Monday, September 26, 2011

Friday, July 1, 2011

Open your heart

Some people eat to suffice hunger, others to enjoy the taste, some eat cause they are sad or nervous, but me I eat to win. When I eat, I eat for ammo, so I can open up the bowl and let the shit fall in

Mobile from within the shit

Location:Accounting class

Sunday, June 12, 2011


I want to do something great. I want to be remembered. I doubt you know I exist. Remember this.

Thursday, June 9, 2011


The dirt and the filth. I'll return to them soon. Perhaps in this lifetime but certainly not yours. These bones will be starved in the bleach of the sun. High upon a dune of disease. Where flesh melds with sand and maggots feast. Cleansing decay from putrid tissue, all dead all rotting always working.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

For one

Coffee for one today. It's a day to remember and a day to forget all the same. The face staring back is vacant, nonexistent. It has no material form but it's value is priceless.

The chatter in the background. Knives, forks clanking against porcelain plates. Clink clank, click clink, clank always scrapping, scouring for the last bits of food and tearing through flesh. I can hear a child voice speaking to her mother but she is ignoring her to talk to her husband about Michael Jackson and the weather, whatever the new topic is on the TV.

A glare is cast off my skin from the light above the table I'm sitting at. I look up into the light and wish I hadn't. It's blinding candescent shimmer leaves spots in from of me. The waitress comes over and "warms up" my cup of coffee. I liked it the way it was.

The mother just told her child to stop playing with her food. She never listens.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

A child's face

"Pissing on a child's face? I'm ok with that"


Location:Pig n Pancake

There's still nothing to do

I stare at these fingernails. It feels good to see the dirt beneath the skin and the blood. Until you get to this point you haven't done much. You've been waited on, your hands are soft. You speak of a one perfect world. Yet you can see well maintained cuticles and perfectly cut form.

These hands are sore, they bleed. They're nervous they've been bit, they've been broken. Imperfection comes from their palms, desire is held momentarily then let go for need.

Your hands caress plastic and hold dear it's value. You speak of perfect world. Yet your hands tell me a different story. They speak to me of suffer. They scream to me of tolerance.

I work my fingers to the bone in a crevasse of filth. We take the time to dig and pry. My fingernails are stained in blood. You speak with rosy palms of a perfect world and were the fools that listen.