Romeo's Not Dead, (he's just grown middle-aged and unattractive )

                     Alone and employed once upon a time. Plenty of windows enveloped  the pre- noon sunlight. Broken plates and dried kebobs. A kitchen, a market, and a couple Mexicans. Skewers of bad -tips and vacant seating arrangements. Ideas of large parties never set or put together. A persian man who once resided in France with a bad temper. And I, once a young man full of passion, talent, and mystery.,, on the desolate narrow pathway to resignation, turning down all the wrong paths in the life. (I was never faced with a fork in the road, it was always a dulled plastic knife), My gathered time of misfortune and disposition had me cornered during this era. The minutes had to be broken down into seconds, the seconds had to be broken down into an unattrative ball of overwhelming faces and emotions. Do I smile?, do I laugh?, do I walk slower?, am I moving too fast? Do I dare to speak when not spoken to, and so on....
               The College kids had it all, this idea occured to me as a young boy growing up in mid-western America. The spoiled university youths waking up at noon on Saturdays with frazzled hair and Reservoir Dogs T- shirts. Listening to Peter Gabriel's Us at their own leisure. Awww, Perhaps I am being a bit too firm and rash, these weren't bad kids, after all this is the Mid-West were talking about, oh yeah,. Getting back to the point that , I was envious oh yeah. So the college kids had it all, getting sick on the Jungle juice, having intercourse (or attempting to at least), I only know from my own experiences. I attended one of these fraternity parties at  the ripe primitive age of sixteen, I think. Started off the evening well, getting good and drunk,  making little or no effort to keep this twenty-four year old moderately somewhat good-looking when your intoxicated african- american womans hands off me. As the night unfolded, I let her drive me back to her apartment. It turned into a magnificent series of educational incidents involving hand-cuffs and pre- mature evacuation,(haha), Then the little boy in me came out as I begged her to drive me home, (she insisted I was frightened because she was so much older, this couldn't of been any further from the truth).
                               Ignorance is bliss with no twists, no wrong turns or indecision. These naive well dressed natives seem to be attracted to each others closed off ways and demeanor. Just keeping their nose clean and thoughts on what's in front of them. Kids too, having kids is a good way to become selfless. I just had quite a revelation how selfish I have become in my middle-aged to elderly years, similar to The Rock Of Gibralter, I 've become morally crass, and my sad countenance has become edged in stone. ( oh such a drama queen) I apologize for taking myself too seriously.
                         I do resemble Romeo at heart. I am still a young man intentionally placing his fingertips upon the surface of the hot stove over and over again seeking that unbearable pain to fill the void that sinks deeper in my chest where there once lived fire and passion. And when the suffering becomes too much, just hold on loosely to that wheel of Karma (but don't let go), for that old wheel will roll around once more. I still love u

Loose notes on the Back to the Future Trilogy

                              Hurt people hurt people, or just everyone is hurt so people hurt people. Upon riding my little red riding hood bicycle one late- summer afternoon, I was surprisingly struck by a car and an implacable sense of nostalgia and well- being. When I awoke the year was 1955, and my mother (in her formative years) was wiping a warm cloth across my forehead. She was a very attractive woman, with chiseled feminine features including her forehead and cheekbones. Naturally I felt a tad awkward that my mother and I were in the same age spectrum and that she would quickly have the hots for me, (it was all pretty heavy), due to some unexplained gravitational pull ( you the reader in the midst of 1955 would have to travel thirty years in the future to fathom this unexplainable slang). So anyway in the midst of my desperation, wandering around my hometown thirty years before my time , I decided to go find my only friend who could help me get Back to The Future, Doc Emmitt Brown.
                                Dad was always a peculiar fellow, with a surprisingly uncanny resemblance to Crispin Glover. He was originally, genuinely to the type  of guy who went to bed early and laughed too easily at a bad joke. Little was I to know that these obervations and evaluations were not to be set in stone. For his future and my destiny were all about to change.( I don't know if you're ready for this but your kids are gonna love it). And one more thing upon leaving 1955 mom asked me, " Marty, George offered to take me home", and " Marty, that's such a nice name", ya know Puppy Dog Shit. But then I concluded with a clincher,"one more thing, if you guys ever decide to have kids, and one of them accidently sets fire to the living room rug, go easy on him.", My dad George bashfully smiled with disbelief, but my mom Elaine from that point on was to know that my dad George Mcfly was the one. 
                           Biff Tannon was always an angry confused young man, these untamed qualities also would lead to even more uneccessary obstacles later in life. For example he was a victim of lust, stupidity, envy, and domestic abuse. He also acquired an embarrassing ability to quote a dated saying wrong, just missing the punch, for example, "Hey Mcfly why Don't you make like a tree and get out of here", or "That's just about as funny as a screen door on a battleship", the young man Biff would eventually get what was coming to him, even after his brief triumph as "The Luckiest Man Alive", status he would obtain in the sequel titled, "Back to The Future Part 2",
                    Alike everything else the apocalyptic End-piece to the life -changing trilogy finishes with a hallow thud. As doctor Emmitt Brown finds true-love in a pre-Ted Danson Mary Steenburgen.

A Modern Contrast

                            Options are one thing that never goes out of style, (along with survival). I've impregnated the rose -bushes in my own hidden area, (due to an unhealthy obssession with the thorn in my side). Or perhaps I have a chocalate chip on my shoulder,( sprinkled with cherry syrup and Jimmie Hats.), my purpose and intentions in this world are not to be offensive, morbid, obtuse or unkind. I would like you to know me as a gentle soothing wave that crashes charismatically onto the beach introducing the elderly to poisonous Jelly-Fish. I have drank piss in the futlity of a southwestern desert searching for a life-line to prevent my kidneys from shutting down. I've made love in the morning after many a margarita rimmed with too much salt, ( and in short I was afraid and still am), I've pissed into the dry thirsty toilets on these same mornings the way I have drank piss to keep my kidneys from shutting down.
                             In the face of self-deception not much can be done. (except slapping yourself in the face). Whenever something was mine I never cared for it considerably. But god forbid If someone would attempt to take that thing or person from me, (In the days of hands). Moving into the final weeks of mail-in unemployment checks, I presently live a simple life for complicated poultry ( a fancy term for domesticated roosters). In this current era I have just mentioned, one is partial to middle- aged women who indulge in too much make- up and valium. I compare myself to a used retro coffee- table. I'm presentably fancy , but not neccessarily guaranteed to hold your drinks without spilling them.
                    Unlike the Days of hands, the last weeks of the days of  mail-in unemployment checks allow me to view the sun-rise from ancient eyes. With a mouth that hangs loose due to a long history of drooling and gym-socks.

Closer

                         Things calmed down slightly today, as the afternoon restlessly twitched its way through the withdrawl of the evening. And with calming down slightly, comes the realization that a little bit of acceptance couldn't really put any more of a damper on my daily routine. Today I came to terms with the fact that every day  the rest of my moderately  insignificant existence will be Sunday Afternoon, whether it's watching the cumbersome automobiles through the unwelcoming windows of my Suburban Condo, or even through the filth- ridden smeared glass of my cell in county prison.
                            Moreover, I attended a Catholic church this morning. I believe in God and Jesus, but  what stood out to me the most was the attractive adolescent brunette vocalist that lead the congregation in song. (perhaps it takes more than a day or two to pull one's unkind mind out of the gutter). I don't know for sure how old the young woman was, but it should be a sin to dress that provocative in church. I mean, this is a place where I (a sinner), come looking for soul-redemption, I am faced with enough obstacles and distractions just walking out my front door in the morning.         
                        I know what it is to be institutionalized, I am familar with sleeping sixteen hours a day. I have felt myself gradually sinking into the bottomless sea of sorrow for a very long time now. The more closer I have grown to the unmistakable bittersweetness of the big sleep. Although I must admit my experience has unfortunately not denied me of any knowledge or education with these greater matters. There is an art to the big sleep, it has to be earned, if one commits his/her self too soon there shall be an even greater self-inflicted hell created fot that individual. There are certain tools that can be obtained, I do apologize- it is not in my nature to teach you these tools, I haven't been blessed as a teacher.
                               Children, what about them? And what to make of them? We shall teach them that masturbation, drugs, and lust are very sinister and wicked things at a very premature age. These are things not to be toyed with. Once a child has it in his/her mind that any of these impulsive vices are okay, their experimentation shall then progress throughout their teenage years with chronic marijuana abuse. They will  start taking pot. A couple marijuana cigarettes here and there, then before you know it  their twenty-first birthday rolls around then comes king alcohol with its gift-sack filled with DUI's, STD's , heartburn and promiscuis intercourse. Not to mention the turmoil and confusion that Meth- Amphetamines can bring to ones sexual preference.               
                                     In conclusion I will ask you the reader to close your eyes and imagine an infant puppy dog (with it's tongue), helplessy clinging to the teet of it's adopted mother.

(Fiction), Themes from the oppressed mind of an Adult Alcoholic.

                                 Don't worry or sweat it for real and absolutely. Nothing is changing. And all of this you are currently feeling, oh come on it isn't real. Emotions? Who needs them because I certainly do not. Oh but I love you. We can spend some time together and compleetely keep to ourselves. Pay no mind however because everything matters. And don't be so selfish help me carry these things for myself. And here you again, ugh. You need to talk? I can't be your therapist. First start by paying me, driving me around, and dealing with my bullshit everyday......Then we'll talk.
                                The sultry Summer humidity cut my sobriety and life with a knife as the evening hours preceded into oblivion. And all the little things, the pink ribbons and library cards,.WELL THROW THEM ONTO THE FIRE. These pleasant minute things have resigned their existence to the demons that supposively presented themselves that night. Oh but what to make of the mentally ill? Perhaps it must hit close to home before empathy can be practiced. But have I forgotten? There is that one who has all power (may I find him now).  I've only been soul searching my whole life, I haven't just rested (bottle in hand) upon my laurels. Only to be seldomly reminded by holy glimpses placed upon my sub-conscious in the normalcy of my self- created desperation. One more thing before you leave, how 'bout a kiss I appreciate one while I' not getting Fucked.
                               With every year that crept through the dim narrow eye of my empty existence, the less relief I have to work with. Here I am at year 31, and I've never felt more alone. How I long for the freedom felt in the careless days of my youth. I believe in love. What scares me is that presently I need people more then ever. Even the wisest of the wise and the most spiritually grounded claim that god works most intimately through people. So leave me where I am, all I am is exactly where you found me, and where I was before.

In the days of Keith

                                       Beans and rice, where there are and were sweaty immigrants. There are a few interesting ways to make a buck, (this is not true), one with too much time on their hands says so.
                              The days of puppy dogs and sherbet have permanently left a sugar stain on my dusty flannel. The days of laundry do not exist to me either. And was anything ever worth it? In the days of war we had a reason to live. Darkness must be combatted with even darker oppressors. Kind of like in the Lord of The Rings trilogy, (actually this is not true either). The truth is to be left out in the days of Keith.
                                Waking up in Suburbia for a change this morning I was slapped in the face with a brutal inconvenient reasoning. Logic hung it's weightless silhouette in the corner of the room. The blinds were drawn. A pull- out bed that I awoke on shifted restlessly beneath me. The birds mechanically twirping outside my window seemed not really angry, but just disappointed. Nothing changes outside the womb., Where as nothing changes in the thick of the action.
                               What is in store for the rebellious soul? True repentance, I may not put a price on. Soul redemption comes the closest to me in artificial flavoring. Third world country parents do not even consider why it would be damaging to place handfulls of detergent in their childrens fruity pebbles, they just do it. Something can be learned from all of this.              
                                  Digressing now beyond the bitter filth, cofee grinds, and sticky contraceptives. We shall briefly place our ring- finger on the touch- screen of romance. One does not shit into a toilet in this realm, One only gently drops a few love droppings into a porcelain bowl. I may even venture towards a bodet in my Solitary years. But for romance there takes two of us, or more likely two of you. I have resigned my romantic longings to long walks in my new suburban neighborhood with my 4-year old past-abused one-eyed male dog that I have named Sarah. A biblical name I might add. We are huge Al Gore fans and do not believe in motorized vehicles. We are both Alcoholics on the other hand and need serious help but here is the bigger picture for you, WE DO NOT DRIVE CARS!, oh! here is all the difference in the world for you! Your grandchildren will be able to eat bananas after they are brown and mushy and have already begun the fruit-fly infestation.
                               Love, oh to  be loved. It is not everything. True it is definitely a thing. ,

Passionless, (impending doom)

                  In the beginning there was light, in the end let there be peace. Presently, emotionally i shall bear with nothing. A life has taken violent twists and turns. Grinding my vulnerable flesh into the tired bone. Take me to where the seasons change and where the air is dry. I've cried like a man who has lost everything, ( only in the morning, afternoon, evening, and occasionally at dusk). I've drank from the fountain of death, to me momentarily the taste is all too much appealing.
                   When I was young sometimes I would grow restless on a Sunday afternoon. During nap-time I would gaze onto the sleepy city street. Everything was much more simple then, perhaps only it seemed that way. Do I know too much now?, or too little then?, I wish I didn't know anything. The truth is that I got the dive bar blues. Along with sorrow of a homeless man. I shall wear white t-shirts and walk around the same block everyday. Growing more and more envious as the years pile. Perhaps attending a funeral or two. This is the time of reckoning. Destruction  has found me and won't abandon me.
                        Leave me alone with the pigeons. I live on the bread the worthy toss them. In a dream I have more then I will ever lose in reality. Open the door god, pull the plug . I've loved and I've lost, And you only know that I've felt and suffered enough. Wake me onto the lifeless horizon. Passion has no role in my life anymore.