Please excuse the comma splices, tense changes, verbosity, etc. I was just a youngin' and now I realize the error of my grammatical ways. Plus, I preferred the flowery and descriptive writing styles of the early 19th century and beyond rather than the short, journalistic post-Hemingway-style of writing. I love intense imagery and descriptions in general. Still deciding whether I should edit my old poetry for grammar mistakes or take the Beatnik approach and fuck it.

Disclaimer: I only wrote/write on bad days. Grand days have never inspired me enough to write as I've always used writing as an outlet. A majority of my poetry is angsty, dark humored, or depressing, however, I don't have depression, and I'm not self-destructive or suicidal by any means. My writing is mostly a tenfold representation of the kind of day I was having at the time. Embellishing the realities of my bad days on paper helped turn them into good days. Not sticking my head into an oven anytime soon (or ever, actually). :P +10 points if you got the reference.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to comment

Sunday, February 22, 2009

"The Ranting of a Closet Cynic" (Part One and Part Two, supposedly)

Walking upstairs, I notice the Christmas tree standing dormant in front of the living room windows. The plastic artificial evergreen remains idle with its adornment of cracked candy canes; a slightly grotesque scene. The counterfeit tree establishes a gloomy aura that incinerates happiness upon its attempted passage into my fiery home. The tree’s volatile existence remains hidden as the snow begins to fade away, replaced by sporadic brown patches of Kentucky blue grass. 'Tis proof of my procrastination.

I don’t have any aspirations in life, however, if in some rather odd way you, for some reason, feel better about yourself due to my recent displays of cynicism, I consider that an indirect form of misanthropy on my part.

I have to admit this isn’t my first attempt at writing a book; however, none of my “books” seem to advance past the pamphlet stage. I have already completed the task of embellishing the God-awesome title of this book with quotation marks to signify that, if all else should fail, as it obviously has, this literary unit shall end up morphing into a short story, thanks in part to my horrid time management skills.

You may thank me, personally, for not handwriting this book, due to my cryptic usage of cursive “writing” that is only readable by myself and a few elite others that were gifted with magnificent peepers. I accept gratuities in many forms, if you are in a generous mood. If you feel like sending fan mail, I accept that, too, however, for safety precautions, refer to the phone book.

If, for some strange reason, you believe I come off as arrogant, selfish, or egotistical, your thoughts are simply misconstrued. I like to think of myself as the non-existent God’s gift to the world. Yes, I’ve had some faults with religion. I’ve tried, yet have not failed, by any means. Heaven just isn’t ready to handle someone like me, but once I lock-pick those pearly gates, I shall be hanging out in the clouds, possibly; if it occurs to me upon being placed in my death box that there certainly is such a destination.

As I write this musing, my fellow comrades are engaging in a conversation that involves the comparison of cup sizes and bosom shapes. I find it hard to concentrate on MY story when THEY won’t shut their traps.

Now, where was I…Ah, yes, hats.

I like hats. Hats are mighty fine. They have a way of keeping your head safe from possible infernos caused by nuclear fall-outs, and they protect my rather large cranium from acid rain, flying monkeys, and the occasional sphincter-less fowl.

(More later) *runs off to steal candy from small children whilst humming a random Bob Dylan song (or Cat Stevens, can't decide)*


I am still stuck in this closet, yet I have no intentions of leaving this, possibly tentative, wardrobe receptacle, I guess one could call it. I...I...I will try and camouflage my cynical identity by wearing my optimist mask to portray myself as a convivial figure. It takes a vast amount of physical and mental effort to cast a veil upon my cynicism to divert your attention to my fictitious displays of optimism. Yet, for some reason, my original acts of randomness, and the ability to “connect” irrelevant paragraphs, still remain solid, in my opinion.

Now, I must admit I do try extremely hard to keep intruders out of my closet. You know the type... They're always trying to figure out what's wrong with you and how they can give you advice since they feel morally obliged to do so-- this used to be me. However, ever since I have called this closet of mine “home,” I have made good use of my time spent in this coffer by gathering my thoughts and evaluating my life. *crumples up paper and throws it on floor* Who am I kidding? To ‘ell with evaluations and expectations, I want enlightenment!

I do not know what life has in store for myself, however, if I had the opportunity to find out, I’d probably be stuck somewhere in Scranton, Pennsylvania near the security clearance while my flight takes off without me, somehow losing my baggage in the process. I do feel the need to be enlightened in some way, though, but not solely, by any means. I find that enlightenment is emitted from one human to another somehow…It’s hard to explain.

This poses a rhetorical question: Are my attempts to avert your attention from my cynicism to my potentially existentialist views on life working?

*picks up paper; un-crumples paper; struggles to read own handwriting on paper; throws paper on floor; rinses and repeat*

Copyright © 2009

Black Friday Hysteria

"Attention Wal-Mart shoppers, there are ten Blu-Ray DVD Players available in the Enterta--Get 'em!"

Black Friday shopping is a tradition of grandeur in my family. I enjoy the competitiveness involved in this fanatical form of consumerism. This version of shopping allows you to appreciate the material items you possess since you're fighting tooth and nail to obtain your purchases. What could be more intense than shopping alongside crazed consumers that are hyped up on Red Bull?

The art of Black Friday shopping sheds light to our barbaric materialist approaches on life. We are always seeking to buy new commodities to replenish our egos, release ourselves from boredom and increase our self-esteem. I have to admit, I am a victim of this vicious cycle and I will most likely never change my stubborn consumer ways. However, it's important that you fix your problems so you can satisfy the souls of hypocrites like me.

I believe Black Friday shopping should be an Olympic event. All you require is a team of four people. One person completes the heavy lifting, the second person is the sprinter, the third person is the strategist and the leader stands off to the side, with latte in hand, instructing their team members. The award, of course, is the Blu-Ray DVD Player you snagged from the Entertainment Department.

Black Friday shopping requires speed, strength, strategy, agility, the ability to use alliteration, and most importantly, extreme discipline. How many people do you know of that would be able to wake-up at 3AM to attend a sale at Penny's?

I must extend a large amount of gratitude to the retailers of caffeinated products, as Black Friday would be nothing without caffeine. Caffeine makes the world go 'round or at least the wheels of shopping carts. Without caffeine, store clerks would be sensible and refuse to work on Black Friday, thereby restricting our shopping addiction. Consumers without caffeine would be uncoordinated and sleep deprived. Thanks to caffeine, consumers can be as blood thirsty and as insane as possible, depending on their dosages.

While my family is not as gung-ho about Black Friday shopping as other people we still consider this type of highly-skilled shopping to be a great deal of fun. We feel it's our responsibility to help keep the economy on its toes. There's nothing more exhilarating than the feel of crisp, morning air, the warmth of hot java and the sight of a Plasma TV gleaming in a store window. People like us are required to keep the stock market from crashing during these desperate times.

Copyright © 2008-2009

The Man Who Would Be King

A troubled troubadour,
Tormented by filthy pleasing things.

He set out to reclaim his rightful throne.

Trilby, his crown,
Epiphone, his scepter,
London, his home.

Stuck in the shambles during infancy.

One last show as a dire escape from the rock underworld.

Copyright © 2009

Saturday, February 21, 2009

House of Cards

Trapped in a room made out of a deck of cards.

Queen of hearts boasts worthless riches,
Queen of Bitches.

King of diamonds questions his title,
Lineage is vital.

Seven of clubs bears good news,
Anticipated muse.

Ace of spades craves attention,
Awaits ascension.

Suit of colors, true to its name, intentionally plastered on the souls of cards that leave the stack.

Luck dealt separately in each hand,
Fortune grand.

Truth in every deal will soon reveal fate that lies ahead.

House collapsing as the song is sung, the word spoken -- free.

Copyright © 2009