I'm talking about a Southern California tour, not some punk-ass 2 hour play in the sand shit.
I want to go from Redondo, to The Wedge, to San Diego and back with nothing but Red Vines and Arizona's.
Holding your breath is not as exhausting as it seems. I'm not even gasping for air anymore. My God has granted me the gills to keep breathing in exchange for my eyes.
I still see her beauty and it's tethered to an end that's opposite of me.
Now I need water and forever-crashing waves.
Currents and tides and forever-crashing waves.
Shores and piers and forever-crashing waves.
Objects that keep me afloat upon forever-crashing waves.
I hold my breath not for love, not for affection.
I've devised my own air which seeps in the psychology of her beauty. It does not come from forever-growing trees.
So if I don't wake from my forever-slowing sleep, ask her to resuscitate me.
Postponed Breathing: Part 3
I wrote a letter to her today as I sat in my favorite cafe with hazelnut coffee and Belgian waffle.
Without the proper stationary, the back of the receipt sufficed.
For the sake of my ego, I've been lying to my friends, students, and current lovers, telling them I've postponed breathing as if I have no need for air, it's useless, using metaphors to embellish the truth...
They admire my passion.
I am weak, but I tell them the contrary for only she knows the truth.
Without an address and remaining anonymous, simply stated:
"RETURN MY LUNGS."
I'll tell you now, it's not worth it and really the differences between a short string and a long string are minor. Point is, don't let it happen.
Girls play that; Go out and find a woman. And appreciate the fact that women will be true to themselves and have no need to impress/front on you.
There was that one day where a wasp landed on our table and startled you, I said they don't sting. It wouldn't go away and I laughed. It buzzed near my ear and you laughed. The waiter was scared. I told you it's attracted to me because I'm sweeter than honey and leaned in to kiss you.
I tried my best, and I'm glad you didn't notice it, not to look scared. I was smiling but inside I was shitting bricks. This was my first chance to show you I was brave and hoped it would go a long way. I want to be honest now. I didn't want to look like an idiot with a rolled up newspaper trying to kill it. Part of me wanted it to linger closer to you to use my bare hands and save you. You laughed at me and I finished my pancakes a little faster. After paying the bill, as we walked to the car, you held my hand just a little tighter. You knew. You knew I was scared but didn't say anything. Your kiss that day felt more significant; I loved you more.
This is a short, fictional story. I just felt like writing something like this.
It's just refreshing to see someone appreciating natural things that can never be taken away from us. Amidst all the midterms and essays, bills to pay, you can turn your head one way and see the mountains or face the other way and see the beach.
I don't even like the beach. I hate sand, I hate that sticky feeling you get after you leave, I hate all the nasty debris IN the sand but I would rather hear waves crashing than our Los Angeles traffic. The beach seems to be the best place to find some focus. It's not all about showing off an attractive body, tanning or whatever.
But I want to see more of my friends appreciating what's around us. Go hug a tree or something. Sit on some grass, drink Chamomile tea.
On a side note, a beautiful girl once made me some smooth ass Chamomile tea and brought it to me before 1st period. I didn't appreciate it then as much as I do now. (Thanks, ElizaBeans.)
On some real shit, losing my best friend has proliferated all the worst types of emotions that I don't want any of you to ever feel. I'm not talking about me though, I'm talking on something I feel obliged to make sure of, just for you. Right now, I'm specifically thinking about Andy, Norman, Darren, Derek, Kevin, Thiago, Gian, that whole big group, not just 'cause you're cool and popular, but because your friendship is dope, word is bond.
Since I can't look out for all my little homies, I'm putting it on you to look out for each other even more. I see my friends on Facebook going on drinking and shit and for a quick second, I wonder how're they getting home, who they're going to be with. I can't hold their hand, won't hold your hand but I don't want to see any of you getting into shit 'cause it's what's "cool". I said it then, I'll say it now, FUCK COOL! Cool doesn't announce itself. I've never respected people off coolness. When I want to chill, I don't look for the coolest. I see kids getting into wee, not for themselves but because its ubiquitous, it's everywhere. Wiz Khalifa's image seems cool and shit-it's a popular culture. Drop it. Your friends are going to respect you for being real from the heart. We don't need to mimic music videos. 100% of the stuff on MTV is scripted. Just 'cause "The Situation" can drink and club all night doesn't mean you 17,18 year olds can. It's called tolerance and if you don't know what that means, why are you drinking?
On Friday nights, I want to be comfortable knowing that all my little homies are being EXTRA responsible and thinking ahead. So that's my point to you. Be extra responsible and think ahead. You may not know it, but you've got kids in the classes of '12, '13, '14 looking at how you're wilding out and they're going to perpetuate that cycle. Feel me?
Alleviation is throwing metaphors off cliffs onto rocks that only exist where tears land and sorrow drifts.
The blue, crashing waves no longer have a beach to meet and form one unique thing of creativity. My written words won't fade, just retreat into the fragmented complexes of their conception where not even my eyes can see.
Writers often fill voids with inconceivable metaphors and stitch their intangible fingers to their borders of reality where dull grays collide with colorful colorless colors that only a Best Friend could comprehend.
Behold, yeah, there is life in the unseen. Piano keys in waterfalls and poetry in the rivers that proceed.
Behold, yeah, laughter is the only sensation in life that will never deceive.
I need my Best Friend, alleviation is joking louder than the worlds' lies.
I'll never see him again but the pulse of our every memory replaces the hurt of distance. Closed eyes ironically light the unseen but outstretched hands do not bring him closer. Photographs are barren dimensions that defy concepts of shapes to sculptors and colors to painters. Insignificant, candid moments need not be recreated; they've never faded, never retreated, each remain stitched to bone, stitched to heart, stitched to leather.
The first insight into forever.
I'm terrified of hilarious scenarios, falling in love, Bull Terriers, I need my Best Friend to laugh at others' misfortunes and talk shit.
I need a new word for "loneliness", this kind of emotion is beyond any feeling I've ever felt. It feeds the crows perched in my home in nests of memories, spreading their wings, happy because I cry with the lights off.
Alleviation is not a process.
I'll tell my wife, my sons, I never recovered from the hardest heartbreak.
Fuck alleviation, my words have lost their counterpart, fuck my metaphors.
I need to hold her hand, I appreciate beauty more now.
The first insight into forever, I only want a life of beauty and laughter.
Justin, breed for me a female Boston Terrier who can sow together this separated beach and bury rocks that once existed where tears land and sorrow drifts.
This is going to be my last attempt at reaching colorless relief to replace the grief of losing my Best Friend.
If you knew Justin, either put one in the air, drink an Arnold Palmer, or bump some Bob Marley for him.
Something I learned from him was to always stand up for yourself. That doesn't mean fighting or talking shit back, just don't take any shit from anyone and always keep it real. Speak up for yourself, cut that shy shit out and speak louder than everyone else. Don't hold anything back.
I don't even know how to begin describing how I've felt since losing my best friend, Justin Ford. If I did find the words, I wouldn't say them, I wouldn't write them. The pain is too personal, it's something I don't want any of my friends to feel. I've been depressed before, and this isn't some fuckin depression. It's been 2 weeks since he passed and his funeral was by far the hardest thing I've ever had to endure in my life. They say time heals all wounds but I'm not believing that weak shit. I've never been so close to anyone so it's hard to comprehend that, for the rest of my life, he won't be there. He was one of the reasons I started writing, one of the reasons I became funnier, stopped being insecure, stopped giving a fuck of what others think about me...It was just all love. You're supposed to be the Best Man at your best friends Wedding, Godfather to their kids and shit, but never the Paul Bearer to his funeral. "It sucks" is an understatement.
Rest In Peace, Justin.
I love you, fag.
My conscience critter, once complacent and calm, now roars, now it itches, now it has evolved into a petrified passion and now it has developed a mind of it's own with a brain for love and spinal cord for beauty. It hasn't learned a language but the messages traverse neurons and fill them with electricity.
There's no reason I should be this young hosting a monster this big, inpatient and compounding a drug with the neglected love dripping from the honeycomb in the middle of my chest. It's encapsulating the emotion in pure anxiety and saleing dimebags to the intangible parts of me. [My conscience was first in line, accompanied by my demeanor and every stable memory.]
Now, with the combined effort of anticipation, they each lie overdosed in my lungs because she keeps saying "soon". She doesn't know that, for me, "soon" is asthma and I can't bare another fucking attack.
I don't know if it's me or the monster, but the air has seemed to have lost its purpose so I've postponed breathing, I've relieved my lungs to store incomplete metaphors, awaiting full maturity once they reach my tongue, once they become heard, once they are molded and understood.
The lifespan of my words is not a length, it's an interrupted urge traversing neurons and filling them with electricity, it's a heart-seeking warmth in the honeycomb of my chest, it's not-yet-stable due to her fragmented beauty that has yet to be appreciated, placed together, and held in certainty.
Certainty should last forever, as should the intangible parts of me who have postponed breathing in anticipation of "now".
There's no reason I should be this young suffering anxiety attacks in the form of petrified passion. As catastrophic as this catabolic monster seems, it remains dormant because "now" is not the time.
The honeycomb in the middle of my chest needs to focus on passing a drug test.
I'm about 80% done with my book. I've changed the name to "The Reticent Genius & I'm Proud To Tell My Mother". I have been doing a lot of writing but I don't want to share all of it because then why the hell would you buy my book?
I wrote the first line of this piece around the time I turned 21 but I've been feeling this for a loooong tiiime. It feels good to finally get it written out.
It was some time in early September
You were lazy about it, you made me wait around
I was so crazy about you I didn't mind
I was late for class, I locked my bike to yours
It wasn't hard to find ‒ you painted flowers on it
I guess that I was afraid that if you rolled away
You might not roll back my direction real soon.
I was crazy about you then and now
The craziest thing of all,Over ten years have gone by
And you're still mine,We're locked in time
This has always been one of my favorite Jack Johnson songs but now it seems to have a little more meaning.
Here's the video
Great risks yield the rewards of romantic Monday night dinners, $9 mimosas with your father, and blissful humility. Everything is comprehensible with strings of imagination attached, securely double knotted or at times let loose for an overcast atmosphere of dreams and unique interpretations.
We lay on our backs and hold the hands of children as the colors of our visions drift but never fade. If it's euphoria you crave, find your parade.
There is art hidden in the world created through disturbances and phenomenas with mood and depth, until we attempt to measure it with the word "beauty", simultaneously reducing it to common understanding and categorizing it along with other abused interpretations such as love, prostituted for an exchange.
We are all inventors is our own right, drafting unique emotions and interpreting them as amicable monsters, encouraging self-destruction for the revitalization of character.
The problem herein lies within the fleeting feeling of anguish disguised as life and as vivid as a child dropping their slice of cake on the floor. Artists have no color on their palette to paint this pain. Sleeping visions on canvas yield interpretations; the cake never lands, tears fall faster and that fleeting feeling is melancholy replacing gravity. Use shoe strings to keep from floating away. Imagination and other true things never expire.
Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Gárcia Márquez
One of my biggest beliefs is Karma. I don't talk alot about my religion and I respect every religion in the world. When I look back on my life I don't want to recall the days that I wasted so I try to do a little something nice, no matter how miniscule the act is, every day. At first I started with small compliments, getting a burger and Coke for homeless people...Now I go to Starbucks in hopes of starting a chain of random acts of kindness. I order my coffee, and after I pay for mine, I pay for the person behind me. I don't care for recognition, it's not like I'm trying to impress a cute girl behind me. It's not like that. It's the fact that this KINDNESS is hard to find. It's RARE.
This post is less about the act of kindness but more about the tiny coincidences that have strengthened my beliefs. You see, I ordered 2 drinks for the total of $8.40. I didn't care how much I would've had to pay for the person behind me but I was shocked when it was only $2.15!It could've been 9, 10, $12 but MY God saw I wanted to do something nice so he didn't break my wallet and only put it at $2.15. That's the way I think, that's the way I believe. Small coincidences with greater meaning.
A lot of people have been asking me to post up more poetry but the thing is, I've been finishing up my first book so publishing has replaced blogging.
I'm less than a month away from completing everything. The (working) tittle is "My Sculpture of Genius/And I'm Proud To Tell My Mother". 100 pages, "back and forth."
To make up for being gone, I'm going to post some of my recent work right now.