Booze & The Pee-Nut Gallery

Irresponsible driving is something nearly all of us experience on the road on a daily basis. Some people tailgate while others drive contently with one foot on the gas and the other on the brake. On the interstate, it's not unusual to see people chatting or texting away on cell phones or applying make up while commandeering their vehicle at a docile 85 mph. I've even encountered a driver ravenously shoving food in his mouth with a fork from a plate in his lap.

I try not to get too upset when these people erratically block the path to my destination or make me late for work or one of my infamous speaking engagements. However, it pushes me to the absolute brink of insanity when I'm cruising along minding my own business and another's blatant stupidity causes me to spill my beer or even worse causes me to spill the contents of the cup in which I've just emptied my bladder.

Distance Of You And Me

Alone, I am in this empty space...
At least I know I can call it my own hiding place...
Please know that it's not that I am spiraling down...
I can always find myself lost and just as easily found...

Between us there is nothing but distance...
If given the chance, I know I'd be yours in an instant...
Yours is the soul I'd die to protect...
Engaged in life with you and the issues you project...

One thing I know is that you're not here with me now...
Giving me love and sweet misery like only you know how...
Gone are those beautiful emotions I came to adore...
Even when I was down on my knees scraping my heart off the floor...

And...

I have to remind myself every time I turn on the radio that you aren't hearing the same songs I hear.

And...

I have to remind myself every time I breathe that you aren't in the air I'm feeling near.

And...

I have to remind myself every time I look up that you aren't seeing the same sky I see.

And...

I have to remind myself every time I want to touch you there is nothing but this distance between you and me.

Who Is Reading Whom?

Because his approach was avant-garde in nature, the writer thoughtfully minced his words in order to directly bring about new meaning while managing to coerce his readers to interpret his musings for themselves in the way he envisioned.

It was a personal journey executed by a wordsmith and traveled by those who learned from him along the roads of perception, which he paved and they could no longer navigate because his hand was fixed firmly upon their wheels.

An Informal Meeting Of The Minds

"Wonder what they got good to eat in here?" he said to no one in particular with his beady eyes and unkempt hair hanging from his baseball cap.

If you're like me and you frequent convenience stores, then you know it's not unlikely to see a person of this stature. You also know it's not unlikely for them to announce such proclamations the second they walk through the door. I watched him meander aimlessly down each of the aisles and I felt obligated to tell him, though apparently not enough to actually do so through voice, that MY daily D.O.C. is the 44 oz. "The Big Chill" cup filled to the rim with a fountain Diet Coke. I was wondering if he'd pick up on the "vibe" and follow my lead, but alas it became painfully obvious that telepathy wasn't his bag as he continued his journey past the fountain machines with not even as much as a second glance.

It was then that I realized that this was a person with whom I would have absolutely nothing in common.

Analyzing The Reflection Of Self Inquisition

Another day and although I am beginning to feel like myself again, I can't seem to make eye contact with the person in the mirror. I know and understand this considerate soul and the things he's seen and experienced but as of late, there's something different.

He's no longer withdrawn from the things he perceived as hurtful and the hands that held me down. However, he's not lost focus of the fear I often feel.

At times he believes he can cry on cue. But, why would he give me that?

Again with the fucking questions.

Of course he overthinks situations and the moment is often lost.

He asks the things that only I can hear simply because he wants truthful answers.

Sometimes I can't answer the questions that he asks of me because I'm asking myself the same thing. It's a mental burden and it paralyzes me.

He wants validation that only I can give.

He gives adversity in the face of my sincerity.

He wants to speak and I want to be heard.

He wants to be asked how "I" am doing... I don't know.

...and he already should.

A Musical Crush

On any given day I will often find myself in the mood to not only "hear" but also to listen to and to be "romanticized" by a particular song. Whether the tune is slow and deep or hard, fast and shallow, the need is vast and like a person whose strings are being pulled by some kind of higher being puppeteer, it becomes my sole mission to incorporate this song as part of my day and thus, my mood.

Once the song has ended and served it's purpose of helping me move along in a meaningful, mind blowing direction, I feel like a man possessed and the undying need to hit "repeat" becomes bigger than my person. In a way that can be best described as "emotionally orgasmic" I strike the necessary button multiple times just so I can be enveloped, transcended, lost and once again found by the musical revelation that for that very moment defines me.

"Am I right side up or upside down?"

Pistol Waving Goodbye

We made our way through the woods. We arrived through the use of a dirt road. Each side was littered with the carnivorous Venus Flytrap. I'd never seen anything like that. Who KNEW that plants had teeth? I was enthralled. I shot a gun that day. I was fucking six years old. It was loud. The sound was piercing. I didn't like it. I felt no power. I was just doing something.

We made our way through the woods. It seemed like such a long walk. We ALWAYS walked. He pissed everyone off. We'd have to get out of cars and walk. We'd have to leave the house and walk. Sometimes I felt trapped in his abode and wished I could walk while he slapped her but I didn't know where to go. So, I'd pick up the phone and cry.

We made our way through the woods. I saw bones covered in leaves and pine straw. He assured me they were the bones of an animal. Today I'm still not so sure. They were white. Probably bleached by the sun. Hidden beneath trees and clouds they didn't look real. I hated that day.

The woods seemed to never end. To my left was a clearing. To my right was trees and brush and ahead looked to be a cliff. It was water. I knew that river, bayou or creek ran further than it looked and I wondered why there was no bridge that brought me to it. I looked. I saw ripples and he said, "See it?" And yes there it was. The alligator. I didn't know that it could kill me. I didn't know it would want to. It drifted on the current just as I did through the woods: Silently.

We never shot at the thing. Apparently it's teeth were not as sharp as the plants from Venus we'd seen earlier. Shooting guns. Breathing. My heart skipped a beat that day and yet my pace quickens.

I wonder if 1976 will catch up?

Cutting Through The Missing Ink Penned Colored Sky

There's a cold, white January sky. It's the end of the month and the view outside is fitting. The horizontal blinds through which I am peering provide a stark contrast to the pale air that looms above and I tilt my head in various directions as if I'm cutting and dividing what I see. In the process, I'm able to bisect into sections my favorite tree and I can remove entire floors from the building across the street.

Even if only "I" can see a difference, I am still making changes.

In the distance there is water. It appears dark and empty and I know the depths could swallow anything that was willing to take a dive. If I so desired, I could send my mind adrift in it's currents but because I now live with what seems to be a perennial chill I prefer another option.

Cerebration carries me to this morning. My thoughts flowed under the pouring hot water from the shower's reign. It trickled down upon my body and for just a few moments I was able to lose any shake that I was feeling. Although my eyes were closed, I could still envision the steam as it clung to the window and the mirror where as a kid I'm sure I would've written my name...

However, at this point in my life, leaving a mark is more than just a hand written expression.

So why am I such a bloody mess when I cannot find my pen?