tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42798936975435768602024-03-13T11:16:44.340-07:00Just Your Average Weary TravelerDon't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.comBlogger96125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-41069637535773269972014-06-06T20:35:00.001-07:002014-06-06T20:35:40.053-07:00BREAKING NEWS: Mayor Lee Renames Coit Tower, “Twitter Tower”This just in: San Francisco has been infiltrated by unsuspecting Millennial’s from all corners of the United States who were promised an exorbitant amount of wealth to follow the American corporate technology dream. They may be found standing near municipal transit stops early in the morning waiting to board unmarked busses to undisclosed locations in the suburbs South of the City. They may also have an aura of entitlement surrounding them while they walk their untrained dogs. This is normal so please don’t be alarmed. Or they may be holding so called “Flip Cup” drinking tournaments with Milwaukee’s Best in the Marina District while Google Shopping Express delivers more Frisbees and visors to their parties.
One may recognize these people by the phrases that they use such as, “Summer in San Francisco is so cold,” when in reality the thermostat reads 70 degrees Fahrenheit. Or, “I’ve got an app for that,” while shopping for produce and can’t figure out the difference between a potato and a turnip or understand that their food comes from farms or a slaughterhouse. Or even, “My stock options just reached a million today,” whilst signing a lease for a studio apartment that costs $4,000 per month with a view of their neighbor’s kitchen window and thinking that they have gotten a great deal.<br />
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Residents of the City are welcoming these innovative new folks with open arms and the local government has taken notice as well. In honor of the influx of new skilled technology workers to the City and with added tax breaks given to new startups, Mayor Edwin Lee dedicates San Francisco landmark Coit Tower in North Beach to technology. From this point forward per the decree of City Hall, the Board of Supervisors and the Mayor’s Office, it will now be referred to as Twitter Tower to acknowledge the sole company that selflessly helped San Francisco get out of the great recession with a move to their new Market Street location. While Twitter Tower sits on what has been known as Telegraph Hill for over a century, named for its telegraph communications during the first Great War, it will now be referred to as AT&T Hill. The company (AT&T) will commence construction of a new, unobtrusive tower above Twitter Tower extending several hundred feet to the sky which will deliver a faster internet and television connection to the citizens of San Francisco. Residents who might be displaced by construction of the new tower have been offered compensation to leave their homes and move to Oakland.<br />
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(Disclaimer: This is Satire and should not be regarded as anything other than a silly story that came from me noggin)Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-57029852144882051652014-04-19T20:22:00.003-07:002014-04-19T20:22:42.205-07:00Let's try this again...I'm trying something new again. I have been writing fervently lately for some reason and wanted to try a short novel again. I wrote 100,000 words of crap several years ago and thought that I would give up when I realized that I didn't like it. But, here I am once again seeing if I can actually finish something that I like. This is an excerpt from the first chapter and thought that I would post here to see if I could get some critique.
I met Jenny one Sunday while at brunch with Esther , a friend of mine who lived in the Mission. My friendship with Esther was often circumstantial so we had made a point of trying to meet every Sunday for brunch in a different spot in a different neighborhood in the City to catch up. Sometimes we would even dress differently and speak with accents as if we were tourists. It was our way of trying to be selectively spontaneous. This particular Sunday, however, Esther was running late and asked me to meet her near where she lived. For some reason, I had expected this since I hadn’t heard from her the night before like I usually did as she always called before we met. The thought of being stood up by even a friend terrified her. My mobile phone buzzed on vibrate for what seemed like an eternity as multiple text messages came through. I didn’t have a smartphone so when I got text messages it was a whole process just to read them all. I could never respond fast enough because as soon as I almost finished a response to one text another came faster and usually with less meaning or importance such as a ‘smiley’ or ‘winky’ face. Her texting skills were impeccable (she could text with one hand on the phone while the other hand was applying conditioner to her hair, brushing her teeth and exfoliating the bottoms of her whatever in the shower all at the same time). I didn’t have to read the excuses for her tardiness in the texts as I had already boarded the number 12 bus in Chinatown and was heading her way anyway. Over the years I had learned to multiply the time that she would say that she would be ready by three. So far, my mathematics had checked out and I was right on schedule to get off the bus and meet her outside of her apartment the minute that she was ready. If not and if I had miscalculated, I could grab a 3 dollar drip coffee at the café next door to her place.
There were coffee shops on every corner of The Mission now it seemed but the place near her home was particularly inviting. They roasted the beans in-house where you could see and smell them as if on a tour of some quaint micro-brewery off of the 101 freeway up the coast. If one walked towards the long line to the bathroom in the back, one might see several younger looking blokes with leather aprons and mustaches opening up small drawers of godknowswhat, sniff them, make a note on a clipboard and then hurl large bags of hopefully raw coffee beans into a larger, most likely reclaimed (and most likely restored vintage) roaster. Why were hipsters so painfully good at making something as simple as coffee so expensive yet so delicious? And how were they so good at making it look good? I felt as if I was sitting on a little boat on Disneyland’s Pirates of the Caribbean watching mechanical wenches actually make me coffee. I have no idea how this happened but dammit if they didn’t get my 3 bucks again and again.
I had calculated wrong and she wasn’t waiting outside when I thought that she would be. I had never been upstairs into her home because it wasn’t allowed. “It’s forbidden,” she had once told me. No one is allowed to enter, not even me. I imagined as I looked up at her five, bay wood windows which were all blocked by Japanese shoji screens, that she had glass bottles on shelves filed with formaldehyde and human brain specimens. Or maybe her old boyfriends were tied up to chairs with handcuffs? They would scream to her when she returned home and would feed them once a day by throwing scraps of Mission Street burritos or a slice of pizza or even better yet, pupusas! (There was a mall with Salvadorian food kiosks sans hipsters nearby as well if one didn't mind eating with pigeons but Esther was afraid of the birds so we never went) Maybe she was just messy, I don’t fucking know but I enjoyed making up reasons for why it was forebode. Either way, no one was allowed inside. It was completely off limits so I stood outside with my hipster coffee and a cigarette as I waited.
Cars moved slowly down Valencia Street now because bicycles and pedestrians outnumbered them and with an influx in ridesharing vehicles and other “app” connected entrepreneurial startup businesses, everyone just seemed more cautious these days. Someone was killed recently as they walked through an intersection by a rideshare car. The police report said that the driver was looking at his smartphone while it all happened and before it was too late there was blood on the sidewalks. All of the weekly papers had a field day with the news the next day because the City loves a good pedestrian killing story. It diverts all of the attention from stories about the Mayor’s cohorts paying for Chinatown landlords to fill out election ballots to help him win. “We need to improve our street signals for pedestrians!” decries the Mayor upon hearing the news.
I watched the folks walking down the street between drags from my cigarette and sips of my seriously delicious coffee. “Damn you hipsters!” I said to the hipster walking in front of me with his skinny jeans and shook my fist. Was this what Allen Ginsberg talked about, “Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night?” Did I even really know what that meant? “I have a heavenly connection to this coffee!” I said and gave a ‘high five’ to the same hipster I had previously shook my fist at. He pretended to be amused and hurried away after our awkwardly forced interaction. I also watched a guy get hit by a MUNI bus but from what I could tell, it wasn’t the bus driver’s fault, the dude walking was immersed in a tragically important game of “Candy Crush Saga.” A crowd gathered around to poke and prod at him to see if he was still alive or to see if he needed an ambulance that would send him to General. “Does this man have health insurance?!” One woman exclaimed. “We need to reevaluate how citizens choose to walk the streets of San Francisco!” sung the Mayor after he would hear the news. “There’s nothing to see here, move along everyone!” I realized that I was glad that I hadn’t purchased a smartphone yet and that I didn’t know what “Candy Crush Saga” was. This was normal though for San Francisco. It was just another beautiful day in Bagdad by the Bay filled with distractions.
The Mission had a culture to it that I could no longer define. My father told me that when he lived in the City during the sixties that neither he nor any of his artist friends would even think to venture into this neighborhood, let alone walk along most of Market Street downtown. “It was too dangerous,” he said. Now it seemed that everything dangerous had been disguised or painted over with a mural or blocked by a Google bus or a technology start-up company. Regardless of the façade that symbolized gentrification, I didn’t feel like I belonged in this neighborhood. I hadn’t shaved for a week so ironically I had that going for me, but I was dressed in faded khakis with paint flakes on them left over from my day job (none of my clothes seemed to be without some kind of work related stain any longer), my shirt was purchased from a second hand store on Haight Street which I had proceeded to spill my hipster coffee on, and I was holding a copy of Dickens’ Great Expectations in my left hand. I never read it in high school and saw it for $1.99 at a Goodwill store so thought that I would give it a try and see what I had missed. “Holy shit!” I thought. I actually do kind of fit in here!
“Meh…” I said out loud to a gentleman riding past me in a mechanized wheel chair. “Maybe I am just thinking about my ‘uniform’ too much.” He scowled at me as he rushed by and yelled, “Dum, Dum Diddy!” sped off in his scooter and headed towards the 500 Club for an afternoon drink I assumed.
“Sorry I’m late!” Esther said out of breath as she barreled out of her front door, slamming it and shutting it closed before I could get a glimpse of her stairway up to her home. “I’ve been on the phone with a client this morning and he is fucking nuts.” Her right shoe isn't quite on her foot properly and she bends down to adjust it stumbling a bit. I instinctively grab her elbow to stable her body while she fixes her shoe. “I don’t know what to tell him anymore, I can only prescribe so many milligrams of Adderall before it starts to become a problem. So let’s eat, I’m starving!” I’m waiting for her to take a breath but she doesn’t seem to need one. I've never seen Esther actually take a full breath and exhale. She is standing at ‘attention’ in front of me with a smile as if she has now become completely present with where she is and whom she is with and is waiting for my response. I wanted to say, “This is so typical of you. You are always late. I really wanted to try out this new place South of Market that had just opened up but you are always so distracted and now we have to go to the place that we always end up going to when you flake on me.” But I didn't say any of that. I smiled back at her and let her take my arm instead and started to walk in the direction of ‘her’ place. Some things just weren’t worth making an issue of. Especially since I didn’t have many friends in the City and she was my only close friend. She was my only friend really and I needed her, dysfunction and all.
We went to her spot for brunch somewhere off of 18th Street (I can’t remember the name of the place) and since there was a line we huddled up by two spaces that were at the bar but with no wait but they still served food. The dude at the front let us sneak by a couple that had been too intently looking at the menu before deciding what their next move would be. These folks were leisurely starting their day and were clearly in love by the way that they touched each other while we, on the other hand were merely hungry and we happily passed them up on their short lived opportunity to dine at the bar. I hated that couple for some reason and I wasn’t sure why. It seemed that the older and more single I became over the years, the more prone I was to dislike folks who became couples and even worse those who chose to procreate. Esther was an opportunist, and we swooped in onto the bar stools before the lovey couple had a chance to even figure out what happened. “I want whatever comes with hash browns,” she declared. “And papaya mimosas!”
The bartender who would end up taking our orders was extremely cute and definitely my type but I could already tell that she was annoyed by our presence. She wanted to make drinks, make a minimum amount of chatter to the customers all while generally being left alone but we had clearly come to set up shop and eat. Also, Esther talks a lot when she is excited about food and especially likes to share more information by virtue of the loudness of her voice than our poor, cute server would like to hear. I’m only half listening to what Esther is saying as I browse the brunch specials on the menu for the day. She was talking about another client I think but all of her stories end up sounding the same to me. She is my friend and while I love her and her company, there are just certain topics in which she talks about where I have learned to go to my own “happy place” filled with puppies and rainbows and punk rock music. Punk rock, moshing, smiley puppies make me happy for some reason. I honestly hear nothing that she says, nod my head in agreement where I think that it is appropriate as far as the length of her conversation is concerned and say that ‘I am sorry’ and that ‘I understand’ when I can tell that she is finished with her story. Most of her stories are usually a complaint about something or someone so usually I hit the nail on the head with my supportive replies.
“At his initial intake, I’m trying to take notes about how I can help him since his wife left and then I catch him staring at my chest! I tell him that I am here to help him but then, he starts staring at my legs! So I call my assistant in and she opens the door slowly to see what’s going on. And I’m like, (she’s mouthing this) Can you help me? I didn’t know what to do so I sent him back to the front with my assistant to reschedule. Can you believe that? I have to see that asshole again next week. I should fire my assistant for even making the appointment in the first place. The guy just creeps me out. Either way I’m making sure that I wear pants for our next appointment, or maybe a mu-mu. Or a velour track suit, whatever it is that turns you guys off. I just want to wash this work stuff right off of me and it is Sunday so I’m sorry, how are you anyway?”
“I’m sorry, I totally understand,” I say.
I’m now sitting at the edge of the stool with my menu in hand waiting to see if she actually takes a breath but she doesn't. I swear Esther is an anomaly; she doesn’t seem to need the normal amount of oxygen that most humans require for existence. I’m always amazed by this.
While she was talking I was also pretending that I was not watching our server as she skillfully pops the tops off of champagne bottles and makes mimosas with papaya and mango and orange juice. “Hey!” Esther says, “That’s what I want too! Are you listening to me?” I wasn’t. With one last pop of the last bottle the cork unexpectedly falls into one of the glasses that our server was preparing. Some people sitting at the tables behind us clapped their hands and cheered loudly, I thought it was because of her mistake but instead, they were fixated on the Giants game on the television above our heads behind the bar. I too turned my head towards the TV to see Angel Pagan hit a perfect triple (I caught the replay) and then try and run for home where he was tagged out thusly ending the Sunday game with a loss. The folks behind that were previously clapping at the game had now intensively and with purpose downed shot glasses of whatever they had left over in despair. “Torture!” one of the clappers said and all of his buddies nodded in agreement and ordered another round of Jameson and Fernet for the whole table.
Our server, Jenny, cleaned up the mess from the cork spill and began pouring shots for the table behind us. I whispered in her direction, “I didn’t see anything.”
She smiled, “So you didn’t see what just happened? Pagan just fucked it up.” She knew that I was talking about her faux pas and winked at me, dashed off towards the kitchen momentarily and then reappeared with our food. She placed my Southwestern omelet in front of me with a huge pile of hash browns and a skimpier looking plate of eggs and grits in front of Esther. “Doesn't mine come with hash browns too?” She whined without remembering what she had ordered in the first place (It didn’t come with hash browns). Saying nothing in response, Jenny brought a side for her on a little plate almost immediately and set it delicately next to her eggs. Esther was happy and uttered a muffled, food stuffed “thank you” in Jenny’s general direction. For chrissakes she didn't breathe when she ate either! Jenny gave a sarcastic curtsy and then went about her duties making drinks for not only the customers at the bar but the waiters who came and asked for orders at their tables. She was extremely busy and I watched her between bites of my omelet and replays on the television documenting the Giants loss. She had since shed her outer shirt and was wearing a much more revealing one. I noticed her necklace with a stone eye and Sanskrit writing. I had to get to know this girl.
Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-7121894650287749832013-09-10T23:54:00.002-07:002013-09-11T00:06:38.543-07:00Orange SlicesOnce…you held onto the door of my car and pleaded to me with cartoon eyes never to leave you. It was summer then, the air smelled of grapes about to turn sour, or vintage, I wasn’t quite sure. It was perfectly cinematic. I became familiar with the distance, friendly with personnel at the Burbank Airport, comfortable with the concept of what I was told that love should feel like. I documented significant and insignificant dates in a little notebook because I can never remember anything of relevance unless it pertained to my own sorry self.
Once…I arrived at your house for the first time anxious. The quintessentially Angelino façade of the building, resting on top of that hill with that often too misleading beacon of hope, the Hollywood sign was always disappointing up close. Hipster before instagram hipster friends, an accordion added to any trio rock band gives them street cred, we sip brandy here, only troglodytes drink beer, unless of course it comes from a Pabst can, can it be considered acceptable. Running through the catalog in my head of not-so-dumb-sounding-pseudo-spiritual-bullshit to fit in. I still haven’t read the Autobiography of a Yogi. I hated what I had become, but I loved you.
Once…you would fall asleep, shoji screen windows open enough to let the Santa Ana winds have their way with your dreams, soft eclectic sounds from National Public Radio stabilizing, me chain smoking on the thin balcony overlooking what appeared to be Glendale…cities run together forming prefectures in Southern California. The warm air spoke quickly about the past and nothing of the future. We could lie in bed like that all day. The world outside was happening around us and while we still felt so utterly connected to it, to it, to it I was withdrawn.
Once…there was no urgency. Sunday strolls down Silverlake Boulevard, farmers market, tofu scramble, fair trade beans, my hand in yours and your hand holding up high my insecurities…and if we could only figure out how we could be connected to the world but still be far from it because we are either all interconnected or we are not. If we could only be more concerned about whether or not there was a band playing at El Cid or if it was Flamenco night, but you must at least try to make it to Flamenco night because the set meal is delicious and didn’t you know that this was the first sound stage for the movies in all of Los Angeles? I stood in line for the bathroom like you were the most beautiful woman in the world.
Once…it was a holiday. It was summer again and we were older and the air smelled of sage. And with the kindest of eyes, mimicking the eyes of goddess you told me, I just want to sit in the sun and drink my ice water with orange slices.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-64479112475882645312013-09-10T15:40:00.002-07:002013-09-10T15:40:54.080-07:00Untitled The streets of North Beach have made me soft,
The ones on the East side of Columbus.
Before, I used to walk the streets past street sheets
And addiction, addicted to the complexities of my existence.
Prolonging the day in pulsating unfeeling,
I closed my eyes without worry for sleep.
In the Loin you can get anything that you want if you want it
And closed mouths never get fed so you ask.
It’s important to sell postcard pictures at Walgreens though
To remind us all of where we really are.
Sups write legislation to close the parks after a certain hour
Because surely those without a home will cease to exist if there is a posted sign.
The Mayor gets an erection with every erected crane taller than five stories high, and
Cops read romance novels outside of the Hilton for protection.
Hide your shit, ferries back and forth, tickets to Alcatraz, blazing saddles, bike the Golden Gate,
I love visiting but I could never live here, there are just too many of the gays, but keep the niners,
Or, bring the superbowl, or billionaire boaters, build more buildings, yes! I see another crane!
And Herb Cain laments that he has run out of vodka.
Here in North Beach, it’s the 6 AM chardonnay shakes outside Vieni Vieni,
It’s the Saloonitics, unwanted patron picture behind the bar indicating wake.
And the Cops here used to wear uniforms inside Gino and Carlos before shifts at Central,
Now they dress down but drink up with more corruption.
Never trust a cop says the cop on his bike and Booker smiles,
We are all Socialists here.
We are high class imbibers on this side of town
And we are a better sort of existentialist
Aint none of us have a problem that can’t be solved with one more shot of Fernet.
Marina dwellers, transplants from New England drink here, play drunken kickball here,
Get reported by their neighbors for changing their wood sash windows to vinyl ones
Aspire for membership at the Olympic Club, play golf on their work breaks,
Design apps to qualify data about gelato, piss and moan that their keg party is served by Aaron Peskin
North Beach has made me soft. We worry about walls blocking views of the Bay, Trader Joes
Has been out of Soy-rizo for over two weeks and no one,
I mean no one there has any answers as to why...
Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-17164020276860951442012-07-15T16:55:00.002-07:002012-07-15T16:55:50.251-07:00North Beach July, 13th On Green StreetThe Beach was buzzing this night with local cats and regular misfits, some looking to be seen and others just drunk from an existential creative mind-fuck. There were amateurs from across the Bay there in the distance as well mind you, with a cloud of a different kind of drunkenness encouraged by cans of American beer, and shots of Fernet, purely because that’s what the locals drink and everyone wants to fit in at least some of the time. That quintessential fog that was not fog nor was it rain blanketed the scene and made us stop and stick out our tongues to the air as if to catch a snowflake, even though the City hasn’t seen snow since February 1976. Dino or Ron or whatever the hell his name was, spat flakes of spittle in my eyes and mouth as he talked. His sifter of brandy spilled with each gesture as he offered me a sip but I declined. You must be some kind of intellectual he said and I responded in kind. Lapo stood with us and carefully rolled a cigarette with more purpose and intensity than I have ever seen before. Dino or Ron spoke nonsensically about a translation he had done of some French work and complained about the nature of these types of parties. It had taken him twenty years and still no one had jumped at the idea of making it into a film and he couldn’t figure out why not. There were too many parties with crazy people and lesbians, “oh the lesbians,” he cried. He was giving a serious critique in his mind to what was before him; yet, he seemed to be enjoying himself quite tremendously. Brandy gives anyone perspective I am sure. Lapo smiles as he finishes rolling his smoke, and alludes to Dino or Ron’s criticism of this gathering as being as cliché as painting the kettle black and then disappears. Howie shows up and Momo has set up a community painting so we both add a few strokes to the canvas and it feels good. I wonder where it will eventually hang and if the future owner will appreciate it. Dino or Ron tries to talk to Jess about making his film her film but she is strong and says to him (even though he can’t understand and won’t remember) that she, “writes her own shit,” thank you very much. Instead, she buys one of Momo’s paintings, one that is somewhat of a self-portrait depicting his love for toast. We fumble around outside as the gallery’s crowd becomes weary and inebriated and Howie leans on a car on Green Street next to the mortuary that isn’t his. I smoke a cigarette and he bums one from me. Lapo is still nowhere to be found. It still feels like it is snowing in San Francisco and the echoes of the amateurs are now faint so we walk to Puccini’s and have bowls of pasta until they kick us out. They are closing.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-56164008344597813802011-10-02T21:10:00.000-07:002011-10-02T21:27:05.888-07:00Funding....arghhhh!Time to get down to business now...and I have been working really hard at getting my first film completed and ready for screening. I have two interviews tomorrow which shall be very interesting and I'm not sure what to expect. But, each time that I do this, I am completely surprised and blown away at what I discover. It's never what I originally expect to hear. <br /><br />So here is where I am at now, funding. We need a lot of help as we are paying for everything out of pocket right now to get this done and it is getting really tough. However, I know that I can get this done no matter what. I am currently in the works for a fundraiser to be be held in San Francisco with live music (some very cool bands) as well as some comedians who have been featured in the film to help us raise funds. I wanted to attach a link here of a sample from the film of our interview with these guys. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/sfvaluesmovie#p/u/1/OihQ57d7uYk">COMEDIANS</a> <br />They are extremely funny and I hope that you enjoy this sample teaser from the film. Also, if you or anyone that you know who loves San Francisco as much as I do and would like to help support the film, here is a link to our teaser and indiegogo.com page. Folks can donate to the project here and there are perks! Like seeing these crazy comedians in concert here in the City as well as thank you credit in the film! Thanks for viewing and pass it on! Cheers! <br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.indiegogo.com/San-Francisco-Values-The-Movie">FUNDING/PERKS/TEASER</a><br />Nathan.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-27252164918807806092011-08-11T21:04:00.001-07:002011-08-11T21:08:30.482-07:00San Francisco Values: The MovieI have been away for awhile working on my very first film and it has been quite a ride. I would love for you all to check out the little teaser that we just cut which can be seen here: http://www.youtube.com/user/AishaMedia
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<br />Also, we have a Facebook fan page under the name, San Francisco Values The Movie so please "like" the page if so inclined. http://www.facebook.com/pages/San-Francisco-Values-The-Movie/245615538795361?sk=wall#!/pages/San-Francisco-Values-The-Movie/245615538795361
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<br />Thanks for checking everything out and sorry for being away for so long.
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<br />Cheers,
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<br />Nathan.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-63159303421729898012011-06-18T20:48:00.001-07:002011-06-18T20:56:08.575-07:00UpdateUnfortunately or fortunately, I have not been able to write or post recently due to a new creative project that I am currently working on. I cannot say much about it, however, it will be in the form of a documentary film that I am writing/directing based in my lovely city of San Francisco. I will share more details in the months to come so please check back once in awhile for links and to see updated information. <br /><br />I still hope to write poetry and post on all of my favorite poetry blogs but it won't be as frequent as I would like. Thanks to all who do check in and read from time to time. <br /><br />Cheers, <br /><br />Nathan.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-34826225174831862322011-05-19T23:51:00.000-07:002011-05-19T23:58:47.930-07:00Veil<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CQAeBIliidM/TdYQzHWoovI/AAAAAAAAALw/i9zvwiY_5Lo/s1600/229002_10150191118608181_623808180_7118298_2296774_n.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CQAeBIliidM/TdYQzHWoovI/AAAAAAAAALw/i9zvwiY_5Lo/s200/229002_10150191118608181_623808180_7118298_2296774_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608688856269890290" /></a><br />Photo by Michael Johnson<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I now understand the veil,<br />The one that covers our faces and our bodies<br />And the religiosity of rehearsed obedience. <br /><br />I now understand the veil, <br />Mere fibers that transform the mundane <br />Into epic episodes of false grandeur. <br /><br />I now understand the veil, <br />The failed American Dream and <br />A romance novel set in an indigo sky. <br /><br />I now understand the veil, <br />A shell used to combat shame<br />To fool the foolish. <br /><br />I now understand the veil, <br />Hidden turbulence <br />With a platinum credit card. <br /><br />I now understand the veil, <br />Distant relatives' likeness in which <br />We have reluctantly become. <br /><br />I now understand the veil, <br />We threw rocks at each other<br />Because feelings were too difficult to articulate. <br /><br />I now understand the veil, <br />Blueprint successes marked with <br />Status measurable only to a corporate sponsor. <br /><br />I now understand the veil, <br />Longing to be free but<br />Hiding just like me.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-66903374478132609082011-05-10T20:33:00.001-07:002011-05-10T20:55:13.033-07:00Moment<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vKy-gvZrFjE/TcoDn7e3kSI/AAAAAAAAALo/xs-_ZbeunGY/s1600/crowphoto.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vKy-gvZrFjE/TcoDn7e3kSI/AAAAAAAAALo/xs-_ZbeunGY/s200/crowphoto.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605296670732947746" /></a><br />In desolation, he appears under my wood sash and screams incomprehensibly to my no-soul. I'm startled by it so I leave home for one of the last times even though I'm clinging, to go meet up with Rita the rational one. She always has something comforting to say about the comings and goings of things, and usually adds in a tidbit about why Bodhidharma decided to make it out East to round things out. I'm shaking says me, shaking all the damn time and while this makes me feel discomposed, she assures me that it is only natural. Rita is swirling her iced tea with her pinkie finger, a look of contemplation in her eyes, focused on a point unknown or unimportant and I am anxious. You know, she says, after some time, returning her pensive gaze towards I, you are clearly being watched. Her sentiment only increases my uneasiness and in respectful turn, my stare becomes glossy in thought. I don't like the idea of being exposed, I don't want to tell a story, I don't want to be the reality of reality, and I sure as hell don't want to be watched. In instantaneous, educated conclusion of my own understanding, he reveals himself again. He musta followed me that rat. Clearly cloaking my existence was not on the crow's agenda and I would soon be forced to find complacency. Rita's pursed lips attached to a cigarette like an extremity glowed as she spoke. It cant be that bad, can it? She said. I concurred and thanked her for the company of another human being and excused myself. Alone, I hiked up Post and fumbled for my keys before they would become useless, sat on the floor of my soon to be empty home, and waited for him to present himself under sash once more.<br /><br />For <a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/">One Stop Poetry</a>Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-48864880421627243612011-05-03T23:26:00.000-07:002011-05-03T23:29:17.715-07:00CuriousityRough Draft for One Shot Wednesday @<a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/">One Stop Poetry</a><br /><br /><br />What is it like to be a slave to your NASDAQ?<br />To have, have and have nothing of value, <br />Miserable at the core but 'cha got stuff and on the <br />Outside and to me, you have everything.<br /><br />'Cept the buggaboos <br />Pesky splinters under fingernails,<br />Undercover agents who seemingly <br />Infiltrate personal security, sole purpose to obliterate. <br /><br />What is it like to be so scared all of the time?<br />I myself, am afraid of the postman,<br />Do you lose sleep?<br />Do you forget to notice your breath upon awakening?<br /><br />Is life meant to be viewed in 18 millimeter,<br />Black and white with dust embedded<br />In the film introducing a faint, filmy, fog,<br />Masking tangibility.<br /><br />What is it like to create unwanted stories that eventually become truth?<br />Do children learn from television by osmosis? <br />She is such a bad person, so needy with no needs at all. <br />No, it was his upbringing, he said...that's why- coddled too much. <br /><br />She had a bad mother, sister, father- <br />That's why there is war and he didn't pray enough<br />He didn't pray, he didn't pray enough<br />And here she is, story already told with irreparable branches. <br /><br />What is it like to have a voice but use it only for self interest?<br />What is is like to have a voice and use it for hate?<br />What is it like to have a voice and do nothing?<br />What is it like to have a voice?Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-62353903782677621772011-04-27T22:55:00.000-07:002011-04-27T22:58:02.030-07:00Chimera<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o5qqCyDfdoo/TbkBoXv4MJI/AAAAAAAAALg/Ev-kUUb2AyU/s1600/_DSC8378.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o5qqCyDfdoo/TbkBoXv4MJI/AAAAAAAAALg/Ev-kUUb2AyU/s200/_DSC8378.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600509404693147794" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The present has become the past,<br />The future has become the present<br />And the wheel continues to turn<br />The pigeon on my stoop is a voyeur.<br /><br />The pictures on my wall and<br />The chimera cigarette burns on the floor,<br />With the leftovers of you and your scent<br />Memories of my conformity. <br /><br />Fear has become biblical and my home consequential<br />So I burn sage<br />Without reasoning but I was told to do such<br />Just in case. <br /><br />Just in case the supernatural might smell<br />The incense of my sincerity<br />And of the ritual cleansing of my failure<br />Thusly expelling desire. <br /><br />Born on the morn of a day<br />Only historical to me, taught me,<br />That my suffering can only be derived<br />From carnal desire to be free <br /><br />Of suffering and of the strings<br />That attach me to shit that harms and is irrelevant,<br />To the community at large<br />Forging distraction and destruction. <br /><br />I'm as pure as a misguided bhikku could be<br />Asking for nothing unless offered<br />Willfully accepting when given <br />And praying for contentment and rebirth.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-79315177300065485632011-04-17T23:47:00.000-07:002011-04-17T23:52:47.114-07:00Heaven<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f9-QMzuZax0/Tavft3zVk1I/AAAAAAAAALQ/KyS3Wp0zbr4/s1600/Vesuvio_NorthBeach_SanFranciscoPhotos-780397.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f9-QMzuZax0/Tavft3zVk1I/AAAAAAAAALQ/KyS3Wp0zbr4/s200/Vesuvio_NorthBeach_SanFranciscoPhotos-780397.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596812941104354130" /></a><br />With prehensile cognizance<br />I read the obituaries <br />And I saw my picture but<br />Didn't like the look on my face. <br /><br />I didn't like the way that my eyes <br />Were squinting in the light,<br />Or the shirt that I was wearing,<br />The fact that I had conformed to a complicated life. <br /><br />I was taught to be sensible<br />And nothing that I ever did would<br />Be considered sensible,<br />I was a rolling stone. <br /><br />I didn't believe in god,<br />Slept in all day<br />Found beauty in the cracks<br />Laughed at silly liturgy. <br /><br />I was on everyone's prayer list<br />I hated the smell of success<br />Voted for the rights of my brothers<br />A social outcast. <br /><br />There was a crowd outside Green Street<br />At the mortuary and another across the way<br />With Guinness and bangers and mash and smiles<br />And I hoped to be there instead. <br /><br />This must be heaven.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-33626781910103230612011-04-10T20:42:00.000-07:002011-04-12T15:56:14.260-07:00Youth<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eMxhFvSec1A/TaJ5NPC_gwI/AAAAAAAAALI/NoUZVe_v2ic/s1600/1039310203_icturesbob.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 122px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eMxhFvSec1A/TaJ5NPC_gwI/AAAAAAAAALI/NoUZVe_v2ic/s200/1039310203_icturesbob.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594166955431920386" /></a><br />Sometimes I wish that I still felt as I did in my youth, struggling for identity and acceptance but sill innocent nonetheless. This one is just for fun...<br /><br />Youth<br /><br />I was a punk<br />And now I am just a hipster, semi-wanderer<br />Who sometimes forgets youth<br />Those guys, I'm flashing back in time to, running around in circles <br />On dirt floors of the Seaman's Lodge in the hills<br />With trench coats harming no one but punching each other nonetheless<br /><br />It was mad, innocent fun and the energy<br />Was something out of an indie film that my parents wouldn't let me see,<br />And that's why I liked it so much. <br />Anarchist sheaths who sat on the grass<br />Waiting for mediocrity and brilliance <br />A beat up bass amp used for a regular guitar instead.<br /><br />Freedom and rolling and rolling down the slope<br />Like it would never end and there was no end.<br />I wished that I had a Mohawk<br />Or that I did drugs.<br />I wanted a nickname. <br /><br />You can call me Smalls<br />Killer<br />Duct tape<br />Falz<br />Money<br />Stitch<br />Snake<br />Brawls<br /><br />I wanted a cigarette but I was scared.<br />The other 16 year old kids were doing it<br />But what would it mean for my soul?<br />I wanted to be remembered<br />But I was a good kid and rarely did anything wrong.<br /><br />This was so un-punk. <br />The music squelched to deafening levels<br />And the circle of pseudo violence commenced again.<br />Yelling at my comrade for the night over the sweet noise<br />I said, “Punch me!”<br /><br />Without hesitation, I flexed my stomach muscles<br />And with even less hesitation, he hit me in the gut.<br />I wheezed and he marched with a crooked smirk.<br />“Oh!” He yelled at my neck, “What was that for?”<br />“Punk rock, baby, punk rock,” I screamed back.<br /><br />Visit <a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/">One Stop Poetry</a> for more fun!Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-4656056382145777932011-04-08T20:35:00.000-07:002011-04-10T20:42:28.774-07:00Dante's<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G_rEtRsz7n8/TZ_URmdqEiI/AAAAAAAAALA/eqO8jsGBsyE/s1600/Jean-baptiste_carpeaux_ugolino_and_his_sons_1857-60.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G_rEtRsz7n8/TZ_URmdqEiI/AAAAAAAAALA/eqO8jsGBsyE/s200/Jean-baptiste_carpeaux_ugolino_and_his_sons_1857-60.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593422661065249314" /></a><br /><br /><br />This is based on a photo prompt for this photograph via One Stop Poetry<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It has come to this,<br />To the point when pain<br />And suffering and <br />Struggle can no longer <br />Keep the lights on,<br />The gulls have found<br /><br />Brighter shores<br />Somewhere off in the distance<br />Across oceans without war<br />Patience dissipated<br />And hope dilapidated<br />“Just take me now!” I screamed.<br /><br />I've had a good run<br />It's time for me to go<br />And I'm tired...<br />My eyes are growing poorer<br />But I can't pay for solution<br />Just take me now.<br /><br />The papers say rain<br />The papers say coma<br />The papers say racism<br />The papers say one more innocent child killed<br />The papers say..shit.<br />Just take me now. <br /><br />I'm talking to you goddess<br />Are you listening <br />To the plight of others<br />And not just the plight of mine?<br />It pains you and you are conflicted<br />But what shall I do this time?<br /><br />Just take me now please<br />So that I won't have to <br />See what is happening all around me,<br />And ashes to ashes <br />And dust to dust<br />Will be a simple memory.<br /><br />For <a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/">One Stop Poetry</a>Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-8685180395664390202011-04-08T00:53:00.000-07:002011-04-08T00:54:37.493-07:00WiredI'm wired incorrectly...<br />There is something clearly wrong with me,<br /><br />I have trouble functioning in the box that was <br />Created for me, or by history, or by religion, <br />Or maybe it was American society<br />That caused me to be an outsider<br />Or to become fearful of feeling different, as if I don't belong<br />Well...<br /> <br />Anywhere.<br /><br />White picket fence, don't forget to pay your rent<br />On time, because there is never enough time<br />And you scare me with your tactics, <br />Why do you do that when you know that it <br />Fuels fear and that if the tables were turned, <br />Your legs would buckle from explicable trembling and, <br />You would beg for mercy, <br /><br /> But hey man...it's just business, <br /> What's not to understand about that?<br /><br />I'm wired incorrectly...<br />There is something clearly wrong with me, <br /><br />And when I'm scared, I'm scared and you are scared<br />About what is going to happen to your home<br />When Rosie the Riveter meant less suffering<br />Because you, you had a job and whilst you had to get dirty<br />You were proud and were no longer afraid of what was happening <br />Outside of our comfortable little box and war felt like redemption.<br /><br />Ah, those were good times...when we rounded up<br />Anyone and everyone who didn't look like you<br />Placed them in a cage and forgot about the holocaust,<br />But damn did we quell our fear of bunnies.<br /><br />I'm wired incorrectly...<br />There is something clearly wrong with me, <br /><br />I've tried to but no matter how hard I do try,<br />I can't seem to figure out how to fit into your box.<br />Did you see me on the streets? When I asked you for some spare change<br />And you said that you couldn't help?<br />I was lied to and you lied...<br />But I realize,<br /><br />I'm wired correctly.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-77252678892880507522011-04-04T22:30:00.001-07:002011-04-05T15:51:44.744-07:00A PrayerI saw you thrice tonight<br />But there was no notice,<br />No noticeable acknowledgment<br />Of me, as a human being<br />I am background<br />I am an afterthought <br />I am noise<br />I am poised <br />On the Brink of non-existence <br />But I am smiling for some reason, <br />Watching you go about your daily duties, <br />Goings and comings about,<br />Your invisible stress only visible to me.<br />I wonder what it's like to be on your side<br /><br />I am a matchbook<br />I am your mortgage<br />I am your newspaper<br />I am a candle<br />I am your prayer request<br />I am your new phone book sitting on your hopeful porch<br />I am that guy on the street<br />I am protest<br />I am enlisted<br />I am ignorant by choice<br />I am baseball and crackerjacks<br />Cracked into little decadent pieces<br />And I am your advertisement<br /><br />Where did you go that night when you walked out?<br />I was waiting.<br />For a glimpse of understanding<br />But I understand when life just feels, oh too real<br />And it's hard to breathe. <br />Breathe deep and I'll breath for you because it's simple<br />To breathe and soon ugly will disappear<br /><br />And I will be your prayer request even though you really were never here.<br /><br />For <a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/">One Shot Wednesday!</a>Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-91913119142583846502011-03-26T01:17:00.000-07:002011-03-29T16:55:11.112-07:00My HeadMy head,<br />You always live in your head she said.<br />But is it enough for you and what do you think <br />About the nonexistence of god?<br /><br />Sun-kissed sky and crazy moon on the horizon,<br />Home foreclosures and pink slips,<br />Unemployment and homelessness <br />Feels like religion. <br /><br />He held her life in his hands and gave<br />Her too much until she died in his arms<br />On the table of reprimand, and he questioned<br />His purpose and the control of a deity.<br /><br />He drank, god how he drank<br />Because what the hell else could he do when the <br />Blame was his and he had no other existential<br />Way of non-feeling?<br /><br />I felt longingly for his no-soul<br />To reach a capacity of unyielding<br />Acceptance of forgiveness and pure <br />Acceptance that he <br /><br />Could accept the fact that the universe<br />Does what she does and it's often <br />Harsh and confusing and <br />Never about you. <br /><br />He cried<br />He “messed up,” he said <br />I could have done something<br />I could have saved her<br /><br />I could have...<br />I hugged him and told him that he was human,<br />That he was human, that he was human and <br />That the burden of existence and suffering<br /><br />Is existence and to not take things too personally<br />Even when it is personal <br />And control is lost, and<br />You feel<br /><br />You feel lost.<br /><br />Humanity, humanity<br /> in a box<br /><br />It's a box filled with disappointment,<br /><br />It's a box filled with first amendment and litigious rhetoric <br /><br />It's a box filled with fear and self loathing and self doubt<br /><br />It's a box filled with love and you are loved. <br /><br />I gave him what I could that day<br />When he lost his faith and I told him about the loss of mine,<br />But not a loss of faith in him, and <br />In return he cried.<br /><br />For <a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/">One Stop Poetry</a>: Congrats on winning the Shorty Award for Art!Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-89152157747238929722011-03-20T00:00:00.000-07:002011-03-20T00:07:14.703-07:00Reminder<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IYtdcv9ZX60/TYWmzuQfWyI/AAAAAAAAAK4/h8W97lFKguk/s1600/DSC_382021.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 193px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IYtdcv9ZX60/TYWmzuQfWyI/AAAAAAAAAK4/h8W97lFKguk/s200/DSC_382021.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586054320343702306" /></a><br />Photo By James Rainsford - for One Shoot Sunday @ onestoppoetry.com<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Because of a knock on my door<br />From a stranger delivering bad news,<br />Because of necessity <br />And unwanted promises,<br />Because of failed attempts to conform<br />To normalcy, <br />Because I had no other choice than <br />To put on clean clothes and face the intimidation of corporate intimidation,<br />Because I needed help,<br /><br />Did I realize that all would be well.<br /><br />Instantly, when I began to doubt, <br />A pigeon swooped down and smacked me on the head to remind me to forget and smile. <br /><br />Laughing like a fool I sang. <br /><br />For One Shoot Sunday @ <a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/">Onestop Poetry</a>Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-39961786086164239922011-03-19T23:27:00.001-07:002011-03-19T23:29:32.058-07:00DesireComes from within, innate in nature<br />It comes from suffering and the hope of not experiencing such<br /><br />It is<br /> Overcoming and beguiling. <br /><br />It is <br /> Fear<br /><br />It is Fox News and MSNBC and Lockup<br /> Debt collector, solicitor on the phone<br /><br />It is disaster on platinum served freely and without thought, <br /><br /> Or from the concept of life after death.<br /><br />It is a one night stand.<br /><br />It is the economy, it is the shiver that reaches to the core of my bones<br />When you and your life are all too familiar for me and I speed up my gate. <br /><br />It is<br /> The pain in my body<br /><br />It is <br /> The pain in my body<br /><br />The pain in my body that is overflowing with grandiose dreams of content,<br /> <br /> <br /> Such a fool.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-82294307286004563092011-03-09T00:15:00.001-08:002011-03-09T00:30:29.897-08:00RainThe rain, oh, the rain - <br />An oxymoron, a synonym, another word<br />For sustainability and pain and <br />Inconvenience and the bearer of bad fate,<br />Ambassador of good news for someone else unknown. <br />On a park bench in the Embarcadero <br />With read and re-read copies of the Examiner<br />As intellectual property or comfort and shelter - <br />Lonnie was pissed that he had washed his belongings the night before<br />They were all soaked now and was shit out of something<br />Close to six bucks or a shower and a bed or a prayer<br />They were all worth about the same. <br /><br /><br />And I got kicked in the leg for sleeping outside of the Gap<br />By security, securing suburbia.<br /><br /><a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/">For One Shot Wednesday @onestoppoetry</a>Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-64846451638475731592011-03-06T01:25:00.000-08:002011-03-06T01:26:18.257-08:00For Jesse WasserYou did what you thought that you needed to do<br />To be a man and provide and mold.<br />Worked with wood regardless of exploitation,<br />Joined the Navy – I have a feeling that you, <br />Never really wanted to do so in the first place,<br />But machismo was validity in the heyday,<br />And you bought into it like the rest of us wanderers. <br />If only you, if only you could have, <br />If only you could have not listened so intently,<br />If only you could have realized <br />That your life was yours and yours alone, <br />If only you could have had the courage to walk away <br />Or have even an ounce of gumshoe to be more like Jack,<br />Then it might not seem so fuckin' normal. <br />I stand 'neath the tiers of success where you used to<br />And pose like you do,<br />And observe vessels and quote verbatim from words you said when you made me a sandwich with butter and I didn't like it because I thought that it was strange.<br />That's “how it's done,” you said. <br />And from that moment, I wonder about the wherewithal<br />Of my mind, and of the ocean so vast<br />Standing and smoking a cigarette on top of a rock in Carmel,<br />Saying nothing but reflecting<br />Hugging grand-kids and whispering apologies to the wind,<br />“Sorry” for being nothing other than who you are and what you could <br />Have Been.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-20551040758312660182011-02-27T22:28:00.000-08:002011-03-02T19:39:13.500-08:00GodYahweh, Tathagata, Krishna, <br /><br />I prayed to you...<br /><br />...for a run-on sentence that might hold an explanation for the existence of me because it's always about me and I want to know truthfully, in your own words but please keep it somewhat concise though as I need to tweet, and I'm almost out of Starbucks and if I don't have any more Starbucks, well, <em>you</em> are God, you know what will happen. I want to know why I am here, I want to know what my purpose is, I want to know where I am going when I die, I want to know what will happen if I don't file my taxes this year, I want to know if there is a sale going to be happening anytime soon at Macy's because <em>you</em> God, know that I could use the savings and my pants aren't quite fitting me the same as they used to. Hang on, I'm getting another call coming through here...<br /><br /><a href="http://onestoppoetry.com/">For One Shot Wednesdays at onestoppoetry.com</a>Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-88595950312502049712011-02-27T17:38:00.001-08:002011-02-27T17:38:57.077-08:00Slow SuicideShe has succumbed to slow suicide <br />And while it's conscious and contentious <br />The irony is that darkness is sustainable<br />Despite extraneous indications otherwise.<br /><br />Her hair cut short with missing patches<br />Is only mere, visible confirmation <br />That without much noticeable gray matter left<br />She knows what she is doing.<br /><br />Yelling at invisible nothings in the street, <br />Swearing under her breath to whom I fear is me<br />For not being willing to share something <br />That I do not possess. <br /><br />I can't hate her because I am her and <br />We are one, we all are.<br />Medicated by media, by desire<br />By choices made to feel nonexistence. <br /><br /> Distracted.<br /><br />Desperation and attack are sojourn<br />But worry that for others, it's simply too late.<br />A chronic itch in the eyes of the supervisors<br />Who only notice when the heater has stopped working.<br /><br />Street sheets and shelters under sheet metal <br />Swept under the door, health care budget cuts<br />And another war, it's easy to forget, hell,<br />I forgot until it happened to <br /> <br /> Me.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4279893697543576860.post-58800904783171376932011-02-22T18:13:00.000-08:002011-02-22T19:31:09.615-08:00WantI want to be a grip-man<br />Charged with navigating the cable cars<br />I'll run the Powell and Market line<br />I could be proud of that, <br />It's respectable, responsible and reasonable.<br />Or make coffee, I could make coffee...<br />I just don't want to lift things, heavy things<br /><br />A degree in intercultural communication <br />From a prestigious university<br />Should be pedigree enough...one could hope.<br />He's under-qualified, too qualified she said,<br /><em>We'll give you a call, and thank you for your time</em><br />Consistent rejection felt stirringly comfortable<br />It smelled like future.<br /><br />I want to be an artist<br />Charged with creating beauty and evoking emotion<br />I'll create murals and paint them all over the City<br />I could be proud of that,<br />It's inspiring, influential and indestructible<br />Or I could sell clothes, I could work in retail<br />I just don't want to work on commission, nothing too uncertain<br /><br />He's under-qualified, too qualified she said,<br /><em>We'll give you a call, and thank you for your time</em><br />It smelled like future<br /><br />I want to be a writer<br />Charged with telling the stories that have yet to be told<br />I'll write books, novels and poetry and sell them all over the world<br />I could be proud of that,<br />It's like breathing, heart beating and beautiful<br />Or I could pack up recycled moving blankets and move on<br />I just don't want to sleep outside any longer<br /><br />It's December-cold, my feet hurt from walking, and I stink<br />But to me it smells like hope.Don't Want A Real Jobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01379423402452855166noreply@blogger.com3