I’m Tryin’ To Try

Of course, I’ve got no idea what to say. Not a god damn thing. This is just another Monday survived. I knew I was coming into a shit show. I knew all weekend that a potential horror show was waiting for me. I handled it. I held on. That’s all. Tomorrow is another day and there will be another day after that and another day after that and so on until I die. 

Yeah. That’s all. 

Some days just are. No sugar. No flowers. They just are there to age you. 

The problem with school is that it doesn't teach you to be a human being.

Been kind of a brutal weekend for me. 

Didn’t know that I was going to be dealing with a sick dog. All of that wrecked me. Think I got my cry quota done for the next week. 

I’m exhausted. I feel beat up. 

I’d take a hug or two.

That dog is hanging in though. She is this adorable thing but god damn, she’s tough. 

I think I’m way too up in my feelings right now. 

I’ll get back to you. 

I get stoned enough, I'm honest. Smart honest. The kinda honest I can live with.

Maybe that's what I tell myself.

This is me writing garbage ain't nobody gonna hold me accountable for.

I don't know how to be. There ain't no fucking manual. Bring me a pizza every once in awhile and I'm good. Pizza and a whiff of sex. I'm good.

Nah. Shit. Maybe I sound like the Internet equivalent of that homeless dude rambling about some shit that makes no sense while he waits for a bus he doesn't have money for. That could be you. That could be me. Maybe your wits and your good looks and your talent and all that shit ain't gonna save you cuz you're just you. Look. I'm just me. It's aight. I love you. Okay. Maybe I won't say that again. Yo. We gotta believe a better world is possible.

Fuck. I'm getting sick of this. 10:29 PM Pacific Standard Time.

I feel lazy.

This is art, yo.

This is sugar.

This is late night truth.

This is finding the one true god again.

This is bullshit but it had its moments.

Should I read this again in the morning?

It's a weird life. That's all it is.

What Happens

What happens is the machine 

goes through us 

too damn quick

til we got nothin’ but fun size Milky Way wrappers 

in a Halloween treat bag. 

-

What happens is sometimes you find yourself ponderin’ what hell is. 

It’s geographic region. 

The shit that goes down there. 

Always in the same ZIP code you’re in. 

It’s Monday eternally. 

That deep, polar bear cold you feel all over your body

never quits 

and everything you got to do to eat that day 

is gonna kill you. 

-

What happens is sometimes you live 

and you’re happy enough to (almost) thank god. 

Your walk has swagger to it.

Maybe the air that slowly kills you tastes sweeter. 

You think maybe it’ll all be okay 

till it all wears off like a crack hit. 

- 

What happens is life. 

Dad bod and the mind of a philosopher king.

It’s.. hey. I don’t really think I’m a king. It’s me being  braggadocious. 

It really was not perfect by any stretch of the imagination but that reflection I did on Alex Vitale’s The End of Policing was satisfying to me to write. It was scribbled out at work during downtime with a black ballpoint pen on a legal pad that I had swiped at one point to write work related notes on. There was a time where I used to hand write pretty much everything. There was just something about the feeling of moving a pen on the page. There was something about looking at the words I had formed with my own hand and smelling the ink from the pen on the page. That’s part of the writing process that I definitely miss. For some writing, I’m definitely going to return to the pen and paper. 

Sometimes inspiration does hit you. That can be a beautiful thing. It really can be. It arguably hit me at least twice last night. Inspiration can be like love. Love. Sweet love. Dirty love. Dangerous love. Sometimes it can take you to places that you really didn’t plan on going. Sometimes it can take you fucking nowhere at all. 

Introduction

My name is not important in any way. If I’ve linked you to this blog, then you know my name. If you do know my name, then for some reason, I think you’re capable of handling this. 

Shit. I’m reading over the above paragraph and it’s so lame, right? What the fuck am I ever gonna write here that’s so earth shaking? 

I suppose I’ve had a lot to grapple with in this life. One of those things is a harsh truth. I’m nobody. There are other things too. Life is boring. It’s dumb. It’s scary. Mostly, it’s just boring. It leaves me feeling restless. 

I get older and I get more restless, ya dig? 

I’m a lazy son of a bitch. 

I’ve wasted a lot of my life. 

I got this need though. I said need. I didn’t say love. I got a need to put words to a page. I got a need to play with language. I got a need to write. I don’t love it though. I hate this shit. It frustrates me. It pisses me the fuck off. It makes me want to scream. It makes me want to put my fist through a fucking wall. If I’m not trying to do it though, I just don’t feel right. 

In fact, I can feel myself calming down as I write this. I don’t feel like I’m just wasting. 

It’s unfortunate but I’ll never be famous. I’ll never be rich. I’ll be average looking but I’ll be wise. I’ll have bore witness. Bearing witness to what I see is something that’s important to me. You can laugh. You can scoff but the idea of bearing witness is sacred to me. 

Part of the reason this exists is cowardice. Actually, maybe cowardice isn’t the right word but I’m usually not too gentle on myself. I’m freer with my expression if said expression is not tied to my slave name. Aight. Maybe slave name is a little dramatic but ya know, there is some truth there. If i’m not worried about reputation or about people sending me messages that they are praying for me, then I express myself more freely. So, there is slavery to reputation and to capital. Capital got us all by the naughty bits, ya dig? I get paranoid about something making me less employable. Look, I’m probably never paying the bills with this shit. I know this. I know what it’s like to struggle to find a day job. Let me tell you, that can fuck with you. 

So, it’s between you, me and the NSA. 

There will be navel gazing. There will be laughs. There will be tears. There will be stuff that works and stuff that doesn’t. There will be poems, prose, jokes maybe. 

Thanks for reading.