Pop!

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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

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

"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.