cigarettes and opportunities

static particles

this goes out to all my bum fucks
post grads with all the talent but no luck
working to jobs just so we can keep ducking
them bills, saving up for some cheap thrills
but my moneys in the bank still
so i can spend it on my saturn
and we used to go by the name lantern
friends forever
artists are better
because we stick round
for all that bad weather
and we experience
this experiment
live by the thrift broooil
outdoorsmen niche
no response
just battered only ever underweight
like a disaster
the paint stays splattered
because art is just art
it's not smart like you're bladder
and the worlds fatter then me
afford the super size
with two sides
and you're still blue right?
because happiness never gets too stick
around for the food fight

bitter like a radio transmitter
during dinner
because you were a so so winner
you're the difference between a heavy binder
and a reform sinner
now your off in the distance
picking pockets, sucking odd dick
behind the laundrymat's kids
but back to business
you can't act weak
behind your egotistical innocense
bend the fender
and i'm just trying to keep ripe like bananas
yellow in a blender
smooth too smooth us over
but the dirt was just too rich for our land rover
now just sand over
because i can't do these bars over
at my own apartment
that last place we almost got charged with arson
and i'll never hit the target



bored like a bored
i am too sure
to be investing in ore
yah poor?
what to expect
yeah i'm poor
and no i can't get blown
i need to stay responsible
so i can pay back my student loans
supposed to be a writer
but i walk to what i love
like a hiker
and use my own energy
like a biker
none of us were supposed to end
up like this
and i smoke between the breaks
between both my shifts
because i just want to kick it
fuck sleep
i'm still dreaming about
all my wishes
and trying to come up with my
life's wish list
is implicit
yah gifted
get back to the end of line
where all the grown kids is

Daedra Got Dick'd

Soundtrack to Daedra Wants Dick (the tele-pod.)  For anyone that likes Glitch porn, has a fetish for Techno, and who also loves sexy Piano love ballads.

http://staticparticles.bandcamp.com/album/daedra-got-dickd

Wind from Transience

The wind forces us to face these uphill battles.
These simple choices held above our collective heads
like ideas we never got to say out loud.

View it as an accolade, so many notches
on a black leather belt, before so many
piss you away for leaving.

Trying was an understatement.
Not so much could be said about your all
because we all have faced that giant
and we all had to lose at the same time.

Sex isn't fair
because it's always on the table.
Now it's stripped away like that rust
on your car you were made to pay for.

And the loser is the one that gets out last.
They can't see it coming, they lay
in a naked fetal position hoping the world
could be resolved again.

Then it's all fruit fall and over hauls.
The days are long like flag poles.
The direction is only straight
but the travel is pushing down
where growth is uncertain
and the rays are broken.

Before the decisions can alter
a vision, the feeling of defeat
already has preyed
on the level of horizons.
Nothing brings pain
easier then betrayal.

The separation of wood and space
ends up with splinters.
Trying to crash on top doesn't
comfort just burns the feelings
at the end of each nerve.

And each sacrifice to freedom
only ended up being to survive
in between the four seasons.

All this free time masked
by the economies cascade
and the faces, once sad,
weren't made.

Together, only alone
living on a crowded road
on the perimeter of a community
threatened by extinction
when our own hands and eyes
turned towards a projection
of ourselves.

But some of us are still here,
waiting like a child ready to be picked up
after a long day
at a place we never wanted to be
but forced upon through
aqueducts and rice water.

Cold statues touching the
burnt edges of novelty pages.
In a grey crypt
even if it was a stale chick.

Underneath cherry pits
and thin less tits
an insidious gift
by a music player with
Big B playing that Great Ol' Twist.

The Truck Driver Parable

The driver pulled away from Humphert's garage with ease.
This was easy, he thought.
He pulled off onto an inter state and went off.
His truck, white to the wheel wells, handled well.
Cars passed, families focused on the road ahead of them all.
John just drove, shifting up and down but mostly just long, unfiltered, driving.
While the car passing him had a wife and husband laughing, John just had his CB radio collecting dust.
They passed without even looking over.
The road eventually turned into a highway.
The towns of hotels and gas stations passed by, each stop progressing the trip.

The states easily began to blur.
The grass is beginning to burn the farther John goes South.
The travelers pass faster.
The roads become wider, the drive easier, but John is still at the wheel.
Shift, brake, gas, shift, pass, check mirrors, look at cars passing, check gps, sleep.
Radio kept playing the same old songs.
The speakers cracked while riding over overpasses and construction sites with no workers.
It was winter where the snow was patchy and the geese stayed in the man made lakes of yesteryear.

The white mixed with the blue to create a foggy tapestry to stare at.
Over the horizon was nothing but the continuation of this one road.
John began to scratch at his right thigh.
His truck passed over an over pass.
He saw rivers as he went over bridges.
He witnessed the state borders blend into one another.
Homes off in the farm lands where the new barn was placed next to the old one that fell under gravity.

But the half way point began to fade behind John.
It was back in Pepsicola.  A few hours behind John now. About a hundred stops.
Miles and miles that were too hard to keep track.
Construction zones.  City mergers.  Cop cars and slow drivers sleeping at the wheel
when our sun was still so out.

The night began to fade in.
All the landscape turned grey beneath his truck.
The only way to see a sign is from maybe
shifting your eyes into the right alignment
and read the exit signs with those stupid little lights
they pass and each one makes John seem agitated.

In the dark the cars drive faster, the stranger're stranger.
The yellow lights spaced out look lost.
John thinks to turn here.
And he goes for it.
Just to make sure, he thought twice.

The parking was the hardest part.
backing in for the first time.
slow, simple, gentle
it was easy.
It was all too easy.


#2
It was the same trip.
Long roads measured by thumbs on a wall map.
each road shifted to fit in a tetris box
like a sand clock.

The trees would change.
leafs would grow green
then turn yellow
and then fall
to the ground.
rain to heat to wind.
Snow came and went to ice.

John was thinking of scaling as a freelancer.
The truck was his.
And he could invest in himself.
It was just one three day trip a week.
Money floated in.

It didn't come all free.
It had to come to him but he was a step ahead.
Before, in the dark age, taking a trip was always a job.
A sattellite turns it into a chore.
Follow the directions until ending.
Reverse.  Repeat.

Watch the surroundings.  These white lines can hold the road together.
Look through the mirrors
and notice the cars that are following this truck.
Getting ahead of him to arrive earlier.
Get passed and take longer.
Travel in the space of another
only separated by moments of wind
between air and metal.

The grey road began to close in around the Truck
it hardly ever widened and it's growth stagnant
to the surrounding gas station towns.
The space was becoming a much closer world
to the transportation vessels.

The travel still lasted as long.
The roads the same
and the moments still dull
all occurred on the reoccurring days
when the truck needed to drop
a box off.

#3
Then the truck became nothing.  This simple gesture of
convenience and money.
Responsible to bring this from here to there.
John was just parading around paraphernalia
like the next vendor.
But the truck was discrete.  It was just white,
carrying something, and each driver
that drives by tries to solve the mystery too.

No one ever approached John about it.
Just medicine he would tell himself
as he gripped the steering wheel
with one hand and put the other out the window.

The towns were all curious.  Here was this trucker
trucking past them all all the time.
It's like the prairie dogs look in a pack as a fox
is running by.
And this fox has jeans on metaphorically.
But the truck was hooked up with cameras.
The cameras told the truck who nodded with certainty
where the environment was.
The truck loses his blindness.
The truck now follows the directions.

The travel is an event to watch.
John observes the road around him
and only needs to manipulate the truck
if it translates the environment incorrectly.
The chances of John adjusting controls
before a camera is pitiful.

John just went to thinking
as the surroundings around him blared past
him in consistency.
This was just an obligation.
All he had to do was stay in the white truck
and supervise.
But John wasn't fulfilled.

Each time he parked, to pick up or to
drop off was another notch.
The camera's being able to sync
past user data to set history to the Truck's travel
only obliterated any human existence.
John was just a body
with eyes
that engineered this simplicity.

Each trip got him closer and nearer
to answering his thoughts.
A future is in the next word, the next dotted line,
the next breath, but is the moment after
actually change.
John just wanted to be John, not a body
holding down a truck, to drop a package off.

In the city

In an urban square
where the soil is the cement
and the statues are the trees.
where the faces stare beyond
the horizon.

As kids we would use them as boundaries.
As teenagers we would look through them.
As adults we read the inscriptions like our parents obituaries.

Around a brick corner
there are only stop signs and old folk
where they still shop at bodegas
and use their crutch for elevation
because The Dead Wind is still down there.

The buildings don't have faces
and no one owns the yard in front.
Your room mates don't remember
your name and she doesn't look the same
with your new beard and her dyed hair.

You tried to sound out any name
starting with E
but you ended up just saying "E!".

This is how the alphabet murders.
Letters too close like our home in the city.
Uniquity silenced by dissipating smog
when familiarity is only one word
in one spot.

Communication is limited and timid
since all passengers are on the go.
It's one, decisive ride
where you culturally begin
to clump like mussels
and you're not only a genre
but also plenty of jokes
and we all act like it's fine
but you just said it right to his face
and you never even leave.

leafs are perpetually wet
hanging out by the gutters.

Just Look Back

http://staticparticles.bandcamp.com/track/just-look-back

My Personal Personalities

Here is a photo album of most of my artwork.  This includes medium from canvas, to printer paper, to numerous journals. My Personal Personalities
Also it's my facebook page too.