The Brokenest Blog Ever

Stand Up Together.

2011-05-17T12:14:00.000-07:00

It’s been a lot of hard work draggin my shadow through the dirt, through
The outskirts of humanity—couch-surfing to infinity,
and my mouth hurts from the profanity. There’s a Profane amount of vanity
infesting these roaches and assorted vermin
Talkin to mirrors candidly yet making no mention of the atrophy.

It’s my
Slap happy catastrophy and I laugh in the face of apathy.
I pinch the cheeks of the cavalry and tickle the feet of the casualties—
If they got ‘em! Big top Jetsam and Flotsam.
The stock market’s as hostile as trading small pox blankets for your wampum.
Playin the fool or playin possum, play your hand or keep on walkin
The line. Either a pauper or a robber, deep pockets lined with genocide

Slash and burner with cash to earn in a Gotham City Nightmare
On Wall Street
with Freddy Madoff’s razor five finger discount – faulty wiring
leads to four alarm fires, and a crumbling empire
where the ghosts in the rubble whisper tales of another life's desires.

Out of sight and out of mind, dancing across the power lines
Electric boogaloo through the loop de loop deception and sour times
Eyes locked with a Cyclops dressed in Armani gear and high tops
And I’ll play him for the coward he is before I smack his smile off.

It’s a sorry state of affairs full of the starry eyed disaffected
While I stay passionate and savage, a master of my own enchantments
It’s a Great Depression Redux so Skip to the Loo, I’m starving.
Feeling duped in a soup line bustling with martians and carnys

So forgive me if I skip the after-work boozing and whoring, I got
Better ways to kill time than spawning another generation of orphans
I’d rather create a moment—a slice of perfection frozen
as jarring as an earthquake, as calming as the oceans.

Feel me::

I spend my money on crap and end up funding terrorists
masquerading as legal governments sanctioned by Bilderbirg cads

And everything printed in popular media is lies filtered and molded
To keep the population distracted and unmotivated to improve their
stifled existences

This is where we say NOT ME!
I won’t be drowned in the monopoly.
I won’t go down with the ship. I will learn to swim. Fuck it.
I’ll grow gills and flippers and become the baddest fish in the ocean.
A killer whale killer shark octopus catfish with wings.
I will evolve into an intrepid creature of light and energy
A monster of positivity bent on lifting my fellow lion hearts from the trenches.

They think they own us. But we are the uncharted waters.
We are the invisible threat of undertow, the deepest ocean currents,
The bloodstream of the earth. It is our movements that keep the moon in orbit.
It is our energy that spins this great globe, and it is our love that brought the sun
To that one perfect point in the universe to perpetuate our life.
As long as we stay in touch with this relationship, as long as we keep
Communication lines open, the balance will maintain.
I will take my gloves off if you will hold my hands and we can
Stand up together.

Run For Your Life

2011-02-16T14:16:00.000-08:00

I’m on the treadmill.
I’m keeping a steady pace.
I’m regulating my breathing.
I am enhancing focus.
It feels good. It feels good to be moving,
Running toward my future,
Soaring into the clouds
Where the air is thin;
I enter a state of subdued consciousness
Everything gray and silent –
Distant steps. Distant breaths.

I’m on the treadmill.
I’m bounding forward triumphantly
Counting the calories as they stream off me
Kissing them goodbye and moving on
Rain and debt, steam and stress
Clouds of dust and regret
Kicked off into my hazy past.
I have a date with perfection.
That phantom who stands me up again
And again so that I eat alone, I sleep alone
And here I am running alone.

I’m on the treadmill.
I’m being pursued by something.
I’m running faster, swallowing short
Violent breaths into miniature lungs,
Rubber arms, doughy legs, Barreling down this
Imaginary line. A terrified sprint, A fevered gallop,
Fleeing the giant question mark, the cold shadow,
Nipping at my tripping heels and plodding thoughts.
Anchored by this foreign machine,
I scamper in place while my greatest fears
wait patiently, calmly for me to run out of breath.

STORE CREDIT

2011-01-12T18:47:00.000-08:00

STORE CREDIT

I don't know why I became so fixated on these particular boots. It's dumb, really. They're just boots. It's not like they were the cure for cancer, or a job at the White House, or even an amazing woman; they were just a nice pair of suede military boots. I should have just bought them. Sometimes an impulse buy is the better option because you never know when simple desire will become a fixation. There was an online sale -- one of those after Christmas deals -- and I was one mouse-click away from having them for 40% off. That's almost half price! And these boots were really, really fresh! They were somewhere between special ops military boots and rock star disco sexy. Think of Eddie Vedder grunge with diamond glitter, except not literally, just figuratively--Sexy Fucking Boots.

Later that night, my friend Tanya, who was a guest vocalist with my band, said that I should have gotten them. She said, "$90 is nothing. You're still talking about them, so you obviously want them. Just buy them." She was so nonchalant about it, tipping back her gin and tonic and shrugging, that I caught myself thinking, "She's right. $90 isn't that much. Maybe I could still get them if the sale hasn't ended." Her flippant endorsement really turned me around. When you want something, you buy it. Simple.

Earlier that day though, as my finger trembled feverishly over the mouse button debating the transaction, I had rationalilzed not to. My credit card bills are not at a comfortable level, and I already have more shoes than any civilized person could need. The stern image of my father, my father who had grown up with two pairs of shoes: black and brown, always manifests in my mind. He shakes his head and I grit my teeth. Every time I scan my magnificent menagerie of hosiery, searching for a pair that will appropriately complement my ensemble, I can hear him grumbling from his retirement cottage in Florida. So I decided not to buy them. I closed teh browser window and went on with my work day. Besides my bills and expenses, I had already gotten through six winters without boots, so why splurge unnecessarily? It was a triumph of practicality in the ever-encroaching face of societal-imposed decadence.

And so the online sale elapsed, and days later I still fretted over the escaped boots. I scoured the internet fruitlessly for a comparable sale. I found a pair of a similar style to the ones I had wanted for half of what I would have paid, and I almost bought them, but then I stumbled on a version of the original pair that was of an even better color scheme. My resolve cemented itself. would buy the boots. It was just a matter of finding a pair of that style in my size.

As I combed through the online retailers, all of whom seemed to be sold out, I waffled. Sure, I had gotten through six winters without boots, but that's not to say that I had not endured countless soggy-socked days at the office and otherwise. Most people can agree that few things can discolor a day so thoroughly as having to endure a pair of soggy socks. In fact, I believe that there is no reason that a modern working man, a single man in his 20s, should have to leap over puddles or inch along snow-glutted curbs until a clear path presents itself. I work hard. I pay my taxes. I send out holiday cards to my family and friends. It should be my right to stomp through any puddle insolent enough to collect itself in my path.

I gave up on the internet and began calling shoe stores all over the city. Lilting voices of pubescent salesgirls greeted me and time and again reported the unfortunate absence of Prouncium boots in my desired size and color. I pictured the girls shaking their heads, foreheads crinkled in disappointment, taut ponytails tittering their dismay. As I worked my way down the list of shoes stores on the boot company's website, I got into a rhythm dialing, reciting my short script, "Hi! Do you have the Prouncium boot in green suede, size 11, by the Prouncium Boot Company?" I got so used to rejection that when one of the electro-ghost voices reported in affirmative, I almost hung up on her prematurely. After confirming that I had heard her correctly and that she had indeed the exact style, color, and size that I wanted, I hung up the phone, breathless, and began to plan an early escape from work.

One of the reasons I became so fixated on these particular boots, aside from the acid-washed, brushed outsoles and the uniquely applied rubber patchons, was that I had seen in a recent music magazine expose a certain musician whom I admire sporting boots of a strikingly similar fashion. He was famous. He had six-pack abs. He was known throughout the music industry for his fantastically disruptive antics, and he eschewed cool in every possible way. Of course, if I were to acquire these boots, perhaps I would be seen in a similar light. Even more, perhaps those enviable aspects of his rockstar personality would become imbued within my own character.

I snuck out of work at four and was almost on the subway when I decided to walk to the store. Ten short blocks in this city was a fifteen-minute walk at most, and the weather was not as prohibitive as it had been in recent days. It had stopped snowing for the time being, and the sun cut through the gray shy with hopeful zeal. I strode uptown into the brisk wind, enjoying the orange and pink light reflected down form the ulofty glass of the surrounding skyscrapers. Every sludge-laden crosswalk I forged further cemented my resolve to purchase the boots. I stared down the puddles of slush with a smirk. Their reign would end soon.

The store itself was nothing special. Like most retail stores, Shoefoolery's facade was made entirely of plate glass windows lined with all manner of men's and women's hosiery. They were like puppies pressed up against the glass pleading at passerby, little orphans huddled together eagerly anticipating a new home. I made quickly for the door, pleased to find the shop more or less devoid of clientele.

There were three saleswomen, each of whom could potentially be the cute voice form the phone. I approached the most likely candidate, a short and shapely latina and mentioned that I had called about the Prouncium boot. She smiled, recognizing my request, and quickly disappeared behind the wall to retrieve my desired treasure from the fluorescent mausoleum where all the shoes sleep in quiet boxes.

I took off my coat, gloves, scarf and shoes, and took a seat on an ample loveseat. She returned, opening the box for me, and said, "They also come in leather." I smiled and said "Thanks," even though I had no interest whatsoever in the leather version. I pulled out the first boot. The suede felt soft and personal as I slipped it on my right foot. It fit perfect. I hurriedly put on the second boot and admired how the olive drab boots complemented my olive drab jeans. You would think olive drab is my favorite color and you might be right. All the shoes on the shelves around me crowded closer to admire as well, obviously envious of this perfect match of footwear and customer.

Standing up and pacing around the narrow lanes of carpet, I found them to be as comfortable as I imagined. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors revealed them to indeed channel my favorite musician's style. I was rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet, flexing and bending the soft suede when the salesgirl approached me from behind. "How do they feel?" She asked.

"Perfect," I replied. "Just one question, though. How waterproof is suede?" I'm no connoisseur of leather footwear usually.

She made a face, a slight wince, before replying, "Not really. They're about as waterproof as any leather, but we don't say that they're waterproof." I was dumbfounded. They were described as military boots. Are not military boots supposed to be waterproof? Are soldiers expected to stomp through swamps with trenchfoot? Am I expected to do the same?

"On a scale of one to ten, how waterproof would you say these are?"

The wince re-emerged, "Again, we don't say that they're waterproof. They're not as easily soaked as canvas, but they will let water through with prolonged exposure." She forced a smile and slid away to help an older woman size up some pet-booties for her rat-sized terrier.

I fell back into the plush depths of the couch and stared at the magnificent non-waterproof boots. My justification for purchasing them as rain and snow boots had been stomped into the dirt by the salesgirl's flimsy heels. They smiled up at me ashamedly. I rocked them from side to side on their ankles and sighed. I could have justified the expense for practical purposes, but to spend $150 on new shoes that I didn't even need just because I thought they were cool was not my intention.

A slightly flamboyant man, dressed in sharp fashionable attire, snapped at the sales girl for bringing him the wrong size sneaker and slumped onto the cushion next to me. Evidently the feelings of the shopgirl were less important to him than receiving his perfect new kicks in a timely manner. He shook his head at me and rolled his eyes as if seeking commiseration regarding the clerk's ineptitude. "In European sizes it would have been the larger size," he said.

"I don't know european sizes," I responded, looking around at the other boots and wondering which of them might be waterproof. I wasn't interested in pursuing further conversation with this spoiled yuppie. He would have to embrace his superiority on his own. I stood up and walked around, studying the other boots, hoping to stumble on a cheaper, cooler, more waterproof pair. One pair I picked up were cooler than the ones I was wearing, indeed were even a closer likeness to the pair I had seen in the magazine. Turning the boot over revealed a $400 price tag affixed to the sole and I quickly put it down. I couldn't afford to be that cool.

I paced around. I stopped in front of the mirror again. They really did match my jeans perfectly. I thought back to the online sale and cursed myself for not buying them then and saving $60. $60 was twelve home-made lunches, two movies, or simply a chunk of my credit card debt. I looked around the store at all the clusters of shoes flaunting their various buckles and zippers, their soft inner-linings, their molded soles and intricate woven labels. I thought back to the boots I had owned nearly seven years ago that had been guaranteed to be waterproof for half the price of these beautiful specimens. How could they demand such a fee for boots that weren't even waterproof? I thought about a spray I had at home that might increase their resilience against the elements. I returned to the couch and frowned down at the luxury footwear.

They had been revealed for what they really were. They weren't military boots. Even though they were purportedly sold at military supply stores, they were fashion boots. They were footwear for those who could afford to wear suede boots to gala events, who would match them with equally extravagant jeans and designer sunglasses appropriate for the dimmest lounges in the meatpacking district. Yet they still looked up at me hopefully. They whispered to me that $150 wasn't that much in the grand scheme of things. They were a day of work, and think of how happy they would make me. I argued back that they were also a week's worth of groceries. They clung to my heels and pouted that I wasn't inclined to fancy meals anyway.

I thought about dodging the puddles my walk up to the store from my office. I considered the fevered internet searches of the past week, and the silent pining I succumbed to at my desk. I took one final look at the boots, appreciating the fit and admiring the style before removing them and putting them back in their box. With a slight pang in my gut, I looked up and caught the salesgirl's eye and said, "I'll take them."

The purchase happened too quickly, too smoothly. The one salesgirl passed it off to a second as I put back on my old shoes and winter garb. The new salesgirl scanned the barcode and informed me the total including tax. I ignored the desolate tugging at the back of my throat. I ignored the notion to ask about their return policy. I ignored the sudden impulse to run out of the store and not look back. I handed over my bank card which she processed and handed back to me. I signed the credit card slip while she bagged the box, and handed me the receipt. As I picked it up I noticed printed by the total in bold letters, "STORE CREDIT ONLY." I swallowed hard and walked out of the store.

As I walked to the subway I considered what had just happened to me. Even if I came to my senses and realized that this was a frivolous purchase, that the money could have been put to myriad more beneficial uses like bills, food, or even charity, I would have no choice but to keep the boots. I imagined the show rack back at my apartment and considered which shoes I should get rid of so as to not seem quite so ridiculously prone to consumerism. I remembered how my roommates already taunted me for having too many possessions, and I chided myself for giving in to this unnecessary purchase. They weren't even practical boots; they wouldn't protect me from the welling puddles of black water that affronted me during thunderstorms. I might as well have bought ballet slippers.

On the subway I looked around at the footwear of the other passengers. It seemed like everyone in the city had practical boots on. I was surrounded by cute rubber skerry boots with floral patterns, insulated timberland boots, rainproof duck boots, all manner of boot made to fend off inclement weather and keep the wearer's feet safe, warm, and dry. The bag hung heavily, more like a cinderblock than shoebox. I couldn't look at it, its dead weight sinking me deeper in my own frustration.

Even now, as I sit at my desk in my room, blindly scanning email messages, I can't bring myself take the box out of the bag.

This Fevered Chasing

2010-11-09T14:55:00.000-08:00

I don’t know much about this

This fevered chasing

Aside from the lump in my stomach

And my struggling lungs.

We come here to wrestle with our own hearts,

To throw ourselves on the floor,

To break our teeth and bruise our eyes;

We come here to die.

And when the lights turn off,

And the air ceases to rush,

Where will I be but locked inside

Another condemned moment?

End In Sight.

2010-10-17T21:19:00.000-07:00

A watercolor sunset, a magnificently swollen bruise,
fades and beckons to us. It throbs in our eyes.
The restless ocean swallows itself again and again,
tiny ripples scratching the tired shoulders of the shoreline.
Smoke from distant explosions threads the storm clouds
Encroaching on the horizon. Charcoal fumes.
A chill wind throws itself recklessly about us.
A tiny nor'easter. A baby maelstrom. A sigh.

And your hand squeezing mine. Our feet
Dug into the cool sand, this blue desert song of ash.
My stomach tight with some brew of fear and hunger
Anchors me to this; A soft anxiety gnawing on the tail of Time.
Every dawn colder than the last.
Our faces aching and dim.

The Raven’s Egg

2010-09-14T13:26:00.000-07:00

Walking into the book store, a beautiful blond girl whisked past me on her way out. She did not make eye contact, did not even glance at me. I wrote a love poem for her in my heart. I held on to it very tightly for a moment before letting it go. She would never know how perfect it was. It could never be more perfect than that.

The book store embraces me, a magical realm since my childhood. I love the smell of the paper and the colorful quilts of covers arranged on every possible surface, stacks of books, cities of words huddled silently. I run my fingers over them as I browse, savoring the different textures. I think of my favorite writers, living and dead, and wonder which books here might attract their attention. I whisper to the books as I browse, comforting them, assuring them that I will be back for them some day, one at a time.

In the greeting card section, I scan the birthday cards on the rack. What kind of card do you get your father for his 70^th birthday? Which of these colorful folds of paper will communicate your feelings over so many miles to a man you hardly speak to anymore? The grumpy clown or the watercolor flower? The birthday cake or the cartoon bulldog in a party hat? I sigh. The same sigh as my father.

The only book my father ever read was The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe. Though he said he liked it, he hasn’t cracked another book since. I don’t know if he just isn’t a reader or if that particular book just scared him so deeply in his soul that he decided no book would ever be worth that sort of risk again. He has since collected several books that he said he intended to read. He still says he intends to read them. I smile and nod. The books stay on the top shelf, dusty and quiet.

I decide that greeting cards are a sham. They are a heartless racket profiting from people’s gross inability to adequately communicate their feelings. They are a physical endorsement of giving up even trying. I would rather receive a torn scrap of paper with a little heart drawn on it in pencil than a greeting card bought at a store. I leave the store without buying a greeting card for my father. His 70^th birthday is a week away and I will create something more significant, something genuine, a personal treasure that will erase all the fear from his heart.

My father’s heart is a delicate thing. I know for a fact that it is the most tender heart in the whole world. I know because only a heart so tender would dare push everyone in life away. It’s a defensive measure, and I understand it, and I forgive him. Everything hurts less if it is far away. I’m sure he would have buried the thing if he only believed he could dig a hole deep enough to protect it. But no hole could ever be deep enough to protect a heart this honest and true. I believe that this is why he divorced my mother. He had grown tired of digging.

70 years is a lot for a tender heart like his; a lot of joy, a lot of laughter, and all the sadness and loneliness that accumulate and hide beneath these things. It is a wretched day when you discover the sadness in your father’s heart. This holy muscle that you grew up revering as capable only of joy and wonder, of love for you, had been lying to you your whole life. And when you find these savage bruises, sighing heavily in some dark corner, it is so overwhelming because it’s actually a testament to the bruises that hide in everyone’s hearts. These are the bruises that even time doesn’t heal, the chink in the golden armor, the loose thread that will eventually unravel the whole façade, exposing all your hopes and dreams to the elements. If I could absorb his bruises into my own, I would.

I decide to build a monument to my father’s heart. For his birthday I will build a giant wooden heart out of Popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue, glass soda bottles and saltwater taffy. I will build it how it would have stood before all the bruises. I will build it weather-resistant and sturdy enough to bet your life on, and I will make it so beautiful that once seen it will be impossible to walk away from. It will be a heart incapable of loneliness. People will come from all over the world to marvel at its magnificence, to bask in its tenderness. They will smile at it lovingly and laugh at its jokes. They will tell it stories and kiss it goodnight. They will pray for its safety and comfort and never take it for granted. It will be the heart that my father deserved, that we all deserve.

When I was a kid I used to crawl under the floorboards of our house while the old man was watching TV. I would wriggle through the dirt and cobwebs until I was just under the armchair where he reclined, and I would listen for sounds of his heart. Mostly I would just hear the muffled drone of news anchors prattling about the horrors of the world, but sometimes he would mute the TV, and I knew he was watching sitcoms, preferring to read people’s faces than to listen to the recycled story lines. And while he sat there deciphering the hidden intentions buried beneath each actor’s expressions, I would listen for the sound of his heart. And when he sighed, I would sigh with him, so many years ago, exactly the same sigh.

Spring Fever / Some Things Never Change

2010-08-19T13:15:00.000-07:00

Ascending from the dank tomb of the subway station, I squint at the white overcast sky. It is not a beautiful day. It is a day better forgotten. I fumble open a pack of cigarettes only to realize I don't have a lighter. Wedging the imminent stogey behind my ear, I make for the nearest bodega which, lucky for me, is within shuffling distance.

Minutes later I'm back on the sidewalk, flicking my new orange lighter and inhaling that first relaxing drag. The ashy taste brings me back to 8th grade, to my first cigarettes smoked rebelliously at the neighborhood park, the same park where I first made out with Donna, back when I was little more than nerves and wonder, timid and curious and attempting not to appear so.

I fiddle to remember how I liked to hold it. Everything feels unnatural, but my nerves are settling a little. I don't think I ever developed a smoking style. These days peer pressure is geared more towards quitting than lighting up. I've got to start standing my ground.

My head swims from the nicotine and I relish the gentle tilt of vertigo. What am I going to say to him? In my head, the conversation plays out like a scene in a movie: my steadfast accusations met by his guilty retorts, his attempts to shrug off the blame and my deft repudiations. He'll blame it on being drunk, and I'll tell him it doesn't matter. He'll claim ignorance, and I'll prove otherwise. He'll apologize and I'll stare him down, letting the weight of my silence crush him. The actual conversation will, of course, veer violently from any conceived trajectory, but my thoughts are otherwise unable to settle. I'm really no good at confrontation, but this one is necessary.

I take a deep breath and tuck my chin into my scarf against the cold gusts of city wind. As I approach the corner of Houston and Avenue B, I am nearly toppled over by two impish children squealing around the bend. They disappear into one of the anonymous entryways ensconced among the shabby Chinese joints and dollar stores.

I remember playing "boys chase girls" as a child, but I have no recollection of what I did when I caught them. I would sometimes cage them up in the jungle jim, but that only ever lasted as long as the damsel wished to remain a captive. Some things never change.

It's Spring and the trees protruding warily from these gum-spotted sidewalks have begun to sprout new leaves. I remove my non-smoking hand from my pocket and pass it through the downy tufts of foliage. The freshly sprouted leaves are still soft. They show no evidence of the harsh winter only recently abated. They shimmy in the wind, eagerly anticipating anything and everything. I rip a fistful of them and let them flutter to the ground a verdant confetti. I take a deep pull from my cigarette. Sometimes Fall comes early.

The coffee shop is across the street from me now and I can see Sam inside sitting by the window, head inclined, probably reading something. We have known each other for years and only recently began taking steps to become actual friends. His cherub face is completely relaxed. He could be meditating on a mountaintop, green eyes collecting light like koi ponds at dawn. It was a face I had trusted. My stomach is tight. My lungs feel tiny. I hate this.

He thinks I don't know. I wonder how long he would continue the charade if I let him. Would he ever tell me? Forty years from now, would we be old friends on rocking chairs, and would he lean over and say to me, "Christopher, I'm not a good friend."? Would I have secretly betrayed him by then? Would I smile and tell him that we were even?

Part of me wants to keep walking, just leave this all behind, ignore him out of existence, but I know it's not that easy. I take a final puff of my stoge and catch a wisp of smoke in my eyes causing them to tear up slightly. I honestly don't know that I will be able to forgive him. It's a shame, really, but trust, once broken, is a tenuous repair.

Fancy Writer

2010-08-12T15:11:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who fancies himself a writer.

He begins every conversation with me excitedly describing some skeleton of a plot he has just conjured. Though sometimes mildly promising, his plots are consistently under-developed and rife with inconsistencies.

"But I've got a great title!" He grins spearmint and chapstick, eyes wide enough to swallow the world whole. I can seldom argue; "My Three-Legged Neighbors" or "Aboutface, Clockmaker!" seem as if they would portend hilariously imaginative plots or situations. The smiles I return to him are as encouraging as I can procure. I tell him that I absolutely can't wait to read it, though I've never actually read any of his stories.

It is only after he leaves that I acknowledge Envy perched on my shoulder, flapping his ragged wings. I used to be able to shrug it off; no longer. The earnest optimism is gone for me now. I know it takes more than a catchy title and a burst of adrenaline to craft a proper narrative. This awareness was my golden egg. But it's gotten dull, and it's a cold place to sit.

I never loved you.

2010-08-12T07:15:00.000-07:00

I peel the skin from my orange. My practiced hand deftly removes the skin in one piece. It expands like a mottled corkscrew, perfect for the lip of a giant margarita glass. I wish I had a giant margarita. It’s hot today and a giant margarita would be very refreshing. I would drink and swim and drink until I couldn’t swim any longer, and then I would be drunk. I wish I was drunk. I’m not, and my orange sucks. It is dry and tasteless, a product of poor breeding.

I ask you to take a walk with me but your feet are made of sand. I promise to bring an umbrella with us just in case. In case we decide to go to the beach, which we do, and lucky for us my umbrella is very large. I turn it on its head and we use it as a boat. We decide to float to Hawaii, but we never make it there, of course. Your feet get wet and they disintegrate, detaching from your body; they turn into small islands while you sink.

For awhile I live on these islands. Every night I dream of you sinking. Every day I wake up and sculpt a giant sand cathedral where every angel on every spire has your face until the wind blows. I know that if I leave the island the dreams will stop and I will forget you. But there is a beauty in the forgetting. And I will probably drown before I get anywhere significant, never to peel another orange again.

Human Nature

2010-07-22T15:24:00.000-07:00

(this is still in progress. any comments are appreciated!)

It wasn’t that her eyes glowed so much as that everything else in the room dimmed when she looked at me. Even the sounds of the party, the tinking of glasses and forks on hors d’oeuvre plates, the subdued cacophony of small talk, all became attenuated when her gaze locked with mine. I was instantly entranced, like a snake dancing with an Egyptian’s flute, watching her watch me.

Darlene, a friend from college with large engineer’s glasses, was standing next to me telling our friend Rory about some new movie currently playing at the art house theater downtown, and Rory, as usual, was quite happy to carry the bulk of the conversation. I merely had to smile when they smiled and I could appear to the world at large as if I were involved in the conversation. In actuality, I was transfixed by the woman in the red dress ensconced on the far side of the room, waiting for her to steal another glance in my direction.

“Where’s Karen tonight?” Darlene asked suddenly, jutting her chin toward me.

“At home,” I said after a slight hiccup, “She’s studying for her exams.” This was a lie. She was at her parents’ house “visiting with them,” which meant she was in actuality discussing her dissatisfaction with me and our relationship. We had been arguing more and more frequently as of late, the price for moving in together prematurely, I suppose.

“That’s a shame,” Rory remarked letting his own glance travel around the room, “She never comes out anymore. I do hope she graduates soon.” He and Darlene kept talking, lamenting over this and that regarding Karen’s absence and her extraordinary insight into Italian cinema, but my focus was again across the room, meandering the curves of this mysterious apparition.

Her crimson dress, cut low enough to entice without being too provocative, clung to her youthful form like the scales of a ruby crocodile. I took her in slowly, lingering on her sleek sumptuous legs, the type of legs you imagine sprinting effortlessly through a jungle—Amazonian legs. She turned to me and caught me admiring her, but only cast me a sultry smile and tilted back the final sip of her martini.

I don’t know why I moved in with Karen when I did. It just seemed like the right time. I’m getting older and had been thinking about settling down. We had met at a party like this and hit it off more or less right away. I was ready to fall in love, had been actively looking for it, and when our conversation took all the right turns without crashing I found myself unwittingly sizing her up as wife material. I suppose I had been drunk too, but this is the method by which many of my friends had acquired their spouses. Karen and I weren’t married yet, but the topic of engagement had arisen once or twice and now hung about our apartment like a pesky poltergeist.

The Crocodile Princess had disappeared while I was in my reverie. I quickly scanned the room hoping she had merely migrated to a new circle of friends and conversation, but she was nowhere in sight. Darlene and Rory barely acknowledged me as I excused myself. On my way to the kitchen, I downed my drink so that I would have an empty glass to fill should she be in the bar area. She was not, but I refilled my glass of Pomerol regardless. Swirling the wine under my nose to savor the aroma, I was considering to where she might have retreated when Trevor appeared from out of nowhere.

“Hey Jack!” he said, shuffling up in his dumpy way. My name is Jackson, yet Trevor can never seem to remember the second syllable.

“Hey Trev,” I responded with a sigh, looking past him, still pondering the mystery woman’s potential whereabouts.

“Hey, where’s Karen? I haven’t seen her all night. Is she sick?” Trevor was short and built like a pillow with legs. He spoke the way an old soccer ball might talk if it were given to conversation. I don’t think anyone really likes him.

“Yes,” I said, not really caring to commit to any specific lie at this point.

He sucked some beer from his can and shook it absently. “Must be that bug going around. I think I just got over it too. Had me laid out for a week. It was horrible. I swear I musta gone through six boxes of tissues I had so much snot comin’ outa my face.” His snicker vibrated through his arm fat and plump jowls, and I felt the slightest bit nauseous.

“Yeah, she’s pretty bad alright. Listen, can we talk later? I’m looking for someone,” I said, moving away from him.

“Who are you looking for?” he asked, opening another beer. I pretended not to have heard him as I stalked toward the back of the house and into the yard.

Living with Karen has been a learning experience. I had never lived with anyone before her besides the obligatory college roommates. Compromise was something that I was accustomed to choosing whether or not to accommodate, but Karen already had me seeking out her opinion regarding the most minute decisions. I was especially bothered by the amount of artwork I had collected over the years which she absolutely forbade wall space in our apartment. Her excuse was that most of my pieces lacked frames and were therefore inelegant. I told her that was how I liked them.

In the yard, guests were grazing in clusters around a luminescent swimming pool. Tiki torches were planted intermittently along the edge where the cement met the grass, their orange citronella flames barely keeping the mosquitoes at bay. Though there were at least five conversations going on in the yard, I knew that everyone was ignoring at least one other person; it was just that type of crowd.

I wove my way though them, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone lest I get sidelonged into another pointless talk-off. Stuart, tall and loud in an ugly shirt, barked at me to back him up on some inane point, but I just laughed and kept walking. Finally the glow of a lone cigarette in the periphery caught my eye. For a second I just watched the cherry bob in the shadows, but when she took a drag and those eyes ignited once again staring directly at me, I began my cautious approach.

She was standing just outside the immediate glow of the Tiki torches. As the distance between us narrowed, the scent of her cigarette smoke mingled with the citronella creating a primitive musk. Stepping into this new realm, I could feel my heart beating as if I had just chased her down through a wide plain. “Hi,” I croaked.

“Hello,” she said without blinking. She took a pull from her cigarette and exhaled rain clouds.

“What are you doing out here?” My voice sounded distant, the world around us fading as I let myself be consumed by her unwavering gaze.

“Smoking,” she replied, a tiny laugh flitting into the air like a phantom butterfly.

“So I see.” Talking to a woman is always a balance of confidence and nerves. I ran my fingers through my hair attempting to conjure some of the former.

“Someone here told me you were with Karen,” she said. She pulled on her cigarette again and held it for a long moment before blowing out the side of her mouth.

“You know Karen?” I asked, feeling my eyebrows perform an impulsive dance across my forehead.

“I know of her,” she said, raising her head slightly so that I found myself sliding down her neckline to her shoulder.

“Uh, yeah. We live together,” I said, taking a big gulp of my wine.

“So you’re with her?” She was relentless. I was transfixed. We were standing close enough that I could smell the soft powdery scent of her perfume; I wanted to drink it off her, I wanted to drown in it.

“Yes. I guess for now I am.” I said, watching her closely to gauge her reaction.

Her smile flickered a barely distinguishable transition as she took another slow pull from her cigarette absorbing the implications of my wording. “So what are you doing here?” she asked. Her voice was suddenly sharp and cold; it gutted me.

“I don’t know,” I said, breaking eye contact and looking down at my shoes. What I had thought was grass was actually Astroturf, spongy and artificial, surrounding me in all directions. I caught myself wondering if any of the plants in this garden were real and alive. When I looked back up her, she was already looking past me to the beasts around the pool.

“Maybe you should figure that out,” she said, dropping her cigarette and crushing it into the synthetic earth.

The Cypher

2010-05-01T17:35:00.001-07:00

His name is Jim but everyone in the circle knows him as "Cardboard." The collar on his lime-green oxford shirt is popped up and his dark jeans are tight and rolled up over his leather boat shoes. His clothes are a stark contrast to most everyone else's baggy urban attire, yet it is seldom acknowledged aside from the occasional good-natured jibing. The night air presses in around their huddled shoulders as they pitch and sway to the beat Cardboard generates. One voice rises above the approving hoots and exclamations of the others, his full alias is "Fantastical" but they mostly call him "Fan." The deep baritone that emanates from his corpulent mass brings images to mind of burning butter.

Fantastical gestures towards the middle of the circle with one dark hand as he speaks. His hand punctuates his rhymes like a piston driving an engine, "My style is casual. Compared to me, you niggas is just gradual. I smash through your defenses like a cannonball. I'm sayin. I reign supreme. The king of the cannibals. With a sting like a scorpion. Royal like the Tannenbaums. I'm sayin. I'm so classical, niggas read me like a manual to hood hustlin. The Hood's rumblin! I get more tail that Tiger Woods chasin' his own tail. I'm runnin shit'!"

The skinny white guy to his left jumps in cutting him off, but picking up on his rhyme scheme, "Let me carry the discussion, verbal percussion touchin you in places teachers say is disgusting. Ugly Ducklings. Whose feathers you think you're ruffling. It's Mother Goose I'm plucking. And I scramble golden eggs for the hungry." He spits his lyrics much faster than Fan and his frenetic movements match this new cadence. Cardboard picks up on the shift in style and alters his beatbox accordingly. He's good at this. His carefully timed breaths never interfere with the explosive rhythms he delivers using solely his lips and throat. Though he offers no lyrical content to the cypher, his contribution is significant and integral. It's why he decided to call himself "Cardboard;" he can't rap, he's just "The Box."

The rapping white kid goes by "Lucid." He stands sideways and leans into the circle so that the skateboard he clutches in one hand can hang on the outskirts. His T-shirt is two-sizes too big and waves like a sheet on a clothesline as he intensifies his flow into a double-time staccato, "Don't begrudge me for my lusting after nothing and flustered grunting stunting like Knievel jumpin.' Beetle Bailey struttin through the dungeon punchin' destruction!"

The man known as "Welfare" comes in next. His modest clothes, aside from the large tri-color Africa pendant swaying across his chest, match his straightforward delivery. He could be speaking to a class of first-graders, "From the top of the track, I'm sayin' ya'll are properly wack, like the property tax, we need to take our property back! Compose a plan to get the gold in hand. Don't ya'll know we livin' here on stolen land!? Taken from the natives and then taken for granted. Makin' ends but never trust who we shakin' our hands with. Proclamation is candid. The type the cameras captured till we were banished for droppin' all this science and mathematics. I'm mad thematic with the anthems I brandish. Too bad so many heads are vacant and distracted."

The cluster of their bodies if seen from a distance would almost appear as one entity, all their heads and shoulders bobbing in time to the beat, throbbing like a heart in the darkness of this anonymous park. Some people who wander by are drawn by this energy. They approach the outskirts of the circle, standing on their tip toes to see what's happening on the inside, craning their necks to hear the verses being thrown triumphantly into the center. Some cautiously snap a picture or two to validate this story when they recount it later in the quiet confines of their living rooms or the dank circus of some corner dive bar. This was not the rap that they had heard on the radio.

The next man in line has been standing haughtily throughout everyone else's verses. He has been listening intently but appears non-plused aside from the occasional snicker when one of the other MCs fell off rhyme or ran out of ideas prematurely. He doesn't come in immediately and Cardboard adds in a few rhythmic flourishes while this new character attempts to muster some gusto. The beady eyes that peak from under his low brim baseball cap match those stitched into the intricate pheonix on the back of his massive Avirex leather jacket. His voice is small for his otherwise imposing frame, "Yo. Yo. Yeah. Cheah!" He takes a deep breath and plunges into his verse, "I got a clip fulla hollow points. Quick to pull the trigger. Body any nigga tryna meddle with my figures." The other MCs listen intently but his voice fluctuates and trails off leaving them struggling to remain attentive. He continues, "And if I catch you snitchin, I'ma clap your nigga and be back in business soon as I smash your sistah. Kilo's got more kilos than Deebo. Gettin over on your team like unlimited free-throws. I'm so diezel. Full of.. Yo. Waitwaitwait... I'm diezel. Got a tank full of.. yo. Naw. Naw. Naw..." He backs out of the circle shaking his head. Some of the other MCs give him supportive fist-pounds and slaps on the back; they've all been there before.

With the interloper retreated, no time is wasted. "Jade Promise," the only female in the circle today swoops in confidently. Her red dreadlocks are pulled back to frame her freckled face so that her crystal blue eyes appear to glow above her modest tanktop. She begins her verse with a touch of melody, "I find myself in a divine circle full of giants and titans. A whirlpool of energy manifested to remedy the suffering of every spiritual entity." Her warm voice fills the space between them, and her fluid gestures add the slightest jingle as multiple colored bracelets clatter up her forearms, "There will be time to remember me. September to February we meditate to replicate majestic kinetic connections. Renovate these tattered frames to rebuild the empire we let go down in flames. We'll be the phoenix born as passion from the ashes. It's the magic we've mastered to counter the tragic disasters!" Welfare has been watching her intently and gives a strong nod of approval before reaching across the circle to slap her a low-five. Some of the others follow suite.

For Cardboard, this is church. As the MCs recite their verses, most of which are composed impromptu, it's the closes thing to hymns or praying that he experiences. The community of MCs come from backgrounds as diverse as their motives to rap in the first place, but in this circle they participate simply for the art of it, for the heat and the energy, and the immediate reactions and approval from their peers. As a beatboxer, he provides the soapbox for them to stand on, and they all appreciate his art as much as he does theirs. Before someone else can start rapping, Luicd shouts, "Yo Cardboard! Bust it!" and Cardboard launches into a beat breakdown. He throws in random tongue clicks and lip pops to an already intricate beat which he then morphs into a near perfect reproduction of a song they all had been hearing lately on the radio. Beneath the "Booms" and "clacks" he musters with his lips, he hums bass lines in the back of his throat like a Tibetian monk. The whole show is punctuated by his grand finale where he replicated record-scratch sounds of his name.

As Cardboard finishes and returns a little sheepishly to a more standard beat a new face has approached the circle. His dark Latin-American eyes flicker around the faces in the circle as he asks, "I can? I can?" Nods of approval pass around as room is made for him and he launches into a beatbox of his own. The surprised MCs cheer him on and Fantastical readies for another go saying, "Yo. Yo! I got this!" Finally, Cardboard thinks to himself, I can grab a drink of water.

((LEAVE YOUR VERSE FOR THE CYPHER IN THE COMMENTS SECTION!))

Pop!

2010-04-06T14:40:00.000-07:00

It’s ridiculous, really.

I’m a grown man. My rent is paid, my kitchen’s clean, and my socks are organized. I eat healthy, work out semi-regularly, and limit myself to smoking just a few joints a week. So why on earth do I find myself, 30-years-old with gray hairs to prove it, still waking up this morning with a pimple on my nose?

It’s not even a small pimple. It’s a grand, throbbing, monument of a pimple, a deep rose blush pulling up the sides of my nose to a custard cream peak, a tidal wave of a pimple cresting directly between my eyes. I can’t even forget about it. It looms in my periphery taunting me, ghastly.

Of course I didn’t have any acne medication, so I just massaged some toothpaste into it and set out to endure my day as if it were any other. Thinking back now, I should have just popped the sucker, but I rationalized that, being an adult, it wouldn’t attract the level of attention it would have in high school. I was wrong.

On the subway to work, I literally buried my nose in my book. I could still feel people looking at me, stealing glances from their own reading material, even snapping clandestine pictures with their cell phones. One fat little goblin-boy practically being held upright by his frazzled-looking mother stared up at me extending one of his pudgy digits at my nose and said, “Woooooow!”

At the office it only got worse. The day passed excruciatingly slowly. I skipped my coffee so I would have to use the bathroom less. The high walls of my cubicle were for once a welcome solace. I dug into my work, hoping the toothpaste would do its job.

Usually no one visits my desk. Today it was like a speed dating session.

Sharon, the Puerto Rican secretary, came by to see if I wanted to buy a raffle ticket for the bake sale next week. Her eyes bulged slightly as she swallowed a gasp. She barely let me shake my head “no” before she scurried away. She would no doubt be whispering about it to Chantalle within the hour.

When Eldwin, head of HR, stopped by, he made it through his whole spiel about some new employee incentive plan before stopping and letting his eyes focus on the troll’s knuckle projecting from my nose. He took a breath and hesitated for a long second before swallowing his thought and moving on to the next cube. I checked my email.

When I finally went to the bathroom, I examined my scourge in the mirror. The rest of my face was clear. I was clean-shaven and my hair actually looked pretty good for once. If it weren’t for the puss-filled balloon wobbling about the middle of my face, I would definitely drop by Wendy’s desk. I had been putting off asking her out since she first started working here two weeks ago. Time was running out. There is a distinct window of opportunity with these matters, and mine with her was closing fast.

Just yesterday we had had a moment by the vending machines. She was looking over the various treats and snacks when I stumbled around the corner. Her short-cropped bob shimmered like a halo as I shuffled up to her, my heart stomping a flamenco solo in my chest.

“What should I get?” She asked, still regarding the junk food menagerie. My capacity for speech had somehow disintegrated. She glanced over at me and smiled.

“I don’t know,” I croaked. I was unconsciously jingling the coins in my pocket. I stopped.

“I can’t decide between sweet or salty.” She bit her lip and shifted her weight allowing me to further take in the majesty of her form. She’s a little young for me, but my crush was solid. I suggested some Thai chips that met in the middle, but she didn’t have enough change. That’s when it happened.

When she reached for the nickel I produced from my pocket her hand lingered touching mine. Our eyes met in a moment of undeniable connection. When she strutted off with her chips I knew I had a chance.

Prodding at my pimple with the dual-index finger method, I test its elasticity. Is it ready? If I try to pop it too soon, then it may just become agitated and entrench itself for the rest of the week like a ravaged war zone in the middle of my face. But if I pop it at the right time, it will deflate quietly and I could be normal-looking by the time I leave the office. I move closer to the mirror so that it glares at me blindly like a giant Cyclops cataract.

The problem with pimples is that they want to be popped; that’s what they’re for. We anticipate the release that follows their eruption, the relaxation that accompanies the skin’s return to homeostasis. They sing to us from beneath our skin, relentlessly tugging at our consciousness.

I gently apply pressure around its base and watch the head grow whiter. If I pop it, how long will I have to wait in this bathroom before I can make it back to my desk without Rudolph’s nose? I work my fingers around the edges watching it throb, relishing the enticing pinch. If I leave it alone though, it could be gone by tomorrow morning, reduced to a minor blemish.

But where’s the fun in that?

Bloom.

2010-01-22T13:38:00.000-08:00

I'm packing it all up.

This box is for all the little things, the
peaceful clutter, dead pens, a family of rubber bands,
bottle caps, a nickle, soy sauce and duck sauce looking guilty--
all destined for the expectant coffin of a to-be junk drawer.

The clocks take time with them into their box.
The digital blinks out. The cat bites her tongue.
No more bells and whistles for now.

Against the wall, 10 boxes of books
stack silent universes: epic tragedies,
cloying romance, all hell and splendor,
all holding their breath, dreaming their recurring dreams.

Some ancient boxes of forgotten secrets are excavated
and dissected for reorganization and eventual re-interment.

And I have to throw so much away.

Tickling trinkets that have lost their value, faded photos
that stick to my fingers, news clippings that have lost their
legibility and relevance, kissed, folded, and crumpled into
the solemn wastebasket.

And in this graveyard of cardboard urns I am haunted
by all the yesterdays that had settled so nicely.
All the dust from the carpet now hovers and coughs
as I squint through the fallout.

I am poked and prodded by all these drowsy wraiths,
grumpy sprites, and venomous questions.

This is moving.
Also moving on.

Pieces of myself destroyed, suffocated, banished;
Scars torn open and molested, dead skin shorn,
Making room for tomorrow
In anticipation of bloom.

Tomorrow never comes.

2010-01-22T13:27:00.000-08:00

In the sulking dusk
weathered men clap dominoes
on a bridge overlooking
the restless urban expressway.

Cars swim away from under them,
schools of metallic fish chasing a dim horizon,
a shower of nickles spinning into a well;
wishes like temporary insanity.

Old buildings hulking around us hum inaudible
tones of serenity, Each solitary universe nestled
in its patch of faded dreams, rumpled laundry,
discarded eras and their honest shambles.

We all, so distant in our proximity,
forget as we breathe and breathe as we forget.

2009-08-26T07:26:00.000-07:00

Leave comments and Rate it!!

This vid was shot by the good fellas at 1816 studios.
I edited it.

Big Thanks to Concept and Eupham for monkeying (and swine-ing) around.

We Boomin in the doom days people.
too many poeple actin without thnkin.
Take responsibility for your actions.
Watch more 80s teen flicks!

So deep in my Bones.

2009-07-16T09:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel it so deep in my bones
churning my bone marrow like quicksand, like
molten magma Spirits agitated and swarming for release,

so that I can’t wait to die
so that my skin may be stripped away,
uncurled like birthday ribbons and holiday streamers
And my flesh will mix with the soil a pungent incantation
and my soul will vibrate through the earth to eternity.

I know you know what I know
I can feel it buzzing just under your skin
An electric current as honest as the sunrise
and right now we are the same

we are the same people everywhere at once
feeding and fighting and fucking each other to life.
we are hunger and satiation, ecstasy and torment,
we are comfort and desolation, we are

a mother's voice in the blue light of dawn, yes.
the first gaping coffin frozen and adorned, yes.
the heart's drum roll to first kiss, yes, and explosions, yes,
and rubble and broken picture frames and long walks
to refugee camps and the smiles that erupt there
like hidden springs of rosewater, yes we are
raw honey from dwindling bee populations sold
at supermarkets nestled in mini-malls adjacent to
walled-in subdivisions where people live to be
suspicious of their neighbors, yes. fuck. yes.

we are the collective conscious.

every building that challenges a mountain will lose.
(the ego lacks majesty.)
every mountain that challenges time will lose.
(but the mountains don't mind.)
and mighty Time is yet conquered by Soul.
and here is comfort.

In the face of death we struggle to say something beautiful
To conjure some alchemy that will carry our
Diminishing flames into the unknown.

In the face of life we struggle to say something beautiful
and end up laughing. and it's just as good.

"Dust in my attic" Lyrics

2009-02-12T13:57:00.000-08:00

Well, it seems the grey hairs nestled in my rats nest are cloning,
filling in the gaps, tryna silver up my dome piece, and I guess
that's great for counteracting mind control, but
what about the chips in my shoulders, wrists, and spinal cord?

Radio waves, ultramagnetic punks and ravers, dressed
to kill--their neighbors, with guns and sabers,
so I tend to rock a death-proof aura on the regs, so I
can walk without fear across this land of the dead.

It's bedtime for bonzo, crusty, homey and Kokopelli, I'll
be the saddest clown since that hobo Emmett Kelly
Riding the rails of a boxcar with a silver flask
sippin the heat of the present, killin the chill of the past.

I ask everyone I meet to take me back, but
most of them just shrug and walk a little faster.
Sometimes I wonder where they're going, or what they're after,
but that just adds to the stack of questions I've already gathered

'cause

I've got too much dust in my attic,
Addicted to the magic, the heroes in the static
Too many soldiers never get up off the matress
So I never lie down till I've blown out the cannon

Now my kicks are hella dusty so I won't be crushin models
flatfoot waddle ugly duckling smug apostle,
diggin in the crates with bright dreams of fossils,
collectin deposits on these recycled genie bottles.

It's been a hot minute since I crumbled up my wishlist,
pitched it at the trashcan, driven mad and back again.
These days I only rub my limbs to keep warm, and
save my pennies from these bottomless wells of cheap whores.

I been reborn enough to know this earth ain't the best place,
and lately all these selfish creatures want is the next taste.
So I been tryna conjur proper methods to elevate, but
all I ever got from dreaming big was a headache.

That ain't to say i'm throwin in towels or hanging hats.
I'm just takin a second to analyze the facts.
hangin with the bats, I've acquired a taste for plasma,
and if I don't settle down soon, who knows what could happen!?

'cause
I've got too much dust in my attic,
Addicted to the magic, the heroes in the static
Too many soldiers never get up off the matress
So I never lie down till I've blown out the cannon

Synchronicity

2009-02-05T12:02:00.000-08:00

"Back in 1933:
I told a policeman in Grand Central Station Dan Gregory's address. He said it was only eight blocks away, and that I couldn't get lost, since that part of the city was as simple as a checkerboard. The Great Depression was going on, so that the station and the streets teemed with homeless people, just as they do today. The newspapers were full of stories of worker layoffs and farm forclosures and bank failures, just as they are today. All that has changed, in my opinion, is that, thanks to television, we can hide a Great Depression. We may even be hiding a Third World War."
- Kurt Vonnegut, Bluebeard

I read this yesterday. The book was published for the first time in 1987. I was awe struck at how relevant it is. Then, this morning on the way to work, I was thinking about synchronicity and, as I was getting on the uptown B train, a man with a deep blue (and I'm talking blue blue ocean blue) goatee brushed past me. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to raise the book and show him the cover...

I often experience synchronicity with the books I read. Another example was when I was driving across country last year and reading a book about train riders and vagabonds called HOBO. The night before I was to leave Florida and drive west, I went to the beach for a sunset drum circle. At the drum circle, some shirtless hippy fella with strawberry blond dreads and wooden jewelry kept screaming about the Rainbow Gathering:

"Who wants to go to the Rainbow Gathering with me!? Who has a car!? Let's all go together!"

It was to start the next night in Ocala. I was precisely at the chapter in the HOBO book where an old, weathered tramp leaves his young traveling buddies to head to Ocala for the Rainbow Gathering. I took it as a sign. I might even have offered that silly hippie a ride if he hadn't been so beligerently wasted by the end of the night.

And so I went. Once there, I met a clown--train riders often become clowns and create dusty circuses of impromptu ramshackle glee--who spoke in a jargon utilized prominently in the book. It was amazing.

I have encountered more instances of this lately. Maybe it's a sign of the times; a symptom of the coagulation of the global consciousness. And it's not even specific to books. How many times have you put your mp3 player on shuffle and found that it played songs that related directly to a person you were thinking about? Or you would think that you want to hear a certain song and it would magically come on?

My inner-Hippie is blathering right now:

"Electrical Impulses man! It's all energy transfer! The same impulses in your brain are reaching out and effecting your environment! If you could learn to chanel that power, you could influence all sort of things!"

Chanel your inner hippie for me. Leave some comments of examples of synchronicity in your life. I'd love to hear about other people's experiences with these strange occurrences.

"The Discovery" Lyrics

2009-01-29T06:45:00.000-08:00

Just my luck, I'm stuck again in a pen,
an electrified cage full of women and men.
They must be first timers lookin crippled and tense,
as if its the end, allready missing their friends.

But not me, man, I been through this before.
Shit. I should have known better than ot visit this store.
Not my usual spot to cop chicken and porn--
knew I was tricked soon as I heard the click of the doors...

I got picked up!
Please put me down...
Sized up and Spun!
Please put me down...
Just my luck!
Please put me down...

I'm about to drop some knowledge so lend me your ears:
The first time they get you, you're schitzophrenic with fear.
You wanna kill yourself as well as anyone near,
till they sedate you. Then everything disappears.

Or so they think! Turns out I'm pretty much immune
so I remember everything from these trips behind the moon;
the test, the races, the equasions they make you do,
cause they're curious about our scurvy race of buffoons!

So this is life now, a brave new world!
The human race demoted to some apes in a barrel;
a game show of peril where God's reclusive scarecrow
got juiced--reduced to some broomstick barebones.

And we're all just specimens getting tested in
their collections, getting stressed in our rectums,
hoping one day they'll fly off or drop dead, but
that probably won't happen 'till their suply's exhausted.

I got picked up...

Their civilization's advanced light years ahead,
and their consciousness is something we could never comprehend,
but our basic genetics are essentially the same
which is why our discovery's so imporant to their race.

At first they just observed us living in our habitat.
Then they started taking us as guinea pigs and lab rats,
giving us silly names like Cinnamon and FlapJack,
and strippin us of any of the dignity we had left!

They found us!
A light in the darkness, a spark in the gloom.
They found us!
A tiny oasis, an ark full of mules.
They found us!
A diamond in the rough, a penny in a pool.
They found us!
A Lonely Planet so pretty and blue.

Till I met a pretty alien lady with scaly skin,
smooth like an aligator, legs of an arabian,
makin me trip with those radiant lips.
She got all the game, but I'm playin my chips.

She got a snake tongue and she flicks it sporadically,
and her tits stay nice from a life of no gravity.
She got a cybernetic wit she loves to throw back at me--
The queen of my moon base. I call her "Yo Magesty"

She saw me in that glass case, diggin my dimples,
so she pulled me from the rat race and shoewed me her nipples.
They glowed in the dark and were thicker than thimbles,
and after a little liquor, I gave em a nibble.

She saved from the riddles, the tests, and the questions,
the psych sessions, and hypodermic injections.
She's the type of perfect that makes the savages berserk,
'cause she saved me from the misery of goin back to earth.

and broke lived happily ever after...

"Broke Pimpin'" Lyrics

2009-01-23T12:50:00.000-08:00

Only my verse unfortunately.
But its a good funny friday verse::

I'm a polyester player, baby powder on the paws,
Gettin dapper in the thrift shop, keepin second hand suave.
Sippin Cisco from the bottle, playin chicken with Cops,
'Cause it keeps me on my toes like having holes in my socks.

Rollin' down the blocks rappin' with bums and weasels,
All my Hoes are just junkies scopin' something to steal.
Dig my silver kicks shimmer, clunky on the keel,
Stompin 'round rockin Sea Monkeys in the heels.

Yeah, I'm a Broke Pimp 'cause i ain't been paid yet.
I push a super fly whip equipped with 8-track tape decks,
And all my speakers are blown, 'cause my friends are base heads.
Plasti-chrome spinners, and trash bags for windows.

Workin' the pedals swervin' through suburbs and ghettos,
Gettin' wet behind the ears burnin' sherm in my endo.
Woke up in central bookin burpin' bourbon and pepto.
I may be broke as shit, but I still come correct though!

"Follow That" lyrics

2009-01-22T11:25:00.000-08:00

She's swingin' Thor's Hammer, maybe sick of your manners,
And I'm tryin to make a point, as if the score matters.
Slam. The door shatters. I'm hanging like some bored batters,
Flying out at night just to watch the whores scatter.

Sure. I tend to get stuck up in the rafters,
Drifting with my thoughts, caught up in disasters;
Whirlpools of slander, hurricane slam dancers
blur my brain faster, disturbing the gray matters.

I play the same casper I've played since day one:
A plaster-cast bastard trying to stay out of the sun.
Cool as alabaster, a pale-faced imitation,
Stacking up my chips, getting cracks in my foundation.

Untill I found salvation in an hour-glass maiden,
Took a sip and couldn't quit--I love the way she tasted.
Couldn't flip the wasting, witness disintegration;
cryptic communications got me twisted up and faded

So we build it up just to break it down.
Thinking about thinking, getting over and around.
We build it up just to break it down.
As soon as we get up, we're thinking about getting down.

But when she laughs, she shakes the ground, so
Catch me sitting silent, trying to embrace the sound.
I'm waking now, breaking down every detail I've found
Deciphering heiroglyphics--a pyro and a mystic.

Missle silos stand, mimic the war of Roses and Cynics,
but all's fair, I guess. Stack up the matches and gimics.
We package each shipment to distract all the minions, and
it looks great from a distance, but there's cracks in the finish.

I've mastered the method of packing up imperfections,
Sweep dust under the carpet, a closet full of resurrections,
Heart beneath the floorboards, brain in the freezer section,
So I can ignore all the problems for my own greedy protection.

The resulting situation's made of cheap imitations,
Never gettin deep enough to complete the equation.
All the numbers I get merely add to the frustration
'Cause I know if I call you up, I risk over-stimulation.

This game of cat and mouse got me savage with doubt.
I've got so much to say that I may never let get out.
And part of me thinks I should just break down and speak,
But Time is usually a better cure for this type of disease.

Its never enough to ease the breakdown.
Please never give up--my dreams are fake now
These treasures will rust. We need to break out.
Sleep. Tremors. Combust. Bleed the pain out.

So where you at?
Where's the bears and big cats?
What's the haps?
What damage is smashing your side of the map?
Lost in the woods,
Bread crumbs swallowed by bats.
Listen to your heart beat.

How about you follow that?

Literal Translations of Obama's Inaugural Euphemisms

2009-01-20T11:22:00.000-08:00

1) "Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age."

Translation: “Haliburton and Enron can eat a dick (Cheney)”

2) "We will restore science to its rightful place, and wield technology's wonders to raise health care's quality and lower its cost."

Translation: "Creationism is near extinction."

3) "And those of us who manage the public's dollars will be held to account - to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day - because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government."

Translation: "Ashcroft and Delay are straight chumps.”

4) "Our founding fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake.”

Translation: “Fuck you Patriot Act.”

Bye Bye Bush and Dick.

The Day the Earth Stood Still. . .and Listened.

2009-01-20T08:16:00.000-08:00

November 4, 2008 was a triumph. All day, the air was jittery with excitement and trace amounts of anxiety. The hope of so many people had been built up, stoked, and crammed into the anticipation of Barack Obama’s victory.

And what if he had not won? There seemed, through word of mouth, polls, and reported national sentiment, to be very little likelihood that the Cheney camp would succeed; so, if he had lost, the implications and repercussions would have been staggering, to say the least. But that’s another dystopian epic that I may have to leave to my nightmares and the conspiracy theorists, because today, January 20, 2009, Senator Barack becomes President Obama.

I remember his historic acceptance speech. I remember tears of joy streaming down my face shamelessly. I remember hugging all my friends and then setting out to the streets to wander Brooklyn amongst the diverse clumps of joyous people. In Bushwick, wandering down Broadway under the JMZ train, mere blocks from my apartment, I found myself walking amongst a group of rough-looking thug types, all joking and screaming “Obama!” At one point, one of them noticed me sauntering in their periphery and said to one of his boys, “Yo! is he with us?” And I quickly added, “Yeah. I’m with you.”

Now it’s an hour from Obama’s official inauguration. I have no doubt that his speech will be a miracle. So far, his every step and choice has been commendable from his judicious cabinet choices, to his earnest calls to arms. He has recognized the miserable status of our nation, and he has spoken to reinforce our ability to lift ourselves up from the rubble.

All across the world people are holding their breath. From Kenya to Ireland, from China to Brazil, more eyes and ears are focused intently on Washington, D.C. than ever before. Some are skeptical, some are optimistic, some expect miracles, and some remain practical, but all of us are ready.

We are ready for the Change that Barack Obama symbolizes, and the Future that All of Us must work together to manifest.

"In the Dark" Lyrics

2009-01-19T07:08:00.000-08:00

It's been a long road. Ya'll walked it with me
from the po'dunk towns to the frosted cities.
We've seen the hard times. We all thought of quitting--
never got kissed off, just left the bottle spinning.

Kids games for high stakes and big breaks like
promises and hearts--all the sharpest mistakes;
that park in your brain and leave scars on your face,
and stay with you until the end of your red carpet race.

You had all the aces but you gave em away;
taken for granted and traded in for some fame,
erasing your past trying to make a new name,
but the roots stay the same and you can't get away.

Gave it your all cause you thought it was your friend.
Then you gave it some more and it took it and grinned.
Borrowed from chums thinkin that it might end.
Always giving out, might as well be giving in.

Splitting the skin on your feet and hands.
Living for something that you just don't understand,
but it's too late to scramble, couldn't cancel your plans
cause they all saw you jump, placing bets on where you'll land.

It's just you and I, my poor heart, in the Dark.

This creation weighs heavy, birthing untouchable things;
So many unsteady angels working troubled wings.
Muffled mantras. I'm lost in a haze of Nag Champa but
I'm stronger than I let myself be. I'm stronger!

I conjur these feeble beasts to charge you in fleets.
It's a card up my sleeve, not so hard to believe.
A carnival ride on a weekend of sweet weakness,
sweeping the evening squeaky clean of grievance.

I'm detatched from the marvels I hatch, and
startled to catch myself spitting bland articles:
A Farcical batch of blasphemy, bohemian rhapsody,
Scheming for a safe place to sleep with her Majesty.

Please keep your distance. I'm feeding the crooks,
and believe me, sweety, it's not as easy as it looks.
They need me to bleed on the plates and the cutlery
they wait for my suffering, my pain and percussioning.

I'm through with the sideshow lifestyle and glamor.
I'm moving to the cemetary--no more critics or cameras.
I'm stitching up the vein I been bleeding for too long and
next time you come to look for me I'll be gone.

In Dark like this all you can do is breathe,
and try to figure out if you're awake or asleep.
In Dark like this, there's no sense of direction,
just thoughts and questions from a parallel dimension.
In Dark like this, you're floating blind.
You lose self and time, and a little of your mind.
In Dark like this, you get torn apart, 'cause in dark like this
all you can see is your heart.

I been tangled in the brambles where the demons come to play,
and I've know angels who couldn't handle another day.
I've seen a man in freezing rain pulling change from a fountain, and
I still hate myself for not saving him from drowning.

I've been places on this planet that would break your heart
where you can stand and the scene will just take you apart,
the type of true beauty that gives birth to art
and the type of horror that leaves your soul riddled with scars.

All good things must come to an end
and you fight that fact from the day you're born
Gettin close to your enemies and alienating friends
living life too fast to ever let yourself mourn.

I thought I took my time,
but Time took me.

But there's still light in the darkest of days,
and Father Time's grinning though he's got no teeth.
A walk in the rain still makes my soul feel sane,

and I still live for all that you show me.

"Ghost Town" Lyrics

2009-01-15T06:56:00.000-08:00

Right here in the middle of nowhere
I feel better than I've ever felt.
Right here in the middle of nowhere
I've found a deeper understanding of Self.

Nothing but nothing stretches in all directions.
I find myself as the intersection.
The beginning and ending, both sides of the fence,
where time is absent and thoughts are immense.

Where one road cuts through the fat of the land
to the bone of the rock, the flesh of the sand,
its harsh and its beautiful. It gives and takes back.
And you can tell its God's country 'cause everyones mad.

And the day is hot passion and the night is cold sin.
And blood wells up from every hole you dig.
Where there's more gold in the hills than you could ever hope to find,
and your soul exists just to wrestle with the sky.

In this grand expanse, every star speaks of Hope
and every cloud is a dream that a mountain let go,
be sure to ask yourself after we meet on the road,
"Were you talking to me or my ghost"

Slow down. This is my ghost town.
I've got to go now. Welcome home now.
Slow down. This is my ghost town.
You've got to know how I lost control.

This is my home, so nice of you to pass through
my gas station. Let me use it as a classroom.
Fast paced sands blast the hour glass groove
in this sour patch of earth that the map never knew.

There's crazy energy here, life Katmandu,
and it's nice to have a couple new souls to yap to,
and babble bout the stash of artifacts I've gathered
and I'd love to capture some of your laughter...

See, out here there ain't no Alize or mobsters,
so we jam to the rhythm of rattlesnake maracas.
There are lakes to ponder the depth of the water,
the voice of your Mother, the breath of your Father.

The next step is harder--The better part of forever
is sharper than you could ever comprehend.
It's close to torture. Don't say I didn't warn ya.
I'm just another ghost haunting this Hotel California.

At the end of the road - there's a field or a mountain
At the end of the road - is the house you grew up in
At the end of the road - you can finally sit and think
At the end of the road - there's an ocean to swim
At the end of the road - it's an eternal dream
At the end of the road - every answer you seek
At the end of the road - there's rumors of a gold mine
At the end of the road - the truth was waiting the whole time
At the end of the road - we let go of concerns
At the end of the road - there are no more wrong turns
At the end of the road - every day the dawn burns
At the end of the road - it's where i learned this song's words.

Party like a Philanthropist!!

2009-01-14T14:00:00.000-08:00

Kiva.org helps your Conscience recover.

As a young single American, I find it tremendously easy to get swept up in the immediate luxury and hedonism which a steady paycheck affords me. Watching movies at my comfortable home, venturing out to enjoy a nice meal with some friends, or hitting the club for a night of excessive drinking and decadence, I am the center of my universe and nothing else matters.

Every now and then, though, I stumble upon an NPR show or some BBC news brief that brings to light the realization that there is a large planet out there full of people who are, for the most part, much less fortunate. It is websites like Kiva.org that save me from my inadvertent selfishness and allow me to make a real change in someone else’s life without detracting from my own rockstar lifestyle.

Let’s face it—we are all shamelessly attached to our rockstar lifestyles.

Kiva, whose name is derived from the Swahili word for “agreement,” describes its mission as “to connect people through lending for the sake of alleviating poverty.” Essentially, they allow you to be a “mini-Bill Gates” by providing a loan of as little as $25 to an entrepreneur in a developing or otherwise impoverished community. If you live in New York City or some similar metropolis, this equates to one round of drinks for your already drunk friends. They won’t miss it.

Over the span of your loan (which lasts usually six months to a year), you can opt to receive email updates and track repayments to mark the progress of your new friend. Once you are paid back—and they boast a remarkable 99.72% repayment rate—you are offered the option to re-invest in another entrepreneur, donate to Kiva.org, or withdraw your funds and go purchase those shiny white pumps you saw the other day.

Sound too easy? Too good to be true? It’s not. The website is continually striving to make the flow of money as transparent as possible so you don’t have to worry that some money-grubbing third-world Gargamel is using your donation to re-upholster his velvet loveseat or polish his third Mercedes. You can browse through hundreds of diverse profiles of aspiring businesspeople and choose the one that you feel most deserving of your valuable dollars. (is that an oxymoron yet?)

As opposed to traditional charities, your loan through Kiva is an endorsement of accountability. It provides a possible solution to a problem rather than simply alleviating some of the symptoms. As they say, “Teach a man to fish, and you can drink like one later that night.” ‘Sounds like a plan.

So I chose a small group of investors in Kenya who are attempting to raise money for cereal. I like cereal. It’s a great way to start your day, so I empathized immediately with these peoples’ cause. The whole ordeal took about ten minutes at most: I logged onto the site, clicked the “lend” button, picked a suitably impoverished yet hopeful-looking entrepreneur, and within seconds had transferred my modest donation of fifty buckaroonies across the universe. My wallet didn’t even twitch and my mouse clicking finger barely broke a sweat. It all happened so quickly that I almost felt cheated of that warmy feeling you are supposed to get when you help people out.

This website is truly a revolution in philanthropy. I printed out a bunch of the fact sheets from the site to read over during a zesty pad thai lunch break and I literally was tearing up while munching down my side salad with ginger dressing. Since it’s injunction in 2005, Kiva has raised over thirty million dollars in loans. That’s three years, people! Reading the timeline of the company’s growth and progress is like doing cartwheels through a field of jelly beans; you can’t help but be moved by how quickly so many people are flocking to the site and giving so selflessly.

Kiva.org has given us all a chance to be better people by providing legitimate opportunities for people to raise themselves out of the grit and muck of poverty. It’s easy, it’s transparent, and it’s endorsed by Bill Clinton and Oprah Winfrey.

So what are you waiting for?

A Fistful Of Dollars: The Story of a Kiva.org Loan from Kieran Ball on Vimeo.

Song Lyrics - "Every Damn Day People" from my album "Seeing Things"

2009-01-14T07:25:00.000-08:00

Don't be afraid to smile.
Life's too short to frown so much.
Look a brother in the eyes.
Ain't no need to act so tough.

Where my people at?
Beat freakers and Heat seekers,
Revolutionary leaders, street sweepers, and peace keepers?
Deep thinkers linked with similar beasts of burden
carryin knowledge like apple trees carry serpents

These chariots of fire carry various desires
to tear open my eyes like flares up in the night skies.
I'm finally aware of my position in these times
to be a beacon of light keepin the feelin alive.

All day, every damn day, too much work an not enough play.
All day, every damn day--
Trapped in a pattern to manage the dismay.

On the street in the sun, I ride the beat of the drums,
and while the people speed on I write and try to keep up.
It's so easy to freeze up, shrug off, and sleep on;
go home puff weed, and turn the TV on, but

I be the type of freak to eat candy from strangers
while most cats don't know their family from their neighbors,
love less than rapists, or rough sex in cages, stayin
locked down like storm doors protectin the basement

But I'm a savage oasis bringin it back to the basics
and crackin the case like sherlock with my cannonball cadence.
I've got a habit of makin my mark scratchin with car keys
and tryin to find a pulse in the Tin Man's Arteries,

'Cause Heart beats are speakin deeper truths sharp beaks
on harpies, bar keeps or carnies, and
if the carnage is high, and I need some advice,
I put my ear to your chest and get the meaning of life.

To my people, people of the earth:
step a little closer and show me where it hurts.
To my people, my people of the planet:
we can bring it back, but we gotta understand it.

I don't think anybody really knows what it's all about
There's no plot synopsis, summary, or run down.
We're just a bunch of tongue in cheek, bumblebee drones,
livin as humble beings 'till the queen's on the phone.

Then it's talk a lotta nada tryna polish up yer shine,
and bait the hook proper so she swallows all your lines.
A sugar momma's good for all your criminal designs,
just be sure to keep her eyes off all your dimes on the side.

And have the time of your life! enjoy the bumps and the grind!
Let the smoke fill your lungs and slowly open your eyes.
'Cause there's an ocean of lies tryna swallow and choke ya,
and a bunch of dopes tryna twist yer gizzard in their ropes,

'Cause they've given up their hope. Now they're grabbin at yours
as if it had the answers they were clamorin for.
And it's harder than ever just to remember how to feel,

but if we put our heads together maybe we can find what's real.

broke is okay?

2008-07-23T12:28:00.000-07:00

My tagline. You know you love it.

In a time when so many people are trying to be rich, I find it to be my civic duty to advocate the freedom and joy associated with being "broke." But what does it mean really?

You can take the direct route and say "destitution," or "utter and complete lack of funds," maybe even "fuckt." But you know it's more than that.

"broke" is a state of mind (bear with me). The ascetics of religions from Hinduism to Buddhism propound the renouncement of all things physical as the road to enlightenment. That means taking your money, car, house, responsibility, comic book collection, fancy shoes, hats, jewelry, bags, bikes, headbands, gym memberships, credit cards, beds, etc.. and leaving them behind for some dumb shmoe to come along and be unlucky enough to be further burdened with.

But you will be free.

When you have nothing, then nothing can be taken from you.

The fear and anxiety of daily life will disappear into the ether. You may find yourself gleefully skipping down a sidewalk downtown laughing about how little broken glass is around to slice up your tootsies. You may find yourself sleeping under a canopy of stars and smog, snuggling in the warmth of the finest free newspapers you could scrounge that day. You may find yourself begging for food from people who don't recognize that you made a conscious choice to renounce the greedy race for fame and fortune in favor of a simpler life, and who in effect avoid your eyes and play deaf to your earnest requests at tummy-filling kinship.

But "broke" does not necessarily have to mean "bum."

I propose a different take on this philosophy of "renouncement." It's a revision that advocates gracious detachment and at the same time wholehearted investment in every instant and every thing.

Confused? Sweet! Let's get loopy!

I want you to love everything you have. Because, really, if you have the luxury to be sitting around reading a blog on a computer, then you probably have air conditioning, running water, yummy food, access to healthcare, drugs, socks, education, mosquito repellant, clean water and any number of sweet widgets and humdoodlers.

You're. Very. Fucking. Lucky.

To be able to renounce everything you have is a luxury that many people would look at as ludicrous. I mean, shit. We've got it pretty damn good. We can even voice our complaints on a host of forums no matter how frivolous and unrefined. We don't get spanked in public for spitting gum on the sidewalk like they do in Indonesia. I don't think our sidewalks would still be walkable if they weren't held together by the amazing galaxies of gum spots that speckle their surfaces.

You can get an education, then a job, and then you can buy shit. A whole technological menagerie of dumb shit.

It's the American dream,
but it's been exploited so that you're doing everything you do
mainly just so you can buy shit.
but not just regular life shit. I’m talking bigger, better,
self-affirming, throw in the face of your neighbor, royalty shit.

and really who needs it?
it's just more shit.

The problem lies in our tendency to hide behind our troves of goodies. To guard our favorite things from being stolen, and to prosecute people who have taken or try to take them. Why? Because we work hard for our money which we then spend on these silly things which we think will make our hard work and dead hours in offices worth the sacrifice. But maybe too many of us are working jobs that we don't even like in order to fuel our fancies. Maybe if you took a job that earned you a little less money but you actually found fulfilling, you wouldn't have a need for so many trivial trinkets. Maybe you should be spending more time with your family and friends anyway.

What the hell are we all so afraid of?
(besides monsters)

I recognize the reality that there are also many Americans who have the "privilege" to work long hours at jobs they may not exactly love because they have kids to feed. They spend every minute of their life to support their families. These people are "broke" already. But I think they're broke in the most beautiful way possible.

I'm just sayin'. Maybe you shouldn't be so attached to all that junk you have littering your living space.

Look around you. What do you really need to live? You can probably count those necessities out and still have a few fingers left over to tickle your nephew.

So let's try something. Let's be reallyreallyreally really thankful for all the great shit we have, but also look forward to maybe being able to give it away to the first person who says, "Wow! That's a really great thingapooper." And let's also stop buying more shit that's just gonna keep us further cooped up in our domiciles. Let's be practical about our finances and save money for monsoon season (it might be right around the corner the way the economy is teetering at the moment.).

Basically, what I'm sayin’ is just stop tryin’ to be "rich." "Rich" is a falsity, a flying dutchman. You will never find happiness or feel complete by means of material wealth. Find a way you can live your life in which you take care of yourself and those who are important to you. Join a community or help build one.

And we can all be broke together…