Internet Baby Can't Handle the Truth

you project an image

that we all see

you defend an image

you feel we believe

you plagiarize moments in time

you remodel pictures, with all your disguise

you desensitize memories

and infiltrate futures

you've created a network

but this isn't dreamworks

and you are slowly

losing all your pixels,

internet baby, take a step outside

internet baby, quit typing your lies

internet baby, you are so lonely and disconnected

refresh. reboot.

internet baby, we've got nothing left for you

Your Business is a Disease, Left For Someone Else to Catch

your business is not something i want to invest in.

you in general are just  a waste of space and are

eating up my contributions to society in the

most unnatural, unpleasing, and severly unhygienic

ways. your business is something like laundry,

and you've hung it to dry in the most public of

places, leaving it in the park for anyone to come

and gander, to poke and prod, to make assumptions and to assume 

is surely what is happening, but you're in the business of lies and deceit, 

of debt and regret. your business is a sinking ship 

and even those become valuable because the legends

 start up and there are souvniers and we are all suddenly standing in line waiting 

for the foam fingers and light up sticks so we can show 

that we had known and known all along. your business is a closed shop on the corner 

of a downtown street; filled with squatters and bad publicity. 

you are the face of a serious problem. your business is something i want away from

but it's like a toxic poison dripping into all the outlets and found

 on bus stops and under couch cushions. you business is a disease left 

for someone else to catch, you think your operation is baseball 

but you are missing all your targets and all your balls have fallen out of your basket. 

your business is something we don't want to get into. 

but you've corrupted our lives with all your cries and i am trying to cut all ties, 

but to cut the ties would mean to die and to die by your side; 

would be such an incredibly fucked up thing to do 

because your bed has been made, and lay with the roaches you will

 because the flowers have all spoiled and you words are charred and broiled 

and i hope you get out of the business of being in our business, 

you filthy animal.

 

Moon Bound

scattered pop culture,

throwing in the magazine.

i don't want to be involved

with my own self proclaimed

insanity, but if i were to meet

myself on another day, i might

just try to talk myself into

a different way, but as i converse

with myself in the middle of this

afternoon i cannot help but

distaste the doom and

beg for something different

to get me to the moon.

Devouring Myself

Already the season is changing and I have yet to board the ship. The time is lapsing and I feel the urge to miss. And as we do go passing, like two strong solid ships, you will be full of passengers and I will be full of shit. There is a different kind of air coming in from the east and it is uplifting me from my sit, demanding greatness at least... but I have misplaced my feet to step up to the plate and I am starving for a solitude that has me clothed in a terrifying defeat. I imagine me seeing you in a warmed little shop, touching trinkets and ruffling hair, paying no attention to the clock. All the while I am seeing you I can't help but feel like I don't belong and I probably never will due to my turning infiltration of devouring myself. And as I cause a ripple in my own stream I will always admire that you were grounded there with memories while I was off on a forever flee.

Unlocking My Atmosphere

there was a moment of devastation,

a brief flaunting moment where i thought

the walls i had created were going to

crumble down, leaving me in a pile of

rubble, rubble i still dont think i am ready to

try and go through, put back together.

i dont want to collect the pieces.

id rather leave them there, discarded

for some lost soul to find and take a look.

ill find new walls to build, under different

sun and with new surroundings that i

wont care to see, but i should be fine.

and knowing that someone else is looking

at what was once me and thinking about

it makes me think i might not need these

walls, but my heart is far to weak for

such nonsense.. and the possibilities.

i dont think my heart is ready for the

possibility of telling you all about my

opportunity to move up and out without

the walls.. i think i want that sense of

freedom, i want to just be. and to be

without the confinement of myself, i was

locked in my own prison and i have

picked the lock and am stepping out

into a different kind of cage within

the atmosphere and giving it a shot.

Half a Bottle, Half Shaved Legs

She drew a bath.
Drank half a bottle of wine.
Sat back. Relaxed.
Murmured to the curtain about
her life, her job, her day, her future.
She propped up one leg.
Lathered. And shaved it precisely.
Sat back. Relaxed.
Finished the other half of the bottle.
Propped up the other leg.
Lathered. Shaved absent mindedly.
She drains the tub.
Towels off.
Goes to bed.
She likes to feel her legs
                                                      in bed, the way a man would
                                                      feel them, after half a bottle of wine.

Surfing the Internet in a Mermaid Tail

She wore butterfly wings and a mermaid tail.
For she wanted to feel both the highs and lows of her existence
and she wanted to be beautiful while she did it.
She preferred talking to people on the Internet
because she wanted their words and not their emotion,
she feared what their words might actually mean and their tones
would define that and she wanted to be with them
in the same glow of the browser.
She surfed the Internet with her mermaid tail.
The only high she got was high scores on Internet games.
All of her friends were virtual, swapping viral diseases
of information all the while
being so misinformed in a fish bowl of strangers.

She Mispronounces Truth and Leaves Lies

She's present with her dislocated sentences.
Everything has become a run on sentence,
so far gone she can't keep up.
The grammar for which she chooses
seems to be picked out like clothing
yet she has horrible taste.
She mispronounces truth and leaves lies.
A question with no matter or facts
but a blank canvas to present exquisite intricacies.
Without keeping all the ducks aligned
she surely creates a wayward pond
of moments without punctuation.
For the question mark
has certainly become
her first and last name
and any character that was salvageable
has fallen through all the holes in an endless labyrinth,
a ruthless path of mediocrity and boredom.
And she surely could not recite her story for you
from start to finish because the plot is always changing
and she hasn't figured out when exactly she should finish.

Blue for Her

He wanted to be blue for her;
She looked better next to the aquamarine of the ocean,
Under the indigo smear of the twilight sky,
she was luminous and warm,
The morning sky she awoke to held opportunity,
She was better connected when the navy sky was interrupted
with cracks of lightening and burps of thunder.
He wanted to be blue for her.
He wanted to be her ocean and twilight
her warmth and opportunity
he wanted to be her calm and storm.
He was determined to be her Blue.

Shipwreck On Our Beaches

Your lies are unraveling one at a time. The disguises are dissolving, untying the ties. Your clock has run up all of it's time displaying the ugliness of your ill devised manner. It must've gotten hot for your mascara is running, actually wait, your plastic is melting, leaving you looking exactly how you are. All the glam and the glory the dye and the clothing the words and the wishes you've thrown into our atmosphere are hitting your face like a crater of responsibility. You're a shipwreck on our beaches and we're trying to ignore all the wasted pieces.

Coffee Women

She was looking for a man with all the qualities she knew she liked;

a tall one,

dark but she'd go for a blonde,

warm and timely,

she wanted them to be there

in the morning, afternoon, and evening, but not too late..

she wanted them instantly,

and didn't want to share,

she wanted them at home

and on the go, she wanted

to see them before she

went to work,

she wanted to take them on walks

and share tiny desserts..

 

she was beginning to settle,

for she realized everything she

wanted in a man was in a cup

of coffee.. and a cup of coffee

was just as hot and likely to burn her..

a cheaper risk for warmth.

 

Pre-Drink

Of course, you have to pre-drink. 

You must fully approve of the act of saving money 

by getting partially/equally wasted in the 
comfort of your home

 for half the cost so you only have to 
spend the other half 

while your out to even the buzz instead of 

going out sober and spending a 
solid double,

 even triple the money on booze. 

It's best money saver I know.

Eyes Go Glazed

looking through dirty windows

i see my breath cling to the pane,

trying to match my pain i think of

what is happening on the other side

(can they see me) i dont try to hide

i like the way the gunk on the window

and my reflection seem to become one i now look the way i feel 

..there is

a certain kind of silence and sound

that is happening as i watch everything unfold in front of me, 

behind a dirty window you seem to

turn towards me but i can't line up your vision (are you even looking at me) 

or through me and through the dirty window all at once (i call to you) 

but you cannot hear me for the dirt has muffled my sounds so i stare at you 

and them and her and everyone as you all seem to kind of stare at 

me i dont realize you will never come for me 

until the dirt cakes over over and my eyes go glazed.

Equally Weak and Strong

dripping differences

time is beginning to grow slower, yet still quickens 

looking at everything half empty, when in actuality 

there is some fullness to the lies that i have spun

there is a bed, i bed i will probably lay in

if i get around to it

ive grown so tired

of all the misconceptions and all the ballgames

ive lost something

or i want something

and i dont know what it is

or what to do 

or how to obtain it

but i will try, 

to cut the ties

to all the bullshit.

and rise to some other occasion

perhaps make up my own

for a celebration is in order

i am constantly growing stronger and weaker everyday 

Breathing to Create

Quiet pitter patter inside my mind telling me to create, and as I create I am inspired to breathe. And breathing keeps me seeing. Lately I've been so in the dark. Struggling for air. Only this stand still can become so destroying, tearing me apart. Turning the engine to a revving red light. I want to breathe. Therefore, I need to create.

Shed This Skin

how do i shed this skin, find 
a better one to live in.. i'm not 
talking death, but i've been 
changing my clothes and 
absolutely nothing is happening. 
i lay naked, buy my coffee from 
another place, tied my shoes the 
opposite way, and still i feel 
the heaviness. it must be inside 
of me, somewhere i can't see. 
because everything i could 
change i've changed and i still 
don't feel any closer to being me.

Smoking Water

smokin' cigarettes in the 
bath tub, hoping the water
and smoke will fill the cracks.
fragements of myself are
scattered around this town.
slowly everything is chipping
away at me. the cracks
in the sidewalks reflect
pieces of me, i try to connect
the dots and end up scattered
like ashes, somewhere else.
i can't get close to the ocean
because it will swallow me up
and i will let it, even though
i can swim, i will sink. i step
back from you because you
want to fill the cracks, but the 
preassure will break me all
over again.

Kids No Longer Fearing Monsters Under Beds

I had a dream about all those kids on TV. The crying kids ripped from society and their alphabets with the ripples of gun powder. Their noses were dusted with the thin lining of dust that lays upon gym floors and some had the tops of their heads dusted, I could imagine from clinging to necks of brooms. I saw all these little people rising and falling like popsicle sticks, still colourful and sticky, they smelt of fear and paste and I was suddenly saddened. A wasteland of youth, so far from knowing evil. For evil no longer being a bad dream, a boogie man, the enemy in a video game, or what Scooby and Shaggy so fearful sought out. I dreamed of these children and wanted to take away their pain. For they shouldn't know insomnia yet and I would harbor that so they could move forward and shake hands with the devil later. For meeting him in all his forms is inevitable but if I could postpone that, to unquiver their lips and unwet their pants, I would've. I woke up to another batch of kids being terrorized on the news and wish I could've dreamt away their experience.

Fluff and Skye

the sky made me nervous. 
with it always looking down on me. 
waiting to swallow me. i prayed for 
rain because then it would always 
be busy, busy with something else. 
paying no attention to me. 
while i paid all my attention to it. 
the sky. 
so vast and high above me. 
once i stopped fearing it, 
i wanted to be apart of it. 
high, up there, among fluff. 
i get tired of the overwhelming 
state of earth i am in, 
this ground, has me grounded, 
and i hated when my parents would 
try, try to ground me, that's why 
i ran away. 
and feared the sky. 
than got high. 
embraced the sky. 
met a guy name Skye. 
he wanted to take me higher. 
i'd soon give in to his fluff. 
he'd crack it. 
burn it. 
shoot it. 
pass it. 
help me. 
we'd go there. 
up, way, way way, up. 
he looked beautiful, 
my own piece of the Skye. 
grounded and high, 
floating with me. 
my parents would call, 
random payphones, 
payphones i had pleaded to them on. 
pleaded to let me come home, 
for the fear of my Skye. 
blue eyes, fluff, i'd confuse the two. 
for my Skye and sky were intertwined. 
calling me into a deeper blue, 
one both sad, and high, and lovely. 
Skye came crashing down, 
broke into a million tiny pieces, 
all shaped like stars. 
i took it as a sign. 
laid in my parents empty pool. 
the blue was always something i 
wanted to be close too. 
they found me, 
took me in, 
got me to a different place in my life. 
the only time i get close to the sky 
and a high now is when i am traveling. 
on a silver bird, filled with jet fuel. 
gets me to a happy place, 
i am better now than i have ever been.

A Towel Named Sid Vicious

I'm sitting on the toilet lid staring at the towels. I don't know how this happened but they were breathing. Short little contractions, wavy like gravy. I put my hand up, tested the atmosphere, nothing. My own breathing is so minimalistic I can't be causing this. I step into the tub, stare at the towels, they continued to breathe. I think as I stand there close to the curtain, that I might be able to feel it. I pause. Focus. I really focus on myself and get a tiny sensation, a cross between spiders and cocaine. Did the spiders take the cocaine? Or the towels? Did someone use the towel to clean up a cocaine spill? How much could I sell that towel for, would it stop breathing if I sold it? Maybe I could just ring the cocaine out.. I stepped out of the tub. Didn't bother washing my hands. Flicked the water on and off to create a sense of cleanliness. Stuffed the towel in my back pocket let it flip out as to not suffocate it. Went back into the party. Everyone glazed and dusted, a room full of after hour donuts. I named the towel Sid after Sid Vicious and walked out, leaving the door open, searching for a place to crash.