People Are Strange, When You're a Stranger.

People abuse blogs. I don't care what you and your poor grammatical skills have to say. But hey, what the fuck, I'm doing it now. I'm just playing into it, I'm just as excited when I post something new. That's the purpose of a blog, so people can record their daily excitements, disappointments, shortcomings, as methodic and redundant their morning cup of coffee. So you can do this, and other people can comment on your life, whether they relate to you, whether they think you're just some jackass with too much to say. I should just make it a private blog, but then what's the point of having a blog at all? People make blogs to impress others, so you can convince them about how deep and thoughtful you are. In the outside world, you may seem shy, underachieving, perhaps a bit slow, but when people read your blog, you'll be revealed as the coffee shop intellectual you really are. It disturbs me to think that strangers from halfway across the globe may be slavering over my posts, wondering what new scraps they can paste on to the mental picture of me that's slowly developing in their mind. It's odd to think that my life could be a saved link on some Canadian man's desktop.

Or maybe I'm just paranoid, and self centered, and no one cares anyway.

Moon-eyed Man

The moon-eyed man speaks in mumbling tongues

Handling soft carapace-beads in his time-worn hands
The sliver in his eye makes his face turn down

Encrusted in his brow lies a thousand sands

Sliding through the world, like sepulchral silk

At a moment’s pace, death flits behind

Sending sympathetic glances to the corners of the Earth

He sees the world; his face is blind.

The moon-eyed man feels for all in plight,

Though help may come with dissonance

His tools are apt, his steps are light,
He blankets you in ignorance.

London Company Bus

Behind the back alley of Ace Hardware, a beast lies dormant. People scoff at it, and critique its moldy, rusted exterior. All they see is the sad, empty shell of a once great warrior. What used to dominate the roads, demanding attention from all who witnessed it, now it sits in a neglected heap in the back of a hardware store, praying for just one more day on the open road. Yes, your body is tilted, and your headlights have been broken off by hooligans, left to dangle sadly in a tangled mess of broken circuits. Your chipped paint reveals patches of your naked framework. Has everyone forgotten you? Is there no one left to shield you from the rain?
I see your potential. I share the same dream. One day, people will once again bask in your glory.

I will have you, London Company Bus.

?

So, what is a blog anyway? Is it a way to obsessively document your life for complete strangers to view in a sleek, condensed format? Is it a backhanded way to tell people how you feel about them, without saying it to their face? Or is it just a pissing contest, like some blogs seem to be? I dunno. I can't really write about anything, because anyone can see it.

On the Human Condition

These days, there are too many people going around, spouting out useful self-help tidbits, like : "Do something for yourself, for a change. BE selfish." This just creates people who blow off business meetings for a weekend in Tijuana. Those who make their daily $60 impulse buys, spending the family savings on a new juicer, which is used once, to shred some old paperwork, then is set under the house with the other rejected single-use electronics. There lay such favorites as the electronic staple remover, and the automatic knitting machine. They seem a welcome break from the constant struggle of the average American life. "Now, I don't have to deal with the everyday toil of picking those annoying staples out of my business letters, and maybe, for once, I can have someone do the work for me, instead of spending countless hours in front of the television, laboring over that sweater for my niece. " After two hours of setup, and three sets of batteries, however, they are invariably replaced with hands and fingernails. Poor, poor forgotten equipment. What now is there to knit, but a forlorn sweater of cobwebs and dust?

OCD

Alright, in retrospect, it might have just been a Napoleon complex thing. It was good poetry. I'm just cynical.


Metaphor to simile, connecting things that were never meant to be connected. Maybe I'm just out of touch, an archaic remnant of the renaissance men who used to dominate pop culture. As the hip, new, scattered beats gallivant wildly, I'll stay here, with my ABAB rhyme schemes and my iambic pentameter. Maybe it'll come back around, like the eighties.

Alas, it seems I am behind the times,
When all that I can pen in wrote in rhyme.

Goodnight.

A Dead Art

I just came back from the Backroads poetry reading at the highschool.
All in all, it was better than I would have expected. There was not as much soulful snapping and artsy bongo playing as I might have liked, but it still exceeded my expectations. The only thing that bothered me was how out of place I felt. The poetry style seemed so...plagiarized. Like, textbook creativity. It seemed like they were imitating the groundbreaking artists who originated the grungy, offbeat stuff of jazz clubs in San Francisco. It's become a stereotype now. I'm not saying that the high schoolers weren't good at it, but it seemed that I only remembered the ones that weren't meant to be taken seriously. Most of the rest of them just blended together. Every set of goosebumps I got was begrudgingly pulled from me, and in the end, the only eventful piece was the twenty minute guitar solo at the end of the show.

After that, I must say that I thoroughly enjoy the experience, especially Izzy Avila's boob poetry, and Sarah's ode to the Earth.

Kudos to the songwriters.