Shes got a hemi

The magnificence of the cast iron heart
intimated illusions of grandeur
Among captivated passersby
Transplantation dreams of their
Own withered and underpowered
Life-providing mechanical masterpieces
Pull eyes from sockets and disjoint limbs
The sultry aluminum, plastic, and carbon-fibre forms
Surrounding the visceral centerpiece
Though presented with individual airs of brilliance
Have not the grace to draw away the moths
Circling and scorching themselves upon
Considerations of sacrifices required
Life changing modifications to allow
Hemispherical combustion chambers
Fed by polished and ported ventricles
Custom built ram-air aorta
Pumping the finest race-grade lifeblood
This spectacle of power and elegance
Would drive a unprepared body to ruin
Underutilization and over exertion
Of motor and else respectively
Once pulled to madness precipice
The circling fins scatter,
Having had their frenzy suddenly halted
Realization struck as ionic charges from minds clouds
Lone straggler patiently admires
The now lonely beacon of supple dedication to
Principles of thermodynamics and mechanical engineering
Measurements and calculations
Technical checks and balances
Representative begins her spiel
The latest and greatest
Blah blah blah
Motor monger has already
Made emotional purchase
Takes delivery of cherished promise
of power and efficiency
Rapid go go juice deliverance
And so on
But
Then again
What's a heart without
The chest in which it beats?

Untitled

Pouring out
Tears borne of
Camouflaged terrors
Dried upon air contact
bowels of the psyche
Voided

biscuits with whitney

wheat grains ground to dust,
enough to fill two cups
an entire bar
of cows milk
aged and churned thick
sodium bicarbonate
represented by a limb grasping a bludgeon
toxic to eat, but a tea spoon
should make the meal
a similar quantity
of granulated c6h12o6
to sweeten the deal
and sodium chloride crystals
two poisons combined
into a life form necessity
cows milk, once again
fresh
unmolested
in a cup halfway between full and philosophy
carve a hollow into a tree stump
blend oh so thorough
dry acquisitions
and mashed butter pads
part the powdered meal from itself
as a ring,
filling the void with bovine lactation
oscillate vigorously
flatten and cut
into little saucers
allow yourself to grease
flattened steel cookware top
haha
oven heat must suffice
to double boiling point
to torture dough til quarter past

~fin~

Mirrored Guise

Seeking depth of self awareness
Refracted self sifts truth from lies
Captive glance forever longing
In the doppelgangers eyes
Dilute the sample
Delusions ample
Loud enough to cover cries
Solemn psalm of inner turmoil
The past polutes the merchandise
Or so I tell this mirrored guise
Or so I tell this mirrored guise
Followed painted pirate line
Seeking non existent prize
Here you go, you're runner up
It never helps to patronize
Was it worth the agony
To find from where your moon will rise?
Honest inner candid question,
Aren't we a little wise?
Or so I ask this mirrored guise
Or so I ask this mirrored guise
Tricking ego time to listen
Know the taste of humble pies
Be the change you want to see
Quell the hate ; anesthetize
Know the beast has burrowed deeply
Without its breath the dungeon dies
From the frigid silver portal
"Peace is what your torment buys"
Said to me, this mirrored guise
Said to me, this mirrored guise

Etro intro

Stacked libations past
Draped in wet silken pulp
Scattered generously across
Verbal playing field
Hard liquid vortex
Ingests scorched conversation starters
Cast in
Once ice broken
Drifts in the wake
While Amidships
Aural reciprocity to imbibed levity
Penetrates all surfaces
Dictating rhythmic function
Bulkheads swell with potential
Released in earnest
Upon suspecting partygoers
Witness in participant in subject
Objectified by purchase
(Though appreciated)
Set aside once expended
Put upon eachother as
Stacked libations past

Flee market

Junk merchants
Broken waste carriers
One mans treasure...
A hundred times over
THOSE ARENT ANTIQUES
Flea market hit or miss
Bull or bear mask
Dukes of hazard Collectors plates
Red liquorice choker
YOU'RE BRINGING HOME SCABIES
Brightly colored wellingtons
Vintage but not for sale
An empty promise
Of intrinsic value

Inkwell

Previously plentiful
Current quality questionable
Illumination on the fly
My inkwell runs dry

Trying indignantly
Past thought malignancy
Words trapped behind my eye
My inkwell runs dry

Fast pace no race
Written from a deeper place
Summoned by and by
My inkwell runs dry

Discarded bits of broken phrase
Formed and lost in drunken daze
Empty wishes reach the sky
My inkwell runs dry

Candid questions unrestricted
Deepest wounds are self inflicted
We never MEAN to pry
My inkwell runs dry

Heightened sense of doom impending
Laws of inner physics bending
I spy with my little eye
My inkwell runs dry

Overlapping lack of cover
Emptiness a bitter lover
Hide the shameful cry
My inkwell runs dry

Moments gathered into ages
Funneled onto crumpled pages
Pilot breathes a withered sigh
My inkwell runs dry

Only safe in deep seclusion
Feeding into self delusion
I know I live a lie
My inkwell runs dry

flattery, gimme gimme

Keep tellin me I'm cute
Void filled with flattery
Self destruction halted by
Imagined intimacy
If only for a moment
Keep inflating my ego
Expansion of inner space
Artificial warmth
Extrapersonal fortutude
Almost suffices
Keep showering me with praise
Nourishment bestowed
Flower drinks sunlight
Pedals fill with brilliance
Radiance encapsulated
Tomorrow will see
Return to mediocrity
But for now
Just keep telling me

Fission for two

long awaited lack of anxiety
effortless smile reflected
Buzz lips ears eyes fingertips
Subsides the longing
Like desert deluge
Satiated
Glowing presence
Between dual entities
Siphon and reciprocate
Affection
Flowing bidirectionally
Alternating current
With direct application
Core energy amplified
Fission for two
Heat dispersal by slight space
Post reactive cool
Brief pause
To go again

untitled

Feral huntress
Seeking intangible prey
Deftly maneuvering
Through
Over
Beyond gnashing teeth
Claws of fellow predators
Hallowed prize in minds sight
Fought boldy
Brazenly
Brutally
Upon safe return
Extrapolating
tomorrows jungle beckoning from
mornings remains

Oh dark thirty

Anti-meridian
punctual never neverland
Self exclusive but for rarities
Scoffing at rats racing
Parallel line spacing
Fit into their boxes
Monopoly man puts the pieces away
Collect current currency
Euroyendollarpound
Nondescript gibberish
Investing futures passed gas
Rival piracy
Viral conformity
Thick brown viscous wake up
Focuses reality
Through mountaintop telescope
Viewed idly
By once mankind living wildly
Wake me up after noon

Checkered Flag

Haggard forms of tired wanderers
Sting of flesh beaten raw
Storms of wind, rain, dust, ice
Pelting
puncturing the weary
Perforating pride and morale
Warm food and shelter are
But prestidigitation
Scorched mesa
Acid wetlands
Nuclear playground
Sustenance near sourceless
Blanket toxification of
hot flakey earthen crust
Magma flows from crumpled landscape
Seared sediment punctuated
by thick vines of fiery liquid heat
No passage through hell on earth
No bypass 
Hasty deliberations accented by
Pustules burst sickly ochre
Winces not heard by
Ears inflamed and crackling
The pitiful state of our salvation
Numbers dwindle to
Less than minimal
No longer a nation
A community
A group
A handful
Penultimate homo sapiens
Stares screaming through
Sockets left with charred nerves
Collapsed on dead earth
finish line for the human race

(News type stuff) #1

So its been a week of posting my daily writings. I missed the last essay being done at midnight by 30 minutes, so what. Lemme ask my boss about it, (yells to self, "hey tristan, is it okay that you got that post up after midnight? Yeah its cool, nobody's gonna care about it) yeah its cool, nobody's gonna care about it. So far I think I've done decently to prevent absolute crap from spilling onto this blog on my behalf. Not that anyone else is spilling crap on it. Anyway.
     Its been a good week, and I feel fantastic today. I have gotten high praise from respected friends on some writings, and that's better than I expected. I went to a poetry night at The Starving Artist Gallery and had a great time. I performed one of the poems I posted here and it was well received. A great night despite a little too much wine on way too little sleep, which, by the way, leads to insomnia and bitter self hatred. Crazy sounding right? Luckily this is a very rare occurrence. I just need to eat more food. Especially if I'm going to be drinking. Anyway this is my business, not yours, piss off!
     Back to this news thing. No news, really. In between places to live and searching for work. We got 51 more weeks til the end of year one of this blog so wish me luck.

          ~T

Present Shock

     What a place our future is. We call it now, now. When I was a kid it was science fiction to have a TV in your phone. To have the internet on a screen you could hold like a book. To drive an electric car. A computerized camera that doesn't need film? And this is just the everyday toolset available to the low end consumer. So much has changed in just the last twenty years that I don't call the present "the present". As far as I'm concerned we live in the future.

     I used to scoff at the concept of "future shock". A guy named Alvin Toffler coined the term in 1970 with a book by the same name. Of course, this idea has been referenced countless times in pop culture. To me, the idea that someone would suddenly become overwhelmed by seemingly instant changes in society, culture, and especially technology, looked like cold war era fear mongering. As I got older, I shrugged off some of my youthful cynicism and started to really appreciate the marvels that lifetimes of research had brought to fruition. As I reveled in the wonderment I started to realize how incredibly different life is than what I had seen growing up.

     One of the aspects of the future shock concept that I grew an association to over time was explored in the old Judge Dredd progs in 2000ad comics, the "futsie". A futsie, in the comic context, was someone who's sanity had been suddenly compromised by their inability to cope with the state of their world, and had become disturbed, usually with violent tendencies. Not that I'm saying I'm a futsie, but I find myself more sympathetic to that idea than when I initially read about it as a teenager. The simple fact that I'm writing this on a tablet the size of my first TV, and more powerful than my last laptop, I find to be mind boggling. The fact that I could do this in an airplane while video chatting with someone on the other side of the planet? Those are reasons I have to take breaks from writing, so I can just take in how cool this all is to the little kid I was so long ago.

     Come to think of it, I reckon the futsies might exist already. There's people that suddenly just flip a switch in their head and go shooting in public, drive their kids off a bridge, quit their job sell their belongings and travel on foot. I can't really attribute any of these because I never bothered to... Oh wait I can! I may carry a little tech with me but I travel great distances on primitive means. Bicycles and skateboards to travel for thousands of miles. A nomadic lifestyle due to a complex feeling of disenchantment with the society I was thrust into. There's a life I began to live that could be easily attributed to future shock.

     If you find yourself In whatever part of your town has a trainyard, you'll no doubt see young adults every now and then, 16-25 years old with brown and/or black clothes, long hair, ukeleles and dogs. Riding their way back and forth across the country like the hobos of the 1930s. Did you know how much cooler their adventures are than yours? My travels are cooler than yours too, and most of theirs for that matter, but that's beside the point. These kids live completely off the grid. They don't submit to health concerns unless its staying away from meat or turning on their side so they don't choke on vomit, but time and again they proved to hold interesting conversations about the nature of our almost sociopathic aversion to the perceived common societal norms. Nomadic sages in the current era.

     Now the counter to these types are the common-folk. I don't really have a feel-good term for these people. I mean the people who live in a trailer on the side of a bumfuck road through nowhere, who might not be able to read or write and lack the capacity for deep thought, yet to them high definition satellite television with all ten thousand channels is an absolute necessity. The people who think the other side of their state is exotic, and that having come from another country is a mindfuck compared to their sedentary life. Don't get me wrong, I love these people as much as any other, they have shown me the type of warm courtesy I've seen spread out in many places. But their lifestyle of  staying still and reveling in the "world" being pumped into their TV screen? That doesn't sit well with me. People with the means to go places if they spent less of their time looking for things and more looking for experience. They rely on technology to fulfill themselves.

    The common folk also live in the cities and suburbs. Its not uncommon for people to isolate themselves intentionally. If you can order groceries and other supplies from your computer then there's very little preventing a hermits lifestyle. Human contact? How about Facebook, twitter, text messages, instant messages, blah blah blah. Get really lonely? Have a cyber sex session on a webcam. My step dad said that if I had a holodeck that I would never leave it, well people live on their computer now and it's not quite the same thing but their intentional isolation mirrors what he said perfectly. Take all that tech away from them for a week and they will be destroyed.
    
     Pasties? Is that a good name for the people who suffer the opposite of future shock? I don't think it matters and I surely won't be the one to coin a term for it.  I want to get these people out of their house and off the computer. Leave behind the smartphone, the tablet, the laptop, the GPS. Real life, the unprocessed, unscripted, analog version of what their television plays, is waiting outside and its quite a bit more fulfilling than living vicariously through some rhinoplastied nitwit who landed their role through some convincing felatio. An old roommate of mine is a shut in. On her laptop 14-16 hours a day, punctuated by snacks and baths, and sometimes school. "Dating" a guy 2000 miles away for the last 5 years and she's never met him. Are you kidding me? This is the kind of person who NEEDS to get out, to be forced out of their box to breath real unrecycled air. What can be done though, when this lethargic apathetic agoraphobic lifestyle is socially acceptable?
  
  Now after considering the picture I've painted here, or at least attempted to, I think its fair to say I've more than excused myself for seeking respite from this future in which we dwell. Meeting people all across the country from town to town, I've seen everything from absolute technophile homes to rugged homesteads with the only the barest necessities. Having seen the same types of people repeated consistently, I feel that there should be more studies into this subject and possible application of knowledge gained from said studies. For now, I'll keep on traveling and researching on my own until I run out of time.

    

Getting over

Swarming round a battered head
Shattered shards of hearts will gather
Simultaneous mass exodus
To here from wherever

Almost always ever empty
To the point of feeling filled
Blank intentions stealthy passing
Inner peace's blood is spilled

Slivers of a broken mirror
Reflecting on a haze of guilt
Nonspecific memories recall
Ornate containment cell it built

Holding onto last remainders
Crumbled into spectral dust
Previous was seen fulfillment
Lacking joy is feeling just

Sweeping up the only remnants
Locked away for safety's sake
Free to fly once pump unbroken
Ashes spread across the lake

Less than half an hour ago

Less than half an hour ago
I was a giant stepping over forests
Passing a mile every step
Hundreds of thousands of creatures
Looking up at me in marvel
As I towered over them

Less than half an hour ago
I was Captain Cooke
Trekking through arctic wastes
Leaning into the wind
Bitter icy blasts tearing at my cheeks
And tearing up my eyes

Less than half an hour ago
I was a miniscule speck of dust
Pushed every way
With no hope of control
Small enough not to matter
Small enough to fly free

Less than half an hour ago
I journeyed out of here
Flying though not aloft
Silent conversations rampant
Wintry streets bombarding senses
Frigid winds recharge the soul

Scribbled embolisms

Little scribbled embolisms
crawling from my skull like pests
Used to be they had direction
Form together written nests

Every other other other
Time I spill them from my head
Wonder why I ever bother
writing what is never read

Filling shoes I used to wear
days or weeks or months ago
Each time my heart I open wide
That ink from pain will always flow

Heartache is a muse so brutal
Forming joy from bitter past
Put the parts together proper
Let the longing stop at last

Little scribbled embolisms
Crawling from my scrambled brain
Let them out on daily basis
Creating almost keeps me sane

It thinks highly of itself

It thinks highly of itself
Growling to nobody in particular
You can tell
The way its sitting there
Ready to pounce on nothing specific
The ground in front daring it to spring forward
It shudders and let's out a growl
Still crouched and unmoving
Bright white eyes notice nothing
A red glimmer fades
As a green star rises
The once immobile beast surges forward
The shriek and roar as it launches
It thinks highly of itself
Predator of the concrete jungle
It's rubber claws dig into paved earth
Drawing attention
Gaining on nothing ahead
But another crimson glow
To wait
Growling to nobody in particular
Thinking highly of itself

spring in winter

Wake up
In the middle of the show
To the left there's a beauty
Like flowers in the snow

Hold up
Why weren't you awake
Whats this bag In your pocket
For fucks sake

Shut up
You don't recognize
The voice that's speaking to you
And you don't know her eyes

Who are you
She looks away
Suddenly doesn't have anything to say

Am I wrong?
Your thinkin to you yourself
Drop dead gorgeous
With a great booty shelf

You don't know
But you maybe wanna see
What this beautiful bombshell
some day might mean

You're speechless
And your heads full of fog
But you gotta clear it out
With an inner dialog

Its hopeless
In the right right now
Just woke and your words
Can't describe how

You'd die
Just to hold her hand
And youd fist fight an ocean
To kiss her on the sand

Good luck
You wrote her all this
If only in your head a moment you
Could feel a little bliss

the bridge to savannah

The roads headed south into Savannah were peaceful until they turned back onto highway 17. It had been several hundred miles that they'd been more or less following that road, long enough that the number in and of itself had become a source of comfort to them. A trail marker towards something they couldn't find without giving pieces of themselves every day. There had been other numbers, other roads, bike trails. They had gotten lost and found themselves, and continued to find themselves as they went.

Phil was a veteran traveler, having followed the winds and ridden against them back and forth across the country. He'd built a road kit and stripped out the dead weight and revised it so many times that his comfort and sense of security from it lent strength to his partner in their quest. His flaws weren't physical, he was a workhorse with a heart of gold, marred by a drinking problem and a temper that followed Murphys law to a t.

Ashley had a job she hated and a drinking problem of her own leaving her treading water in an overpriced pool. By the time he got done telling her about the voyage he was planning, she had already started planning her kit. By the time she asked him about coming along, she had gathered resources and put in her two weeks notice. Determination was her weapon. This adventure would be her ticket out of the daily grind that bled her of her hope and happiness.

Her mother examined him like a prosecutor in a murder trial, asking loaded questions and searching for reasons to deny her approval. Before final approval she asked him why he traveled this way. Phil had been asked this many times and generally said something like this:

"You drive a car and the scenery flies by, drive a few hours and you are in a completely different environment. Bipedal transportation, be it a bicycle, a longboard, or the old shoe leather express, has rewards in itself, the time it affords you to analyze. To appreciate, to criticize, to question, to empathize. There are times that its hard to motivate yourself, when you have to force yourself to keep pushing. Those moments are always rewarded. The reward? That's the people, the places, the adventure."

His answer left her with only one question, would he protect her daughter with his life? Without hesitation he gave his word that he'd do everything to keep her safe. Ashley would have left with him regardless of her mothers approval, but having it made leaving easier. Now they could turn their focus to final planning and getting on the road.

After a few weeks of pedaling along highway shoulders and country roads they'd gotten into a rhythm that afforded them time to daydream. The eyes follow the road, the hands steer, the feet pedal, but the mind can freely roam. Phil was thriving, back in his element after months of stagnancy. Ashley had tasted adventure and she savored every moment that wasn't being spent working a dead end job to barely afford rent.

It wasn't sunshine, unicorns, and gumdrops. There were storms, cold weather, and the daily exhaustion that comes with riding all day for weeks at a time without a days rest. The frustration that comes with flat tires and broken spokes is amplified by the cars whizzing past as repairs are hastily made in the highway shoulder. There was an air of danger that kept them both attentive to details, and stopped them from pushing their luck too far.

As they turned back onto 17 south the road condition went from fresh paved country road to a cracked and weathered pavement. Sun bleached to a light gray and in dire need of newly painted lines, the next ten miles would be an exercise in fortitude. This stretch of highway was a two lane swatch carved into the South Carolina swampland, leading to a bridge at the Georgia border. Semi trucks doing ten over blasted by them as constantly as the mosquitoes that the travelers unwillingly fed.

The light faded in the sky by the time they reached the end of the fractured stretch of roadway, leaving the glow of Savannah to provide dramatic accent to the bridge looming before them. They pulled off to a patch of short grass beside the beginning of the bridge to rest for a minute and discuss what to do in the city upon arrival. Just before dark, the usual protocol was to find a patch of woods to camp in without being seen. Cities were a different beast entirely, a place where shelter meant making friends or paying for a hotel.

Ashley took a cigarette out of a partially crushed pack and inhaled sharply Through the filter as she put the flame of her lighter to the other end. She looked over at Phil with a smile in her eyes. "You're not scared are you? I mean yeah, that trailer is heavy and you're a monster for pulling it all this way, but you look hesitant to cross the bridge."

He watched her mouth as she spoke, watched the smoke slowly flow out as her lips spelled out the first thing he'd heard in hours that didn't originate from a motor vehicle. He gently took the cigarette from her and took a long pull and exhaled. "It ain't that I'm scared necessarily, more that I'm tired and I figure its gonna burn up all the rest of my get-up-and-go to cross this big bastard and we might have to make it clear through town to find somewhere to camp. I just wanted to rest up for a minute and check my brakes and whatnot."

"Okay then" she said as she pulled out and lit another cigarette rather than share what she felt she had earned. "We should go find somewhere to have a beer and talk to some locals. If we don't meet anyone who will put us up for the night then we'll just ride out of town later and sleep in in the morning." She took a few steps toward him and put an arm around his waste, leaning her head against his chest. "How far today?"

"Somethin' like thirty-six-an-a-half so far." He replied as he put an arm around her shoulders. "Figure we'll be over forty by quitting time for the day. Beer sounds real nice right about now by the way. Me and beer are about to appreciate the shit outta you." His hand slid down her back until his fingertips started trying to work their way into her waistband and into her panties. She grinned at him and moved her hand slowly to his belt buckle before pushing him away.

"You need a shower before I'm doing anything with you" she said with a sexy half smile, as if to egg him on. "Besides we are in the open next to a fucking highway. Cops would get us for indecency or something." She watched as he kneeled next to his bicycle and started examining the brakes. "Ohh you're so quiet now, are you sad? You don't need sex right now anyway, we still have to get up and over that bridge and you're already tired."

Phil glanced back at her for a moment trying to come up with something snappy to come back with. "First off, we're gonna make it into Savannah tonight, regardless of me being tired. Second, we took road baths at that rest stop earlier and I washed all the important parts. And third you know it would excite the shit outta you to do that in public." He knew her well enough to know he was right. He also knew that she had his balls in a vice and not to piss her off.

She put the half crushed pack of smokes into a pocket in her purse and pulled out her phone. "Its only six thirty, too early to get away with it with all the traffic. Maybe later babe." She was already fantasizing about what they could do alongside 17 south when Phil flicked his cigarette towards the roadway and pulled Ashley close to kiss her. She blew smoke into his mouth and giggled as she stepped toward her bike. "Save it sailor, let's cross the bridge and go get shitfaced."

Her ascent was steady, and a good bit faster than his. He didn't mind pulling the trailer every day on flat ground, but bridges brought a fleeting sense of impending doom. Phil was determined to ride to the top without stopping, as he had on countless smaller ones, and despite the intensity of the burn he felt in his legs and back, he kept his pace just behind Ashley as they reached the pinnacle, overlooking the waterway they were crossing. Something was sticking in his mind as he started to coast. Maybe it was about slowing down or taking a break but it wasn't clear.

The downslope of the bridge was a welcome change from having beaten their legs senseless riding up the other side. Ashley took lead, keeping to the right to ride down the off ramp. Phil allowed himself a smile and a sigh watching Ashley's butt as she pedalled faster into the turn. As if it were clockwork he started slowly applying the rear brake handle followed by the front. His blood suddenly went cold as he realized he wasn't getting any response from the back brake system. With 150lbs of trailer behind you its hard to stop quickly. Without back brakes doing 20 odd miles an hour it becomes deadly.

Ashley looked back just in time to see the collision, to hear the sickening snap as phils femur shattered against a hesco barrier. He flew end over end down the 30 foot drop, landing in a pile of road gravel. Ashley screamed his name and rode as fast as she could the rest of the way down the ramp and onto the side street that took her to his side. Aside from his leg there were various parts of his body that had been grotesquely twisted by the impacts. She looked at him with eyes flooded with tears. She desperately wanted to see his face, to hold him close to her again. With all of his remaining strength, he moved his bloodshot eyes to meet hers "I'm sorry baby, I didn't mean to. I love you. Tell Savannah I said hi". She sobbed dripping tears on his broken body "we made it babe. Its gonna be okay".

It was less than a day before her mother had made it down to pick her up. Less than a week and she was able to smile again. In a month she had a job, a car, a new life. Phil's parents treated her like a daughter for the next few years, until they got over his death. She never rode a bicycle again, but she would always keep his memory in her heart. He gave her something she couldn't have done for herself, he gave her adventure.