NOBODY, trust ol' Joseph...

That sorry bastard is at it again!

Staying outside the loop

hands clamped to ears - don't hear this daily commotion. Stay blind by will. To avoid the motion. You know where you're going... This America is a maze! and Fat Cats sit atop high horses and watch all the rats race themselves ragged. Looking for small bits of cheese. The only way to win is to choose not to play. Then you'll never be consumed by that insane dream... of actually making it out, of these dirty streets. There's really 3 ways to play: 1) Be born with it, 2) steal it, 3) or forget about it. I, personally, am going for option 3. But be careful would-be followers. Because "forgetting" aint easy. It takes a lot of practice. But that's ok. I got my whole life. To waste.

some small surrender

some small surrender

I'm polishing old bones as a form of meditation
while time clocks sing out a damn depressing song.

Seeping into daylight. What wonder waits with
sharp teeth? So shiny they bounce light. Breaking
it into prisms. Shot up in white noise.

This segue has vigor. It inspires the dull joy
of hard work.

Prying up the afternoon. The hazy promise of morning
has worn down by the kinetic energy of motion and the
constant narrowing of interesting possibilities.
Slow... Stop. Rest. Re-calculate. There's still the
sanity of sunlight left. Soon the dark madness of
night will be here to work its magic on the
best and worst of us flesh and blood
poor bastards.

Have a drink. Find something to laugh at.
NOthing will ever stop this terrible forward motion.

The only feasible option I've ever found
is to dream against the mortal chaos, this
silly, awkward life.

Each day is a comic tragedy. Each sunrise is
another chance for us to fall and fumble into
our true nature: broken, bruised angels.
Too ugly to shine. Too beat-up to not adore.
This is, indeed, a strange existence.

The Philosophy of Patience

Revisiting a terribly comfortable form of self-destruction. I’m an accidental humorist. An idle Tourist wandering the vast region where southern wit meets mediocre writing. I cannot find a landmark to use for direction. So I sit and daydream about Mother Nature or Father Science somehow ripping into the Earth, tearing apart the foundations of our physical lives. But then time passes, without incident. Time grows stagnate, but offers distance from old pain. Time stretches into a decade-sized crater. Still no mushroom cloud. Still no inspiration. Still I sit, revisiting a comfort that has sharp teeth. Dusting off old mistakes and replacing their batteries. This is a philosophy of patience. It’s a terribly tragic stasis. I am writing my masterpiece, in Morse Code, using the twiddling of my two sore thumbs.

HOT AIR

HOT AIR

Figments of my exaggeration
have bounced out into the world
spread mouth to mouth
like an airborne virus
THE WORDS ARE CONTAGIOUS

And soon enough they
bounce back at me
Only now they've grown teeth
sharp enough to bite me in the ass

I'm being attacked by past tenses
while borrowing nails to help
mend too many broken fences
this isnt the disease itself
but it's damn sure a symptom

If I had sense then Id
keep my words to myself
tucked neatly beneath my heart
because that's the place I guard the most
And hidden under that safety
of that heavy muscle,
my words can play host to silence
and stay close to God

Immortal Children
cute and ridiculous

HOT AIR

day in, day out

Echoes in an empty passion
re-visiting old symptoms
seeking comfort from the
bear trap of responsibility
(and NO! I don't want to talk about it)
You cant participate in this life
without getting elbow-deep
And when some things stick to you
they bed down, in the skin
they get in your blood and
corrupt your insides
Sometimes you dig so far down
you can't see the sky
Knee-deep in the sewer of days
like you're window shopping for
your own grave site
And the cycle spins still
like an idiot running from insanity
Some comforts cost too much
And in the long run, none of this
will ever yield gold
Only the stone floor of
sober living would
offer some new eager survival
something besides this glaringly
illogical crutch
that's just a cheap knock-off of passion
nothing but thoughts bouncing off walls
in an empty room

Welcome

Its July 4th, a day of independence.
I'm one beer into a six pack.
It's starting to get dark.
Fireworks will be here soon.
I'm waiting for bright bangs on the horizon.
We all need a show.