The last day of my project

I've pushed this to the last day I could. I've waited till the afternoon of the last day I could turn this in. I'm going to work, as the sun goes down. All of this is normal except for this is the last day that I have to do this ever... for my undergraduate. It sounds better if I leave the end off, but I'm a realist when it comes to my education. I know they will get my money at some point and time, I'm just lucky enough to have gone this long without forkin' over the doe. Apart from that I've got a good feeling in my stomach and I'm excited for the future. I keep on getting the chronic end of college question, "what are you gonna do with your life?" And I happily reply with a smile, and a I have no idea. I think it's due to the fact that no college athlete wants to be pretentious enough to say, "I think I'll play in the league for a couple of decades, and in that time Ill figure out who I want to be at forty." Now I know that is not the truth for me, but still I have dreams of grandeur when I wake up in the morning before my alarm goes off(always makes me feel extremely productive by the way). But as I look at my future which seems to be only a weekly thing mapped before me, I can say this truthfully, I am excited for whats to come. A couple of my friends have known since the beginning they got to college what "Their Thing" was; one of my buddies is to be the next small town propane tycoon, another, has already procured a spot in the public relations offices of the Minnesota Vikings, and she just graduated this last spring. I see there success and future lives in their respective businesses and I'm excited for them. I have no doubt they will see the returns in there financial sectors while I remain poor, but I'm not to sure I could do what they're doing right now. I have freedom being the way I am; that is astonishingly immature and undecided after college. But the thing I've never understood about the way people, families, and society does with those fresh out of college is try to figure them out and funnel them into a path as soon as the four years of college are over. And maybe I'm sayin this from a jaded perspective, as a athlete in college, we don't get to truly travel and the stuff that we do is so regimented that we are basically giant, beefed up children on a field trip wearing the same bright blue jump suits(if you ever see that, now you know whats goin on). I don't know how it is to be rich, to be able to just take off anytime that i got free time. I have no idea how it is to plan trips, my organization is a little off center and broken. But, I'm getting off topic. The truth for me is I want to really experience life before I decide what I want to do with my younger years. I haven't really been living life; I get catered to for the majority of the time that I'm active in this institution, and while I am more than appreciative for what the university has done for me, I'm ready to try it out for myself. I can imagine myself doing anything really. If I was a bus boy, I would be the most energetic bus boy that ever swiped a table; if I were a construction worker I don't doubt that I would have several referrals for wolfin' it up from time to time, but I'd be excited to be doing some work that shows in the completed product. I can't remember if Ive said it on this blog, but the words of Steve Jobs have been resounding in my head all semester, "Be a Bus Boy[do whatever] until you figure out what you love." Right now, I embody the statement "I Don't Know?" and I think it's odd that I should have to.


Sandpaper Souls

It’s odd to see

The gangs in politics.

Crips and Bloods

In Crisp tailored suits

Allegiances to colors that

Bleed through their cloth,

Animals more savage than

The ones that represent there party.

They don’t give back,

They only know how to consume,

Consume, take, consume

Smiling with there bloody teeth

An Invisible voice gives orders,

The drones follow through,

No questions asked,

Just productivity and money.

What sets them in motion?

What is the difference?

Is it the colors?

Their god damn outfits?

Stripped of those suits,

Removed of their symbols,

Relieved of there beloved colors;

They are monsters.

One like the other.

Brothers playing with others fates.

Square sanded souls

Worn down by years

Of fitting in there cubicles,

Surviving in neighborhoods

Far from the untouchables they banish.

Continually shaving off pieces,

They’ve scarred their faces,

Till the lacerations

Camouflage the mouth

And all that’s left are the eyes.

Hollowed and unblinking

"It's a romantic notion"

On those cold days,

Where the wind sways

The trees that hung over the porch;

Do you think of me

Beneath oak trees,

Can you feel me sink in your pores?

With those soft lips,

And curved hips,

Love me half past midnight

But my cold feet

Slap slick streets

As I loose you to the light

We have minutes,

That’s all we get.

Our time ends

With lips so wet.

Behind your door; discrete,

Laying in a used sweat,

Our love is wrapped in bed sheets.

Dead Memory Collage

“Do you remember the time?”,

Always defined us.

You’d say: “Wake up,

You're sleeping with your eyes open,

Better start dreaming!”

I see you still

In that old blue chair

With the smooth wood arms.

The dusty old blanket

That hung over the back,

The white bucket of walnuts

On the side near the kick-up handle.

I still crack them,

They smell like you.

The aged inside crumble in my hand

Joining the dust in the carpet.

Being a child

Defined our world.

We stomped on eggshells

Spilling the yokes,

Dirty up our pant legs,

Painting Red sports cars yellow.

Laughing so hard we can’t breathe

So hard we forgot how,

Hard enough we forgot why.

When I taste vodka

I know it’s you.

Running around in the night

Driving around in the day.

Loving, living

Joking, falling

Fucking, swearing

Just –ing-ing.

Spinning in while standing still

Calling out for anyone

But needing no one.

"He's a strange one, that boy" 

You can’t scrub me away

My dark skin protects my soul

I am Black,

I am White ,

I am both. The same.

A Biracial clusterfuck,

The child of God’s eventual Progeny

With a Black/White name.

Not a chain wearin’ thug,

Not a white collared tennis player,

But all things in between,

On a scale from Rick Ross to Ralph Nader

I reflect the mean.

People call me Oreo

Halfy, Swirl

Vanilla Chocolate Love Sandwich.

Makes me laugh to think

How hard it must be,

To catalogue something like me.

I’m a god damn S’more!

An all American Staple!

Crisp toasted Brown outside

Inside, a fusion of gooey and smooth.

I’m an indulgence.

Begging to be consumed

Pushed on the taste buds

Growing on your preferences

Until I’m your favorite.

The way I look

Has always been a means of joy.

My lips (these Lips) are apples

Big red Juicy apples

That pull in curious little white Eves

To day dream about

Their father’s nightmares.

But what comes from these lips

Is ironic social Humor from above,

I speak with the clarity of a meteorologist

In the middle of the summer

Northwestern Tight diction

From my quick togue

Barely slower than my wink.  

Oh, how the days blend together... to hell with it, here are more products.

I sit in front of this screen so much, I'm startinging to think its weird during the day when the pale white light isn't shining off my nose. but I guess when you sign up to be a writer you reap what you sow. It's a strange contradiction to my writing style though, I'm all about figuring my life out through interraction, creating joy in my life through that odd thing we call face to face communication. But today I woke up in a glorious mood, maybe due to the fact I am mear days, hours of papers, and a presentation away from being done with  my undergraduated; or possibly its that I woke up refreshed at 11:15am, skipping my class that has an amazing ability to deflate me intellectually and leave me with a sneer and a distaste for litterature. Whatever it may be, I think today I will finally sit down, bite my lip and put the last of my poems down and complete this project. Through this project I've realized something about myself; I can spew a whole bunch of shit before I find something that I think speaks true to the Human narrative and in a more self-centered view, myself. these last poems were longer and I spent a little time with them. they started more raw and I formed them over November and now I present them, content with my product. Enjoy.

Convalescence/ Your Ekphrasis

I

This was never…

Staring at the Floor,

Two lucid minds,

Aimlessly avoiding the eyes

That once had…

These clothes confining

What we used to keep warm

Your arms crossed with nothing

To hold.

The empty space

Grows

With the tick

Of my golden alarm clock,

You’re miles away from me

In this room, we... are undignosed

II

The absence creates reprints

No blacks or blues

Only whites and reds.

Wipe off the dust

Enough

To see what we created

When we created it

A romantic picture

With several copies beside it

Corroding in the dust among

The skeletons in the attic

"She heard the message from the bottle"

I

Drink up, little Girl

You’ve made it where you wanted.

Here, amongst the wolves

Frolic in your short meat skirt.

And baby, they look hungry

But

Don’t fear, I’m hear

So Drink up, little Girl.

Taste the world, little mama

Savor the nail polish,

The flavor of watered down pine trees

Learn to love the burn

That coats your throut,

Restlessly sturing in your chest.

Feel your freedom sweetened or tart

Enjoy the familiar smell of your father

Of your grandfather

Of me.

Drink up, little one

I will always be here.

II

Drink up, little girl,

Take me down fast and violent

Spill me, my love,

From the corners of your mouth

Sliding cross your cheek

Rolling down your neck

Blotting your shirt with wet.

Don’t worry what they say, love

I’m here for you.

Drink up! Drink up!

Fuck their whispers,

We sing badly proudly.

Let’s dance, My baby, Just dance

I’d catch you when you get dizzy

But I love rollin’ in the grass

And on the carpet.

Drink me, lovely girl!!

They are numb, you are alive,

We are amazing!

 

III
Drink slow,

Wait for me, baby

You’re swimming out to deep.

I can’t see you anymore

Over the swells of drunks.

I Hit the floor, near empty.

Without you, Im naked.

What happened to you

When I got left behind?

IV

My dear,

Put your hands round

My shoulders.

Don’t Cry, love.

Tonight marks the beginning

Of our love affair.

I know its true,

By the way you kiss me

In the morning.

"Purge" Day 2

These ones are weird, but that's just the way she goes some times. Sometimes I find the weird ones are the most creative and fun to do. The Coleridge poem I created with Amanda, my partner in course on the romantics where we decided that Coleridge didn't quite understand there is a fine line between love and stalking. I didn't think it was initially poetry but as it is now. why the hell not?

Passing Notes: Coleridge to Sarah

Sarah,
You are lovely,
Do you love me?
                        -Coleridge
Samuel,
Sorry, but no. Please,
Stop writing about me
                        -Sarah
Sarah,
I can't.
You are my muse.
Your every movement
Is the twitch of my pen.
I love You.
                         -Coleridge
Samuel,
Do not doubt that I will
call the police.
If I see you through my window
once more, I shall
strike you with a willow branch
                        -Sarah
Sarah,
Oh Sarah, That would
Be splendid,
for so long my heart
has been frozen in sleep,
Awaken me with your willow branch
                        -Coleridge

Love is a Crossword Puzzle

I hate the way you bitch about my hair,
Literally can't stand how loud you snore
Only you would think it is funny to see you in pain,
Verifying your status as succubus.

Everyday I wake up fantasising that you don't.
Yet, you keep on ticking like Satan's clock
On all that matters, I will never understand how
Unbearable you are, but I still love you.

"Little Boy you're goin' ta Hell"

This just in:
I'm goin' to hell.
I danced too badly,
I drank enough
I have been an avid practitioner
in premarital sex.
I stayed up past 2
to watch nothing but shapes
and bad dialogue.
My only steady relationship is
with Internet porn.
I lied to my boss
and said that my auntie died,
but don't judge me
to lightly, cause she did, later.
I've motherfuck'd
a fair amount of authority figures,
physically and verbally,
I've passed the offering trey
The majority of my life,
And I've said I love you
when I didn't mean it.

So I guess I'm headed down,
taking that fiery fall past
the bottom of the bottomless pit.
I'm cool with it though.
Have been since I found out.
I figure,
hell is packed with
good people and assholes,
the outliers of society
that where too cool to live into old age
they passed on using
the ole' free will card.
Choosing to defect from the restrictions,
with drugs in their veins,
flying through wind shields
without restraint.
I see them in slow motion,
moving loosely between
a swirl of crimson and clear.
they took side-winding roads
off the sides of mountains,
ending up consumed
in one of Mario's red mushrooms.
I can see them down there;
Hemingway is down there
blasting demons with a mossberg pump,
unlimited shells, cigar, and a smirk.
Hendrix is probably in hell
shaking the whammy bar
on his sinner's bone guitar,
a sold out crowd listening to
the greatest there's ever been.
You know Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin
are standing next to the inferno,
Maitai in one hand,
tightest little hell cat in the other
not a drop of sweat on them,
cool than the other side of the pillow
could imagine.
Yeah,
I'm cool with that.
And for Satan,
I figure he never was good
at listening to god,
bet he's loosened up a bit.

Dec. 1: the day I put it all in the Blog! damn it!

 November has passed us by and I have all of the poems written down. So now I go forth with the final movement of my "30 in 30" project; "The Great Purge"!

"Blackberries have thorns for a reason"

a worlds roundness,
soft flap of wings,
dimples with no imperfection
you are the greatest link
in my short thick chain
poised in your silence
cold in your anger
you  are
the sleekness of water,
the warmth of the fire.

Mad/Sad

I was in a different room
when I said that.
you were miles away from now.
still I ask that you come back and finish the job
Violently rip my Ribcage,
Tear wildly through my flesh.
Take your beloved trophy,
Made at home  in my breast
/
wind can't get through my hair
but it tickles my face all the same
the burn in my thighs
comes with no pain to my soul,
I run to forget/remember
where/who I am.

How to seduce a Hippie

I am a man of history,
past and present
world of opinions
views from the outside
my facts are from
grips, sniffs, stares, tongues, music
my structure is a tent
hy address is everywhere.

Day ???: I just got back from break

On my break i think I did the same thing that a majority of my contemporaries, That being nothing. A whole heaping load of laziness and over indulgence on the ability to sit around, eating and drinking enjoy the comfortable couch over the ticking of the keyboard keys. I let my brain melt, at the precise wrong time. I am now flooded with obligations that should have been started weeks ago while also feeling like I could give a shit less. But! there is a bright side of this narrowing tunnel, in an optmistic turn on my procrastination, I did write a looooot of poems. ( beware I was under the influence of watching independant films)

"We treat servers like spiders"

To you, My friend
we owe too much to repay
The jobs we despise
you use to feed
with vervent necessity.
To your plot
we take a great deal
to return diminuitive amounts.
You work in solitude
and we demand of you
 no union or company
My friend, ignore our ignorance
for we know what we do.
Our world without you
moving throughout it, unseen
couldn't be the pillow top we rest on.

An Outline to L.A.F.S.

I. Spontaneous Meeting
      A. tongues turn to knots
            1. fumbling of words
            2. exchanging apologies
      B. traditional handshake
            1. both hands are warm
                  a. soft encased in rough
                  b. silk in stone
            2. the hold is inviting
                  a. comfort slips ease
                  b. good feeling lost, and found
      C. eyes stop searching

"I'm friends with my Ex's"

Conversations are reruns of this drama,
We know eachother too well.
We hide our half smiles
And sweaty hands
As best we can.
Trust is wavering,
like in the later days.
Distance is our problem,
Proximity is hard to define.
If we touch, we will betray ourselves
We know eachother too well
The time is the comfort
Though we separate,
we become closer again.

this is only first installation of  the poems. Theres only so many hours in the day.

Day 12-14: In the light of an L

When your not use to it, a loss can tell a man alot about himself. There is so much invested in collegiate sports; the physical portion of the body, the mental aspect in the time managment between your life and your sport, and in my opinion the most effected, the emotional realm. In the game of college football emotion is everything. A well mannered and calm offense can easily march down a field, while a relentless fast twitched defense can take it away from the opposition. But the most interesting thing that can dives into the true character of a man happens after both of which have displayed all they can, having been drained in all three aspects of the game and still come up short. The fact of the game is this, through any athletes career they are promised two things;one, that they will face adversity at some point throughout their journey, And two, that at some point on one fall day you are gonna loose.
Last year when we lost to Nevada, the fans rushing the field and our dreams of granduer falling by the wayside, I sunk into myself. I felt like everyday that I worked for, every gaser I ran, the workouts, every deck I sprinted up, and those hot grinding days in the summer, the other 364 days that I busted my ass where all for not because we weren't "perfect". I was ruined because we had one talley in the loss collumn. We taxied in and the somber voice of the pilot reflected our monotone drab of the city. I remember being an unpredictable mixture of anger and self-dissapointment. It wasn't untill we played the next game that I snapped out of the self defeated funk that was me for that week. On the first play I was in I hit the O-lineman head to head, shot my hands to take hold of his pads, extended and saw the quaterback t6ake off away from me. I ripped off of the no name lineman andtore after the man with the ball. Breathing heavy, but with a purpose and willing my legs to move just a step faster so I could layout and bring him down before he could get the pass off. I was moving in what felt like slow motion, then the next thing I knew the ball was out and one of my teammates took him down. I cant remember who it was that smacked the QB, but I do remember the smile. The way we both laughed at being "almost" there, slapped eachothers helmets and headed back to the line of scrimmage. That game felt amazing simply because I realized that it wasn't all over. That I still had time with these guys, with this team, doing the thing that I love.
The thing about a college football team is that each year it changes. You lose guys to graduation and the NFL, moving on and finding what next years team needs to be at its best. But that team also can never be recreated it's always different. We thought as the seniors of this class, that we would be the exact same as we were last year without a couple of guys; that wasn't the case. I love this team as I have the past four years that I have been apart of the program, but I am finally able to say that, after a tough fought game with TCU, that I am more of a man than I was back then. I know that it takes both wins and losses to be a true champion. You have to knopw how that loss felt, take the personal resposibility for it, and understand that just one win or loss doesn't define a season. I am lucky enough to have realized this when it came to me, so that i can truely enjoy these last couple of games with these guys and finnish off a great year. ---

***

...and then there was poetry.

Flat Tires
I push
and push
'till my lungs
                  burn to cinders
Each block
moves slower than the last.

But I
       have
to
get to you

I can't loose
you
again.

Pounding uncured pavement
to get there.

legs go
          numb
but still, I push

sweat goes in my eyes
I dont need to see.

I know where I'm going

pushing
and pushing
again


Trophy Hunter

I never liked the taste of blood,
Till you cam around
I look for tracks in the mud
Stay quiet for the sound
the may love me and the sheets were under
but I have no heart left,
I'm just a trophy hunter.

I leave them alive
taking arms and legs.
Girls walking the streets
with plastic and pegs
I can't consume, for them, I'm not hungry
I'm stealing parts for you
so when you see, you remember me


Sandpaper Tongues

Its funny to see
A Bar when hurding cattle.
Isolated bulls are the best of themselves;
Docile, stoic, at times playfull.
Introduce a cow,
Watch the hormones
Turn on a fragile brotherhood.
Feet get stomped,
Chests hold air,
pools of saliva scatter the ground
stewing with the mud.

Day 8-11: the days go by

On days like this it's hard to write with so much going on in the day. The thing that has taken my attention is the issues that are surrounding and seem to have overcome the football program at Penn State. It's a tough situation in my view because as a player I understand the consequences a program recieves as a whole when one individual's misdeeds come to the forefront . It scars the public image of not only the person invovled, but trickles down through all the way down to the equipment manager. In this circumstance, it has gone straight to the top for it's sacraficial lamb to purge the institution of the charges on Jerry Sandusky. The truth of the matter is shocking enough, but when coupled with the end of an illustrious career it takes on a whole new face. Joe Paterno has coached at the university for better than half a century and netted the school near one-billion dollars in revenue, and has been a large part in shaping the college football landscape. The media has called for his immediate resignation, stating that no one will be able to focus on the game if Paterno is on the sidelines. In response, I could only see this as the reality in the situation, It wouldn't matter. If he's there or not the focus will now be on him and the others that have been removed. It is easy for an outside voice to say that its his program and all falls under his umbrella, but as it is in a place of demand such as a head coach, there are alot of things that go unseen when you are in charge of over 100 college boys, 20 coaches and staff. thats just looking at it as a realist, understanding the numbers are irrashional to claim under one man's supervision.

The thing that is missed from the "subjective reviews" of media associates is the humanity of this situation. As a college athlete you are a part of a family with the head coach, be it wanted or not, as the  roll of father figure and in a more understandable means the patriarch. But with that in mind, one must look at it like this, If an outside source were to verbally slander one in your group, what do you do? Do you trust this person you've allowed to get close to you? That you've come to love like a brother? I say yes. And this is what Joe Paterno did. In teams, trust is one of the standards that great teams are built on, without it the foundation gets shakey and fails at some point along the journey. Paterno chose to back his man and ended up being wrong. A fact that I have no doubt is destroying him and his team, as well as the families that are stricken by this set of incidents. No one wants to think that someone they trust is capable of the act of child molestation or anything in that realm, so when it actually happens its even more unbelievable.

 Paterno's career has been more than influential to many young men that have passed through Penn State. To fire a man of such esteem is an act that shows absolutly no respect for the great accomplishments and social duty upheld by Paterno. The right thing to do is to let the man finish his season and allow his players, fans, and Paterno himself a sense of closure that doesn't revolve around this inccident that shouldn't be the final event in an amazing lifetime.


But there will always be poems...

"My auntie was a smoker"

Her wrinkled hands
were soft to touch
Those blakened lungs,
her soothing voice
She had yellow teeth
with a beautiful smile
And blood-shot gorgeous
green green eyes.


"It's not casual, we have a modern romance"

your funny
looking when I get down to it, built perfectly for me.
that crooked smile and burnt red eyes
Match your zombie stiff posture
produced by the liver bludgeoning the night before.
that birds nest hair styled only to one side'
the racoon eyes you gave yourself
                                                   calls to me.
I would hug that headache away
if you didn't look cute with your nose scrunched.
I would give you your clothes
if my shorts did'nt look so cartoonish.
As you stand there holding up the wall,
your face in you hand and the drinks on your breath
I wonder,
how I ever survived
without you.

A 3-part Relationship

I
infatuation
time
sex
petting
love

II
your a god damn blood clot.
would only be right
that you'd attack my heart.

III
I will remember you
when we were new
Please think of me
how I used to be.

Day 4-7: Damn roadtrips will put you behind.

Well this weekend has left me feeling indifferent. The game was not what we wanted, but I couldn't help but think while I was sitting next to the "White Rat" and "Black Paul Bunyan" their distaste over the evening, and how this past game was a blessing in disguise. Yeah, we played like a big blue turd in the first half, but that lack of focus on our part and the determination in the boy's from UNLV to show they have more than just a little fight in them, was a good wake up call that you can't just roll in and think that the emblem on your chest will do the work for you. But that aside, on the way back from Vegas, and any trip we take out of state for that matter, I listen to a mix of Bon Iver's newest self titled album and the sophomore album from Dallas Green's City and Colour. I've been listening to Bon Iver Like it's my job, though it hasn't grown on me quite like that of Justin Vernon's first major record, For Emma, Forever Ago, It still has a soothing folk falsetto that has turned into more big folk group with songs such as "Towers", "Calgary", and the shining gem of this album in my ears, "Holocene". He maintains the same lyrical standard and poetic nuance that has been displayed in his past works, while taking the simplicity and accenting it well with more instrumental backing.

The other half of my mix is Green's album Bring Me Your Love. This, like many of the albums that I love, is one that I over listened, and had to take a step away from for a while but returned to. As it would have it, City and Colour has a relatively new album that was released this summer titled Little Hell. "Fragile Bird", the first single, follows suit with Green's "Sleeping Sickness" with its branch off of the powerful acoustic narrative that has come to form the identity of City and Colour's sound, but doing it in a splendid way that plays on the subtle use of electric guitar and firm backing of drums and other accompaniment. While most of the tracks relay on the skilled acoustic playing and tenor vocals of green in songs such as, "The Grand Optimist", title track "Little Hell", and "O, Sister" there are still songs like "Natural Disaster" that seem like album filler that keep it from being the master work of natural talent that his other albums show.

Since I fell behind, I have to unload a few of my poems that I wrote on the road all at once. The first comes like many that scatter my notebook, from phrases that i get in passing.

"The beautiful thing next to me"

bare
smooth
at rest.
down the neck,
cross the collar
skimming 'round the chest.
'round the ear
lick the lobe
bite the neck
softly
moving
stopping only
to squeeze...

An Elderly Businessmen says: "

I am a multi-colored cumberbun
Not really appeasing
And firmly out of fashion.
I've been replaced
By a younger silky vest
                                   or nothing at all.
I used to be the centerpiece
sipping expensive spilled brandy
A front seat exhibitionist
To a back seat maneuver.
Now I wait in a closet,
In a square,
a box
for a nonexistent event
a voyeur to a life
i used to secure around the waist.
my elastic is worn now.
I have stretched out to fit my job
left saggy after being
                                Used.

"Will my kids have my chocolate skin?"

progeny is born
without a race,
born with a beautiful face
they didn't choose.
The only promise their skin holds;
when they get cut,
their blood will be red.


"Good guys speak like mice"

Get outta here!
I'm sick of that face.
Your perfect skin,
That perfectly fucked up hair
No one believes you
Were made for this place. for us.
No one can just wake up like that.
Get outta here!
'Know whats funny,
You remind me of
Those F. Scott Fitzgerald stories
Not the ones 'bout money
The ones about extraordinary girls
Who never leave
They don't go,
They stay.
All the mesmerizing (?)
and no feet to carry them
SO, Get outta here!
leave me behind.


WOOOoooo, that feels better. :)

Day 3: Music is life

I almost forgot. again. but I caught it with enough time to react and write something, thank peaches. I was listening to alot of music today, when I was riding to school, in class through the sneaky sleeve method(if you don't know you're missin out), and when I got on my grooveshark account while I was facebooking. As if someone "cosmic" force knew I was feeling especially "musical" today, I got asked the strangest question the other day, "Do you like Music?"... After digesting this question I came to a conclusion; You can like music that I find to be pure crap, I'm good with that. But if you don't like music at all, we cant be friends. Seriously, what do you do while you study, fill out your W2's, or travel for god sake? Listen to NPR the whole time?(Mad love to All Things Considered, that's my shit) The truth is everyone has a soundtrack to there life, whether you want it that way or not.
     While still peeved at the notion of anti-musicists, I came to realize today that I've been missin' out. Florence and the machine is utterly amazing. The calm woody sound of her voice is relaxing and evocative at the same time. I listened to a couple scattered songs from the LP "Lungs". the first song that I heard was "Dog Days are Over", I fell in love with the light initial strumming in the intro followed by the semi-bombastic title lines and chorus. the whole album, as I later pursued, is carried by her holistic tone and free flowing unpredictability that puts you in the mood to run around like a hippie idiot and not give a shit who was watching. One of the best tracks was "Howl", its folk feel sways the body and taps into an animalistic vibe that seems natural no matter how many times you listen to it. "Lungs" as a whole has something for anyone who appreciates a lyricist and the eclectic mixture of booming accompaniment and soft subtle guitar play. I feel a twitch of lame come over me for not hearing this earlier, but still happy I found it when I did.

In the theme of the night I'm havin', I had a music based idea. I just hope I'll get to use it someday.


"You are the soundtrack to my love life"

1.intro/play around the clothes
2.the hard click of those high heels
3.light slaps of our skins
4.your soft cool breath in my ear(you know me)
5.exhales
6.your rabbit heart beat
7.sucks/pops
8.laughs
9.#$%&%#@
10.inaudible words 

DAY 1&2: I already flubbed up

Well as it is I already missed it; the first day of my blogging life. but luckily there was a day after yesterday. I think that time left in blogger purgatory has let me gain a perspective that I want to have in this blog. I'm going to do the 30 days of poetry, if not out of "shear" respect for the festive month long festivities of NO-shave November, but to start this blog off as a sort of artistic outlet that I find I often need. I don't have a place to unload my fascination with poetry, music, and cinema. So, this will be it! It seems like a perfect fit.

My first piece is one that I created after reading Ralph Ellison's The Invisible Man . Its creation is not directly tied to the work but takes its own feeling:

Note to society: The Cogs have Voices

I am your blood.
Moving inside you,
Giving you life,
Lubricating your machine.

I am your lungs.
Your respiration is my will,
Your breath, my whim.
I tickle your throat
And you know that cough is mine.

I am your big toe.
The stability of your foundation
Crucial to any step
In any direction.
If you cut me off,
You will fail.

The next piece was on that I wrote yesterday (that I failed to post) that kind of reflected how I felt about blogging and my hypocritical view of the online version of "Me":

"Rhyming is fun till someone gets hurt"
 
Fuck Twitter
And Facebook
And all Kinds of spaces

Lets skate
Get milkshakes
Match faces with Faces

In too much a hurry
with no place to go
with knowledge in hand
we have nothing to know

we invest in technology
Buying all that we can
We prepare our apology
For the betrayal of man

Creating something "New"

I have tried to create a blog multiple times with the efforts falling short quickly after the idea came to me. But in light of my final semester drawing quickly to an end, I feel motivated to start and continue this flawed relationship that I've had with online journaling. I don't know what this blog will be like, what it will be structured around, but I think that my poetry and strange happenings as a collegiate athlete and outgoing personality will formulate something new for me and my work. I've been thinking of doing something with the month of November, possibly doing "30 poems in 30 days", but its not set in stone, more like wet concrete. I'm ready to get this going and see what sort of creative avenues i will take when forced to do so by this pass failure to follow through.