Unfinished

I know my death is inevitable but it some ways it seems as if I might be able to postpone it, indefinitely, if I never complete anything. My life is a cluttered mess of unfinished stories, songs, and one-quarter-of-the-page-left relationships—everything dangling by an unfinished thread. Closure terrifies me.
Even this piece, this short companion piece to my life, I struggle over. Which word might finish this before I’m aware enough to stop it? Which thought will complete the communication, seal the deal with the reader, and end our discourse. I force myself to continue. Ever so often, I look up and weakly smile at the Indian businessman to my right. He can see the concern on my face and returns my troubled pleasantry in a polite way—I take a half glance at him and then turn away, leaving him with an uncompleted return smile. I won’t end it with him, and I won’t end it with

Departure

It’s hard to leave. I have to pull away from my body just to drive down the street. And yet, I dream of other places and my house wraps python tight around my chest if I stay there too long. I read a story once of a man who split in two—he became a traveler, and a teacher. The traveler ran to the stars, the teacher stayed wooden desk rooted to the earth. Sometimes I wish I were that man. I would send myself out to be a pirate. I would slash and burn, grog bury myself in the worst ports on earth and I would be an animal—a vicious rogue of the seas that attacked the land locked like a drunken typhoon. But I would also be a lover, a father, and an asset to those that live around me. I would plant and grow. I would create and shape a world of peace that at random times my other self could come ashore and destroy.

The Unclarity of Fought

I need better words, words that mean exactly what they say they are. For instance,I've told you to "fuck-off," in play, and I've said "goodbye," as you were heading out the door to the market, but I could have used both of those words at other times, times that weren't so fun. Maybe it's my fault, maybe I should reserve certain words for the exact moment and situation that I need them for,and just maybe I will keep the word I use for you, such as your name, separate from the word I use for a certain body part of yours that I at times enjoy.

Okay then...

It's simple really, destroying self so you can start a new life in the same body. Ask anybody, I'm sure they can share the secret of regeneration with you.

A Fall Day in Spring

Whether it's the grey misty morning, or the remnants of smoke-drifting beach fires following me down the highway, the air and the day, is definitely a time of Fall that mistakenly, or on purpose, stumbled into Spring. And I welcome it, the slow introduction to winter has always been my favorite, a time for meditation and walks alone, a time for healthy solitude. I plan on drifting towards the pier this morning, sitting alone on one of the cold cement benches that have been graciously planted there for this sort of thing, and I will reach down into the house of the spirit and pull forth whatever it offers me....

Country Rock Damage and Another Day

So, I've been listening obsessively to 'Hot Burrito #2' and I still hate Country Rock, but I love the melody to this song and nothing I've heard (including Dinosaur Jr's awful hipster rendition) comes close to how beautiful the original is. On another note, I'm on day three without sugar and I felt great this morning. I'm finally starting to really dig what the black militants have been saying for years, "Fuck the White Devil!"