dose guts

All I WANT is to be a myspace master. I've been 'myspacing' for about a year and have yet to stumble across the key to such an unattainable endeavor. I started out a humble passer-bye; idly waiting, and watching. My thumb was raised rigid to catch a ride from the myspace-wagon to cooldom kingdom. It moved slowly: read and reply, accept friend request, "sweet...that makes sixteen." The feeling was there but its lacking became a sharp pain in my side; something had to be done. Out of sheer desperation, I painted my space's ground with swirls of computer loser blue and tried out a number of musical accompaniments for my site's visitors. But the fancy colors and sounds only covered my true face with a dark mask of make-up. Then it hit me! Of course! I needed an "About me." For one solid year the mystical space allotted to me under the "about me" caption was left alone with one single word: "ask." While I might have thought this to be a clever and possibly even useful plot a long time ago, it had proven to be a horrible failure--no one has ever asked. So I began to write: "All I WANT is to be a myspace master." And here I am today. If this doesn't work, if this doesn't sail me strait to my myspace dreams, I have more ideas. Most of the true myspace masters I've seen saunter from wall to wall shirtless while flexing their wild physiques. They mark their trails by posting comments like, "Playit gurl. Ima sexy skank" or one that Im still looking up, "wassup, cana pimp git em dose guts?" It doesn't take two glances to know these guys are serious. It would take me another year just to learn the language and probably even longer to achieve the right myspace body. But, as I've said, this is what I want and this is All I WANT. So get ready myspace. A new master is coming your way.

Blondie

Im supposed to finish a story, but to willingly put an end to what i've been fighting so hard to keep doesn't sound sensible.

Neither does trying to sleep tonight. It's words haunt my thoughts. The thoughts tease my exhaustion. My exhaustion feeds my desperation to sleep--so that I can hurry to wake to see it tomorrow.

I'm so scared.

Nativity

The static pings and prongs in the space--
creating a blistering hum of bedlam--
noise like an un-radioed station,
or the latest green day album.

Each word in the mess is a weed in the field--
colored in colors not its own.
The mess migrates--in masse
into the new canals grown.

The only force over the raucous hum drum
is a beating drum: doo doom, doo doom.
The space between fills with static,
like death nestling in a tomb.

The static now shows the beauty of the beat.
Its simple line holds me near.
In its grasp I stay for it beats
the beat of time for me to hear.

I stay true to the beat but it not to me.
I am pulled from its holding hug,
by two elder life-sized hands,
towering from above.

The hands do pull and I try to fight--
the latter without success.
The further I am tugged from the beat,
the more the static mess.

The louder the mess the clearer it shows
what sounds it does entail--
a symphony of sorrows, sirens and sin.
And a woman above who yells.

The beating now is a distant fog--
to blurred and faded to see.
Instead of the beat, the static now
Is all there is for me.

The woman who yells takes me 'way with her.
Static is all I hear.
Though I never hear it again I sense,
the beat is always near.

What Can I Say?

Men define themselves with their own mistakes. Everything I learned from my mistakes led me to My Girl, and in a mistake she was gone.

She entered my heart after Elizabeth’s leaving. From the first conversation at the bowling alley, I knew she was My Girl. Words and laughter flowed effortlessly from swiveling seat to seat. Each turn of mine to roll the ball was, in my mind, an unbearable building of anticipation ready to topple if I didn’t hurry back to her. I can’t recall any of the literal conversation, but what does penetrate my passing memory of her is the discussion that took place between our flirting eyes.

Each day after the alley affair was a year of euphoria. The world spun a little slower; the air was that perfect temperature; the food tasted better. Even the music sang me a sweeter song, and nothing could put me down. When all is right with the world there’s nothing to do but love, and that’s what I did.

My soon-leaving for college was immanent so we made sure not to let a moment pass without. While we always struggled for something to do, we never tired or got bored; it was the simple things that suspended time. One night we searched for the darkest place within walking distance from my house and found our perch in the middle of the road to watch the stars. Another day i went to sit with her during her school lunch. She held my hand tight and proud in the hallway to the cafeteria and I felt like the luckiest man alive.

My Girl was my girl for a very short time. The simple words moving from my fingers to the screen nauseate me. When all is right in the world and you ruin it, there’s nothing to do but cry.

Maybe I’ll finish this story later. If you’re curious as to what happened, so am I.

When Faith Stands Up

God uses Faith.
Pink bundled her hair.
She uses hers
to stop the fear,
and stand up.

The trail she saw
and chose to turn,
from experience's own
temptation learned,
and stand up.

Step after step,
after step of Faith,
passes and moves
the unsettled race,
to stand up.

Her lips open next,
and out comes His words.
Spoken to sitting
raise brow to the girl,
that stands up.

"If God can use me
to stand tall for you,
then He can help too,
each one of you,
to stand up."

Now hundreds of young
can look back and thank,
God for the time
he gave them sweet Faith,
to stand up.

Revival has started
by one little girl.
And again he can use
you to change his world.
....Stand up.

Valentines Yah!

So I spent Valentines alone. Well, I take that back. I spent the night of love cuddled up with an industrial sized dishwasher and a high powered hose. Let me let you in on a secret; it wasn’t fun. When you work at one of the most renowned "date restaurants" in town, Valentines Day doesn't have a very romantic appeal. In fact, after that night, the word Valentine will forever have a disgustful pain associated with its very utterance. (ex. Hearing the word "valentine" = chewing on a mouthful of tin foil; or possibly, shaving long hair with a dull razor and no cream. )

Fortunately the turmoil of dishwashing has come to a period of rest. I am now officially a Marina's cook. My new job title allows me to focus on two of the things I enjoy most: 1. cooking, and 2. not washing dishes.

Dishes had become such an intricate part of my life, I had actually written a draft for a post all about them. The draft was designed to enlighten the reader about the many interesting aspects of the Marina's dishes and the stimulating experience of dealing with them. Fortunately for you, my new advancement spelled salvation for you from the post that would have been.

Reading over this post I can easily see it’s the most ridiculous one thus far, and possibly more so than the “Dish Creed” would have been. However, it's been too long since any poetic theme or idea has presented itself to me so I’ll have to make due. I have many fresh topics to dwell on concerning certain occurrences in and about my church so stay tuned for some further, much more interesting posts.

Unadorned

The bic twists in anticipation. The silent clicking of its prisoner led is more than enough sound to drone out the monotony tiptoeing from the eyes of the professor. The others do their best to avoid the crying illness floating around the classroom but I don’t. I let the stale nothingness consume my every emotion and thought. I let myself conform to its numb, solemn grasp. The overcast cloud of boredom rests and I realize, the winds wont change. I lay my pencil down.

Following its lead, I lose myself in the maze of wooden swirls laid before me. Lifting up from the new setting is a forest of trees, too proud for leaves. The path the woods show me is bold and seamless. My conscious scats at the ideas of any betrayal from its course. The trees are embedded with ornate designs, as if perfectly crafted by hand, and they stand proud showing their elaborate shades of brown. As I walk, every tree throws its limbs out to me, desperately begging for my thought. Unknown to them, their unique identity only blends in with their similarly unique peers, creating a dull and useless hue of brown. Unimpressed, I turn around. But not without glancing back and noticing each tree’s pairs of eyes, as hollow and cold as the professor’s; and each pair of eyes glaring at the body in which they're instilled.

The clock plays with my mind. Its pure consistency entertains my time, or more literally its time, for a while. The disease of boredom has spread through the entire room now and has even infected the teacher. His slur and inability to show any signs of life are the clear indicators. The only intercourse present in the room is a shoe with the floor. The shoe is mine and it taps once per second: on the second. The tempo engulfs my body. The beating force accountable for my time begins to interlock with the clock’s. Soon my entire body is performing a melodic duet with its perfect partner.

I look down at my drumming foot and notice a bed of dead grass on which it taps. Again the trees are standing tall, and again looking for a sign of approval. I give them none and instead ask what else can be found in this enchanted brown-colored world. Scanning my attire, an interesting thought begins to unravel itself in my psyche. “Oh, how I must stand out in such an unadorned place” I think proudly. “The trees must crave for my colors.” I glance towards the sky, searching for the eyes of a tree that will notice me. Instead, I see only the ignorant pride of the trees: for they can look at nothing but themselves.

Grown weary of waiting for the trees, I shift my attention towards myself again. I watch in horror as my entire body begins turning into shades of brown. The sight is grotesque at first. But like the floating nothingness, I let it consume me, and I even begin to accept it. I look around at my classroom full of peers, but no one notices me. I pick up my pencil, and I leave. I walk down the stairs and allow the nothingness to sweep me through the double doors and carry me away; I see many trees on this new ride but look at none: too intrigued by my new shade of brown.