They put the Air Pirates in jail. And they shut down the vault. They made endless sequels to my childhood. And I hate the for it.
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Friday, June 27, 2008
She said, "Don't look at my knuckles because I put my fist through a brick wall last week. And this weekend, I have to get out of town."
He said, "Look at my hands, then. This one is from a steel door, like 20 years ago, And this one is from 15 years ago, that was the concrete. And this one is from last year and it was a piece of metal and it took forever to heal. But they all heal. They just leave you with a roadmap of your past and my road, I don't want to walk down like that any more."
And she cried into her whiskey and played with her tossled hair and they went back to watching the monster movie playing in the dive bar.
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I wonder if other people get told the same story. I wonder if the script is the same. I wonder if the play ends the same way, with Lincoln shot in the fucking face. I wonder if the words change. I wonder where the road turns next. I wonder if the wheels are ever gonna fall off this car. I wonder what song is on the radio next. I wonder why the fuck I even cared, ever.
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I don't know what song I wanted my life to be. Maybe a Beatles song. Or a Wings song. But my life is a Hold Steady song. My life is an Afghan Whigs song. I am a Smiths song. Or even worse, a Morrissey song. I know all the words. And I can sing it to you so well. Maybe you'll be able to hear it far, far away.
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These toys are orphans on the shelf. Silverhawks and Thundercats and Ghostbusters villains. No one wants you. People used to cry when they were kids for you and now they sell you for cash because everyone outgrows everybody eventually. Even the ones with good articulation and weapons. Everyone gets thrown away. Everyone just gets used to being covered with dust and hopes that someday, someone buys them and does more than cover them with firecrackers.
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Man, when Priscilla left, all Elvis wanted to do was have girls fight in their white underwear on the bed. He'd make them wrestle, he'd fly across the country to get a peanut butter and bacon friend banana sandwich, he did all these drugs, he shot TV sets, he slowly killed himself and his career buried beneath layers of fat and abuse and self hate and narcotics and delusions. What a way to go.
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Every day, I lose a little bit more. I scramble for a piece of it, but really, all I have now is scraps and pieces and pixels and parts. I tried to hold it in my arms and I tried running with it and I fell and I looked down and it was everywhere and it went in the wind and I couldn't hold it any more. And now, I watch it fly off into the horizon and it's the slowest flying off ever. Each stage of it is like letting the cuts all over my arms heal and then ripping the scabs off and laughing about it. There'll be a time where all I see is clouds and sky and it will all melt together and I won't be able to look up any more because the sun will have burned all the tears from my eyes finally. And then it'll all be easy. I'll become one of the faceless, I'll become one of the rank and file and I'll have lost every single tie and every single bit and every single yard and all I'll have left to remember it by is the burns it left on my hands when I tried to hold on too tight and the goodbye that never escaped from my throat.
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Wednesday, June 25, 2008
They do business with the little people. The people who makes the world go round. God bless George Bush. I call them every day and tell them that their sign is a joke, that George Bush is a reptile alien who created religion and he's coming to make the Rapture happen and then they are gonna harvest our souls. Eat them. My soul will get caught in his teeth. The world will end and not go around. So fuck your sign and fuck your politics and fuck your TV and fuck your life.
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Tuesday, June 24, 2008
I haven't been to your grave and I don't know if I can find it. I hope you can forgive me. I heard you died when I was a kid, but it wasn't really you. You died later and it took forever and I wished it would have gone better but wishes wished fishes. And I don't want to sit on the green grass and tell you my problems. You'd tell me to shut the fuck up. You'd tell me to be tough. And yeah. I saw you get set on fire and I tried to do the same. They stabbed you so I let them stab me. And I got your body but I didn't get your will. How did you keep coming back for more shit to eat every single day? You started with shit, raining from heaven like piss off a bridge, and you came back and you slept with russians and crashed through christmas trees even though you never had a christmas and the truth is my problems don't mean shit to anyone. But maybe if you were here you'd punch me and make me laugh. Your hair would flip up and you'd get that big smile and you'd tell a dirty joke and you'd make me laugh through the haze and we'd go get chicken wings up in West Pittsburgh, which is nowhere near Pittsburgh. We'd go shoot at rats or plates or work under a car even though I had no clue how the fuck to fix it. My life is a car. It's got no wheels and people stabbed the seats and I don't wear no fucking seatbelt any more. I want to go through the windshield. I want to be a driver's ed movie. But not really. I don't tell anyone how I really feel. I lie. I lie all the time. I tell everybody it's cool. But I can't ever lie to you. And I couldn't ever lie to you, either.
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I got this text that said "I respect myself too much to be your second banana. I hope you get what you want." I get lots of good texts. This was not one of them. I cleared it out, I deleted the number and the name, I drove to work. And I don't care.
I wanna throw this phone out the window. I wanna smash my laptop like the last one I put my fist through. I'm gonna pull the wires out of the fucking wall. I'm gonna make a cave and just stay there because I want to sleep until my beard grows and the world goes away and I wake up and smash my glasses and can't read every book.
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The dust floats through the lights and I watch it and wonder if it can think. It floats and flits and flies and sparks out across the night. And if I had enough money, I'd just leave this town and never look back. But I don't. So I spiral, I spin, I am in the spotlights, I hide, I want to say so much and it always turns into misunderstandings and I can see the horizon and the mountains growing further and further and I have no idea how to stop it but to be dust. I want to reach out but I know that when I just grab air it's gonna crush me. I wanna yell out but there isn't an ear that wants to listen. I want to put the pedal down but the gas has gone dry. I wish I could cough hard and leave my body and just be torn to shreds by the wind. I want to fall off, trail off, be static, stuck between stations, two songs playing at once in your head until one goes away forever.
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Like a modern day Rasputin
I am obsessed with these. We are going to have a party and do every drug known to man and then eat greasy food and then watch bad movies and put these on our feet and suck all the toxin out. We will feel cleansed.
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Monday, June 23, 2008
I want to use this keyboard to rewrite my life. I will use my delete key to take out my character. I'll change him to be a better hero. He'll be a leading man. Roguish. Someone to be admired. But I won't make any sequels. I just want to make an impression and leave. I want my first album to be my last. I want to drive 50 miles more and lie down. In the bar light, we all look alright. In the haze, everyone looks fine. I just see the cracks forming. I see the mountains shifting and soon not even smoke signals will say what I want to say. Every cell phone will say no signal. Sometimes, it's easier to cut your hand off than use a bandaid.
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Always living for tomorrow. Because today. Today is drinking away the hours you can't sleep away. The priest just kinda laughed. Living loving on broken wheels. But no, no. We don't really love each other. You went downtown to try and win him back and all you got was crashed. You sat in bars and saw her change into him and you wanted to be there for it and you just watch from the outside, face against the windows, fists against the bricks. You text me song lyrics that make me worry about you. We got honesty but too much, my friend. I've seen you covered in sadness and swear and rarely, if ever, happiness. You make mixtapes full of pain and sorrow and even I think it's all too much and that's saying something. I'd try and save you, but I don't think saving anyone is all that possible.
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Magazines
I am a Modest Mouse lyric. I am the end of every Tom Waits song. I am the end of the movie that haunts you. I am the smoke stuck in your pipe. I am waiting for the night. I am the minutes before the concert starts and the second it disappoints you. I am all the clothes that don't fit you any more. I am water sputtering through your nose. I am that last mile before you run out of gas. I am a poster in front of a Wal-Mart. I am the devil on my own shoulder. I am the end of everything.
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The fallen soldiers used to be Cobras and now they're beer cans. The cans were covered in butter gone rancid. The Cobras are long gone and even their parents have forgotten they were ever here. Plastic melted thumbs popped off lying to rot in your backyard. They had such dreams of making the world what they wanted. And now, they are buried in graves unmarked. They had their war. I can understand. At least theirs was with guns and bombs and rockets and fire. They didn't have hearts in their plastic chests. And their heads didn't say one thing that they couldn't reconcile with the rest. They were made to die, just like us, but they lived for moments ended by roman candle and M80 and cherry bomb. Flash crash bang boom. Not slow long drawn out. Their swivel arm battle grip plastic weapons would be no match for the war between head and heart. They'd melt as sure as I do. We'd march into battle, no match for the forces amassed against us, our weak points obvious for all to see. You can try as hard as you want but in the long run, nobody really gives a fuck when they're taking a piss on your unmarked grave.
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Someday, you're going to walk past me and never know it. You won't even have a feeling. It'll just be two people passing through. The eyes in the street will all look the same and the colors will all fade into one grey tone and I will walk amongst them a number with no name. My eyes will be dry and my voice will be still and when people look at me, I won't have that quiver in my lip. All the surgeries will have worked. I'll be just like everyone else, finally, no longer a real boy but a wooden clone lost in the lost crowd. Dust and dirt and black uncarved faces and hearts made of stone, not glass. Fists and arms unblemished by scars. Minds blank of anything. Walking nowhere with a purpose. I'll be just like everyone else someday. I'll forget what makes me lie awake. I'll struggle to remember days of sitting on that porch staring out into the unending day. Everyone wants heaven but all I want is to sleep and sleep and sleep and for the world to just forget me.
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I've been thinking a lot about songs. Goodbye songs. Happy Trails. We'll Meet Again. I can't even listen to the version of that song on American IV. Keep smilin' through/
Just like you always do/Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away. I think goodbye songs are hard to write. God knows I've tried. I sit awake all night in bed, door closed, lights out, the fan illuminated by the shaft of light cutting through the curtains and I sit there and think and try and make the words rhyme. I'd hate to walk away without a goodbye song. But it'd have to be sad and funny and not angry. I'd have to be able to just fold into the dark and walk slow and steady and fade out. And instead, I stick around like a bad cold. I just gotta find the words to the song.
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Friday, June 20, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
I don't want to ride alone. I ride alone every day. Every single day. 110 miles. And I just want someone to talk to. Someone to put their hand on my leg every now and again. Someone to lean back and sing out loud and whoop and drive through dark country roads with. But I know that at the beginning of each day, at the end of each night, on fateful and unfateful days, I'll look across the car to air and only the sounds of my sigh and the radio playing yesterdays will be my only companions.
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Let me talk all night. I will tell you about alien gods starting our world. About thunderbirds. Betty and Barney Hill. Nazi UFOs deep inside the hollow earth and rusting around the bases on the moon. I'll lull you to slumber with tales of long dead gods sleeping beyond the wall of sleep, Yog Sloggoth resting in his ocean palace, the mad man who wrote the chatterings of insects torn apart in the street. Nothing is real and everything is possible. If you believe in me enough I will come true. And you will be a real girl.
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I'm gonna sell my childhood. Will everyone treat the figures with the love that I had? Will they make sure their thumbs don't break off? Will you make sure that you watch out for the heart? Will you keep it safe? Will you know what it needs and give it the watering and care and devotion that I couldn't? Because my memories will end up in an old swimming pool or on some hipster's desk. And it'll be a few bucks in my pocket. But oh, the long gone days of pillow mountains and sleeping bag lakes. I was always the bad guys. And they always all died. Valiantly. They gave their lives to the cause of evil they believed in, but they were the best kind of bad guys. The ones that thought they were right. Will you make sure that when they feel lonely and lost and want life to move faster, will you stop your busy day and get off your fucking ass and say what you feel or will you let the toys collect dust? My Christmases and birthdays and hard worked for castles and slime pits are going to the highest bidder.
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In the middle of it, it should have been perfectly fine. But it wasn't. Oh, she was having a great time, filling my ears with stimuli. But the truth was, I laid there and wished I was anywhere but here. I floated. And I pushed on. And that's the thing. I wondered if I have become like someone else. That people have ceased being people and just objects. I try and keep the ones I care about people. But everything else is just a waste of time. Even this. And I keep doing it. And she keeps happy. Really happy. But don't fall for me. I'm not all that nice. And I'm not really here. You are meeting the robot. You are meeting the automatic me. The real me is somewhere else and I think he coughed so hard that his head split and the pieces of him floated into the universe and he didn't want to collect them any more so he let them scatter and to keep up Don Knotts being Brian Epstein appearances, they left this one behind. And he's here with you now. Don't turn him over, you'll see where the batteries that power him are. That isn't a heartbeat you feel when you put your ear to his chest. That's fluids swirling around inside him that make it sound like he's living and breathing and a real boy. This is as much as you are going to get out of him. He'll be polite but he'll be a ghost.
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I am listening to the leak of Chinese Democracy by Guns N Roses. This album has been recorded for over ten years. That said, what I am listening to is great. It really is. So I am here to tell you how much I love Guns N Roses. I fucking love them. When I was a kid, and read Rip! magazine, everyone was always talking about them and they weren't even on a label yet. They were always like, those guys are crazy and on drugs and just will implode. And yeah, they fucking did, but man. Is there any band today that you honestly don't know if a riot will break out when they play? The thing is, I love the songs. Rocket Queen. 14 Years. Pretty Tied Up. I could go on and on. So here are two reasons why I truly love them. One, on Rocket Queen, that moaning? It's Axl fucking Steven Adler's girlfriend. Adler found out when the album came out and he heard her on it. Two, a girl asked Axl to write her a song, like Elton John wrote Your Song. He wrote her My Michelle, which is the biggest fuck you ever, and told her to be careful what she asked for. Man, Axl. Wearing a catcher's vest and a kilt. Fucker.
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So the jukebox played two songs. And one was about a man loving a woman and it was real. And the other one was about a man loving someone but it was just a dream. And it was all random, it just happened, but nothing is really random. And I would like to think that the message was from the first one or somewhere in the middle. I would like to hope that the universe, while a trickster who will put a name on a nametag when I am at a low ebb, isn't that cruel to talk shit on me. Or is it like UFOs? Do we believe because we want to see things, so we see them? I don't think so. I think the signs are there and maybe the thing is, the signs are right. But not right now. All I want for now is to talk freely and have hope and smooth and fun and lemonade with cherry rum and a clean house and well trimmed shrubbery and for someone to occasionally feel like holding my hand.
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Wednesday, June 18, 2008
My goals:
To be called a nancy boy without reacting like a nancy boy.
To not be so nebby.
To not use words like nebby.
To just come to a conclusion and not go on.
To not be the prince of lies.
To smell good.
To laugh more.
To hang out with my dog more.
To never set my alarm.
To watch a movie with my favorite ninja.
To stock my fridge with good food.
To be the kind of man that was around in the 1940s.
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