As They Say, "Everyone is Someone in Hollywood."

Waking up on the other side of the country feels different.

It smells different; it tastes different; it looks different.

Enlightening is the word that comes to mind.

The only unsettling thing is this new nomadic lifestyle:

Waking up in a new hotel room everyday

Writing on notepads, hiding letters to future wanderers

Living out of weekly suitcases and travel bags

Continental breakfasts and squeaky elevator doors

Dry heat and mountainous nose bleeds

I record voice memos just to remind myself that I have a voice

I touch the street corners off of Sunset blvd. just to feel something

And it's fun to pretend that we spent time here once, alone

In a time long ago before it was overcrowded with binoculars, maps, and overgrown sunglasses

That we had our own places, you and I

We were regulars at the Coffee Bean off of Argyle Avenue

That the clerks at the Grove knew us by name

We were one, and we shed all, if any, discomforts down Fairfax

And, as it was in their nature, the crowds would smile

As if they knew that it was some kind of celebrity crush

But the hotel sheets aren't as soft as I remember

The company a bit bleak and lyrics a bit dim

And it's hard to duck under mirrors everyday

Without anyone getting a little suspicious

As I begin to scream your name throughout the canyons,

And whistle your songs in every crevice of this place,

I'll live everyday by your voice and your aching presence

That seems to surround every pulsing muscle wrapped around my shaking bones

It isn't your fault that your needs weren't met here on the west coast

But it won't stop me from recreating you on every mountainside.

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As If the Heavens Opened For Only A Second Leaving Me Breathless and At Peace

I want you to know, my beautiful angel-

That your wings are so sweet and delicate.

I've seen many feathered surfaces and yours, my dear, are by far the fairest.

The boys, they taunt you because you aren't too normal

One day you shed your rough skin of scales

For that of gold and purity

And I commend you for this, my Seraphim

Because you have saved me when in thorn

Crawling through the darkest of sands and desperation

Lifting me up with soft pillowy hands

And placing me on the highest of mountains

Surrounded by the comfort of trees of security

And you sprinkled your modesty upon my body

Kissing my neck with transparent lips of dancing delight

You picked me up and dusted me off with a blissful blow

And although I cannot see your face, as you glow light a crack of lighting

I rather be blind and see those eyes

As I know that saving grace originates behind your lids

And love is the explosions between your fingertips.

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Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

My parents once told me something..

But I soon forgot, so I had to create my own rules, morals, and all things thereafter.

It's fine, though, because I remember that "people" consist of "persons" and that makes me one person in the midst of millions with a mind, with a wallet, and a cluttered calendar.

And if I conjured up one decent thing in that jumbled mess upon my tired shoulders, it's that it's better to see things in the mirror, or better yet, as a casted shadow; the skeletons of the things themselves seem a bit better/clearer. Why? Why not. Look at things from the inside out - what are the elements, how do you create, where is the core?..?

In the grand scheme of things, I'm me and you are you and you don't know you without me so these are matters that coagulate behind my aching brow and I've yet to swallow this vial of empty bitter pills.

I've driven safely and cautiously down this road of life/living/chaos, but no pre-production for such a trip will keep you from swerving straight into the brushes and cacti-ridden medians that seem to explode along the way and lunge thorny bodies into awaiting travelers.

And it's not the sun, mind you. The skin is like black market leather, draped across a candy apple Chevy with the hopes of better scenery.

I blame the nonsense of the government and wading in the tides of a collapsing economical infrastructure. Riding the coattails of the guilty, I am, and my suit is dirty and I clean it with tears of those aching hands of carpal tunnel clicks and types and sweaty palms bearing the signs of the coming storm.

And I blame, whimper, lick my paws, and I believe I represent you, let alone the world, when I say that outside screams the soundtrack of a cash register, phone chatter, and the turning and growling of a multitude of empty stomachs.

For years I've been trying to produce essays, books, notes, papers without using the world "I". Needless to say, it's impossible (for me). But at 11:11 I'll pray for things to be different. I juggle with the thought that maybe the amount of words is more important than the content.

I begin to see that my fingers are chicken-pecking rabble.

It's lonely in between bookends, mind you.

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A fissure began and it swallowed the world.

I remember specifically when my legs gave way and I promise you I reached out my hand so you wouldn't follow--

I don't know if you know yourself quite well, but you don't do well in pressure

But we ran as fast as we could while buildings gave way and glass showered our feet

We were cornered with low throaty growls of shifting earth

Towers of banged and blown-through buildings and you always said you wanted to live in the bustle and hustle of downtown

It looks a little different now, as volcanic ash engulfs the coffee shops and opera houses

It's just like you to wear high heals in the midst of chaos and destruction

But I've learned not to judge you, even when your cooking was not up to par

You would always make up for it with puppy eyes and pouty lips

I stop and see the courthouse up ahead, rising like a behemoth of architectural brilliance, and just the same, crashing down like a tsunami wave and blistering the beachside with angry pummeling and persistent hammering

In the face of the end of the world, it's beautiful to see everything we've created destroyed faster than we erected it--

That's when I lost you.

In the midst of such terrifying display, you slipped away into the rubble and I searched

and I searched for you but you never wanted to be found.

This was the fissure that swallowed the world and you were my world and are only now synonymous with carnage and things brutal.

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They are not the same place.

It is passion that has brought me here.

/It is patience that has kept me here.

//It is being unstable that has kept my eyes (and heart) remained on y o u.

My thoughts are flooded with vulgarity and spite at the very thought of it. It's not the mere fact that you've moved on; it isn't even the fact that of all people, it is him;

It's because I'm selfish/unrealistic/ignorant and the fleeting thought that I had real estate in all of this.

You were never good at standing still. But what should I expect: you're a woman.

It's ironic. I've always found you to be dependable and at the same time a bit dependent. You don't even know yourself without someone else - tagged along on your arm, in your mind, on your bed.

It's rant; It's rambling; It's whatever you hear that you let f>a>l>l at your feet because you despise my voice and the thought of the word-------

us.

As if instead of turning you on it turns your stomach and turns you away from me to a turn straight to him, and hell --whoever he is isn't me and it turns me off;

And as stubborn as I am, I see him in a burning car, in a crashing plane, a ticking bomb to his chest

-But it's too realistic-

Because I rather the magic, a transformation, a change of heart that could miraculously make you look back and see how much you have it wrong; (insert sneer here) Because I pretend you're unhappy when I know you smile just like you did when we (made love (or whatever it was))

All men have the capacity to tear your heart to shreds, babe. - but why couldn't it of been me?

Oh, let's take for instance the distance. Let's take into context the sex

Let's burden ourselves with concern and please excuse the excuses

Because we all live by the cycle and although we have heard the words before, we refuse not to repeat them, but for the sake:

-We met at the wrong time..

-We met in the wrong place..

-It wasn't you, it was me-and-you..

-I love you, but I'm not in love with you because I'm in love with him, or I'm in love with the fact that he isn't you, or he loves me, or he's just a band-aid over a scar that you would've given to me if we would've just remained in a perfect romance with blushes upon our cheeks and parks and plays and beaches and crazy after-hair and .. and ... and .... and ...

And even my speech is ridden with foul punctuation and insane banter about a woman that only existed to me and you can tell that I've been chasing my tail for the past few hours with this new knowledge that has been thrown upon me.

Seeing you move on is like not seeing at all.

It's like looking through a telescope that is out of focus. Everything is closer but it is just out of place, and in this case, out of mind. The back burner was never a place I was used to. Without you was never a place I expected.

But there you are. And here I am.

And for once, they are not the same place.

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Here I am in the middle of a monsoon.

It's been raining for 5 straight days, but it's the best of what Orlando has to offer. I'm promised to be drenched no matter what I do, no matter where I go. I am able to use it as a natural cooling system. But quiet frankly, I'm over it.

Before the red decide to stain the radar, I was sitting at a little quaint restaurant on Lake Eola, a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in hand, and the pages of Charles Bukowski placed nicely on my lap. Swan boats stayed afloat in my peripheral, and I was, for once, at peace. But as soon as I arrived, I had to leave. A parking meter stands in the way of lasting happiness, and unluckily for me, I don't keep coins on hand.

As soon as the floods leave I can be dry. As soon as I'm dry I can think straight once again. But until then, I will complain about the inconvenience. I need the peace.

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Meaning of Life

I asked a man the other day what he thought was the meaning of life.

He stood confident and prepared. After inhaling and tossing a sideways grin, he answered in a soft and grizzly voice:

"Most people believe that the key to happiness is of clean virtues, that the only way to attain complete satisfaction is by success and reaching ultimate goals. I bid you, my fellow student, to stray from such believe and listen closely. Do not believe such ignorance. The path to happiness is in fact irrelevant. To repeat, the path to happiness is not a golden road. It isn't paved in good intentions with pretty smiles and perfect teeth. In fact, the path is sometimes not perceived as even a path at all. However you obtain your happiness is your business. But I'll tell you, my friend, if you dwell in what keeps you happy, no matter what it truly is, then indeed you have entered into the best of feelings, into the best of times, and into the best of what life has to truly offer. Even if you grin through dirty and tattered clothing, laugh behind houses of trash, you aren't what you wear. Hold yourself in high regard. Forget what they tell you. Your roads or lack there of are full of nails, glass, shattered things. But you don't have to be made of such fragile elements. Your path to happiness is irrelevant. As long as your conclusions achieve you joy."

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