Just be happy
Your life is great. What do you have to be sad about?
Nothing.
But it's not about being sad about something, but rather not being able to be happy about anything.
I'm in a bad place. I know it. But right now, there is no way out. So this is it.
This is where I will be.
So if you need me, I'll be here.
Ode to a blue 2002 Saab 9-5
In the realm of words, let me paint a scene,
A tale of steel and wind, a poet's dream.
A blue 2002 Saab 9-5, a beauty so rare,
With curves and lines that effortlessly declare.
Its body, a canvas of cobalt hue,
Glistening under the sun, a vibrant blue.
A machine of elegance, a work of art,
A symbol of freedom, a poet's heart.
From its sleek headlights to the chrome-adorned grille,
This car exudes a charm that's hard to conceal.
Its wheels, like celestial orbs, in perfect rotation,
Guiding the car on its noble expedition.
Inside, a sanctuary of plush leather seats,
Welcoming passengers with comfort and treats.
A symphony of buttons, dials, and controls,
Inviting exploration, stirring the soul.
The engine roars to life with a thunderous growl,
As if urging the driver to surrender control.
With each twist of the key, a surge of power,
Unleashing the spirit of this majestic tower.
On the open road, it gracefully glides,
A companion through life's tumultuous tides.
Wind rushing through windows, a sweet serenade,
As the car dances, an elegant escapade.
Through city streets and winding country lanes,
The blue Saab carries dreams, erasing all pains.
In the rearview mirror, memories unfold,
As miles unravel, stories to be told.
A testament to time, this vintage delight,
A symbol of endurance, a steadfast knight.
For in the heart of this blue 2002 Saab 9-5,
Lies the spirit of adventure, forever alive.
So let us raise a toast to this car so grand,
A poem for the ages, crafted by my hand.
May it continue to roam, forever free,
A blue 2002 Saab 9-5, eternally a part of Keith.
Bend Over
The Big Man tries my ass and thighs.
"Wait," I cry, "don’t you see the alternatives,
my elephantine friend who knows no palates,
denounces downward sitting dog! Eat her!
The taste of fermenting lipids inside
flapping arms is sweet and smooth
like the cream of an Oreo cookie;
she will cluck and simmer, make-like preserves,
help you through the winter—
we are all suffering from seasonal depression disorder
you know!"
I have known this abundant ripeness
and will marinade the others in time, but
it is you we want for you have thought too loud.
Bend over.
How are you? Fine
how are you?
fine..
imagine if people answered honestly..
actually i'm in the midst of an existential crisis
my athlete's foot is killing me
i'm suffering acute heartbreak
i'm fine..
doing the dance of courtesy, oiling the wheels of social interaction.
like when you're with someone, or trying to be..there are always so many unsaid things..why is i love you such a major vulnerability point..
rhetorical..low flying lo-fi low key despair
too much time inside my own mind..
i'm just a slow emotion replay of somebody i used to be.. [the the]
busy with a little woodworking gig for someone ... the mind's restfully involved in minuscule things.
escaping the office on wed for the day..going up the coast, hoping to see palm nut vultures.
i'm fine.
i think it's just ... as much as i honor my scars, sometimes i miss the blood.
thanks for the visit, Guest. no, it's cool if it's a stealth visit..i do plenty of those myself. i mean, i try to at least say hi in the comments when i'm clicking my merry way through the cosmos of the internet, but sometimes my access is slow, or it's a blog that on first impressions, i can't imagine going back to. or i'm just feeling quiet for a change. or something. so - my ego will survive your silence.
interaction is a huge and essential part of this whole blog thang, but there's a part of it that's just me talking to me and then listening for the echoes but therapeutic release breeds dopamine hits.
let me tell you about texas radio and the big beat..
no not really, it's just the rhythm in the words...still groovin' on lizardpoetry.
i am the lizard king i can do
an
y
thing..
words feel like drops of mercury in the palm of my hand. i want to drown in them, instead of sitting here, doing this ... and yeh i know the answer to that one:- WRITE.
and out of the blue come a timely ism to prompt me to do exactly that. *cracks knuckles threateningly*
spent time perusing rogue town - good stuff there ... i esp liked the DOS prompt graphic hehe very witty.
so Guest - who's your favorite provider of pickle-flavored chips?
We are the crazy ones
(Originally written May 14, 2004)
We are the crazy
Ones
The weird ones, the ones
Who don't care
Because we'll never remember
It anyway
We are the ones who scream
Because we're happy
We're the ones who laugh so
Hard we cry and clutch our sides
We are the eccentric
Ones
The essential ones, the people
who's hat you stare at because
It has a real crown of fangs on
The brim
We are you and anyone but you
We are the lying truth and
The painful comfort that keeps you
Up at night
We are the artists, the singers, the dancers
that have branded your brain
With our originality
We are the wild
Ones
The free ones, the ones who are
Just this side of crazy and flaunt it
Oh so proudly and sing it at
Midnight
We are the travelers, the homebodies
We are anyone and everyone
Hello
Have you seen my plaid platypus?
Identity Crisis to the 3rd Degree
she's yearning for that free road
and she hasn't set foot yet
but someday in her old age
she'll look back at her youth
and realize that what everyone else said
about childhood was so untrue
because all they cared about were
material things and superficial experiences
that didn't mean anything besides the purity
of the moments.
and she's thirsty for that highway path
and her tank's half full half empty
but she doesn't floor the pedal just yet
because she knows the tumbleweeds dent metal
and she's unsure where the strip leads anyway
so she won't go until the signal flares its
"you're allowed to live" digits.
and she's longing for the open thoroughfare
where thoroughness speaks for itself
and borderline personalities blend into one another
but remain clear as the orange-red star setting
over the mere mirror of sheet glass
projects rays that travel at infinite mass
and instance pauses in mid-motion
and she finally sees through her now
transparent identity.
Distorted Distopia Delivers
The room was swirling with kaleidoscope colors,
the walls shifting and liquid-like as I walked through the door.
The walls were alive with vibrant hues of blues,
greens
and purples,
each blending into the next.
The air seemed to buzz and vibrate,
the floor shifting and undulating beneath me.
I felt my consciousness expanding,
my perception of reality melting away
as I breathed in the psychedelic atmosphere.
Everything around me felt surreal and dream-like,
as if I had stepped into a new realm of existence.
Emotions Aren't Reality
I see emotions and shit in my body. Like i
imagine them as these little foggy demons trying to take over me.
like smoking weed or stuff back in the day. drunkenness. i
can imagine them and like a battle goes on in my head to control
them. it's like my brain is me walking around in a cave or a big
house and im fighting them. i can control them if i
concentrate. like hiccups or sneezes. if i breathe right i
can control them. i try to use 100% of my brain when i am alone
like trying to move shit and things like that. trying to figure
out things about me. i dunno.
I wonder a lot about fantasy an realilty, and what seperates them. I
have stayed up many nights and wondered why as a children you here
dreams and fantasies of the world, and then when you go older they say
that they are false and not true. Well there did the stories come from,
not just one person but it many over the world and though out time. So
what is fantasy?...
There are a thousands of reailties,
belonging to very different people over different times.
Each reality a piece to a puzzle that has never found an end.
But if you put the pieces together and
stand back look at the whole picture not each piece,
then what do you see?
You see a fantasy.
Every piece reailty working into it
making something different everytime.
The world is a fantasy ever changing
moving you only need to take that step back
look for the fantasy in your reality.
hey, God
Hey. God.
What the heck, Man? With a capital M.
What’s up?
I can’t say I’m in a position to appreciate Your handiwork, capital Y, at the moment.
Of course, I’ve always been an advocate for the direct approach.
I have you to thank for that.
This isn’t about faith, I’m not calling into question your existence,
I’m just not 100% on your M.O.
People compare you to a Father. A Teacher. A Friend. Okay.
Dad, you never call. You never write.
I’d rather have a chat than leave a message on your machine, capisce?
I’m not questioning the quality of your works, either.
But the artist usually strolls through his own gallery, yah?
A Teacher: Okay. Where are our grades? Goodness knows there’ve been enough tests.
Rather than have You teach us, again capital Y
We have ministers of a hundred different faiths telling us different things, all insisting they’re the ones that are right.
I don’t like one-sided relationships. It’s too convenient for the absentee.
Especially You! Capital Y. You get to take credit and receive thanks for all the good things that happen to us.
But we get poo-pooed for handing you the blame under similar circumstances. Sure.
I’m not angry. I’m not desperate. But I still want answers.
And I think I’m entitled to them.
You may want to talk to your PR department. “The Lord works in mysterious ways” doesn’t cut it. Not by a long shot.
You create us in your image. It’s been argued that the shape of a thing dictates its behavior. Okay.
We god-shaped mortals would like a talk.
Am I therefore entitled to work in mysterious ways, too?
You know, come across like a jerk with a superiority complex that never
shows his face, yet expects praise for the smallest of his so-called
tangible gifts?
You’re family. You made everyone I know, and everyone I don’t.
But if you were a family member, someone we knew who never came out of
his room, or took visitors, we’d be worried to start, get angry, and
eventually turn to ignoring you in return.
But! Aha! But!
You’re God. To question Your acts or lack of same is to dance with Blasphemy.