor
drunk so much more than a bottle or two
I must do
what I promised to do
to have and to hold to care for until old
and though I've told her I know
she'll still drink when I go
away from her side.

She did try to hide it
denied it
but she just couldn't win
the giveaway was
empty bottles overflowing, that dripped from the bin and the glasses I found hidden underneath chairs.
I said to her somebody cares and that somebody's me, but she couldn't see it was so.
So I'll go
and she'll drink
never stopping to think of the damage it does
to me or to her.
Still
I do care
it's the contract we made and I'll care 'til the day that I lay her to rest.

She says,
'it's best not to worry there's
no hurry for that
but when she's flat on the floor with bottles galore,all empty
it tempts me to think
that I too will drink 'til I can't drink no more and join my little darling
down there on the floor.
Life,
I ask
what is it for,
a tour around breweries
to stand before a jury of my peers,
to drink even more beers
to say cheers and depart?
A drink never mended a broken heart or stopped tears from falling
the barman's calling time
and time for another,
one for the road
which goes on and on 'til the pain has all gone
and she sleeps.

The zine entailed a ton of work
that mostly went unnoticed.

He printed, folded, stapled
a slapdash publication few appreciated.

Stacked ten-deep, it festered unread in coffee shops,
indie bookstores, craft breweries.

A zinester isn't daunted by obscurity.
After all, a zinester is never voiceless.

The snobbish din of clinking cut-glass and a murmured ambient sound,
Of fine dining the Foie gras that seems so profound.
Seems like such a class divide from yesterday’s soiree,
Of the taste of fried chicken and chips that street food provided me, amidst its mad melee.
Tomorrow will be the oriental chimes to my ears and my palette of taste,
As I rate the **** of their culinary, taking my time and never in haste.
Never minding my late last night, quaffing exoticness in cocktails and dreams,
Amidst psychedelic lights, thumping music and frenzied screams.
For I am to decide the best of the best,
Of gastronomical delights that the nation offers, without a rest.
So awaken your senses and make ado,
For the show that’s a Tell All of the Top 10 in eateries and breweries, old and new.

No, I don't feel happy
I don't think I ever did
I used to be an Angry Young Man
Now I'm just a grumpy old ***
I think​ that discontentment
Is all there is in life
We are unhappy being single
Then we're ******* with the wife
If we were always happy
And all we knew was bliss
There would be no need for drugs
And we wouldn't get ******
So to protect the trade of dealers
And of the breweries too
We should accept unhappiness as our lot
Well, what else can we do

About when I graduated in 2009, America tried on a strange glow up for the next 10 years. Dive bars, chain restaurants, and bumping clubs started to be seen as tacky by young adults. New Ideas, seemingly home grown and more authentic sprung up;  craft breweries, farm to table restaurants, concept bars, and quirky shops selling only alpaca wool socks. The walls and floors were brick and rough wood. The tables were stone and the lights were strings of bare bulbs, dimly dangled over minimalist décor and ferns.