Coatlicue

The swollen globe that was her belly
peeked through a skirt of snakes.
Her children rushed to stop their
Brother from breaking the womb of their
Creator. The jealous dagger they
held to silence their mother would
be used on them, burning through
their stone skin with the vengeful flame of
a brother’s birthright. The last
sisters' head was flung into a sky
draped with weeping clouds. When
he saw himself reflected in the colorless
orb that now swung low over the oceans,
he threw his fiery glare at the Earth,
rendering the ground sterile and lifeless.

Today is a special day

Really, it is.

Today is the first day that I haven't smoked marijuana in over ninety days. This is not a big deal to anyone but me, it seems. 

I wasn't sure if marijuana was the kind of drug that can be abused, but it can be. Thankfully, the only major thing it affected was my active listening skills. If it seemed like I was strung-out, it's because I was. 

Pun time: The smoke has cleared.

I also read a book today for the first time in over ninety days. This worried me more than the pot. 

The book was called "August: Osage County". It was a family-study play. Very good. Unique, but not outlandish. B+

Being back home has slowed life down. It's a good time to take a sober moment of reflection.

It's also Thanksgiving. That means something to many Americans and many turkeys.

This was the first Thanksgiving that I can remember where we did not prepare our own food and sit down in one of our houses. We ate at a restaurant. It was too loud. As much as one can be trapped with family at home, it's much more severe in a public space.

I need to work more to pay rent and buy presents. 

Muncie, I'm coming back quietly.

Remember you are strong and punch a hole in the ceiling

Let the sun lay itself on everything but your twin-sized bed. Remember you are cold and let the soggy November breezes find their way to your bones. Look at yourself. Let your hands know everything and everywhere, and let your shoulders remain a slender mystery. Remember you are a forest fire and let the wind be your stylist. Remember you are strong and rip doors from their hinges. Throw them into the air with your laughter. Remember that the world can see you.

A Pick-Up Truck Can Carry About A Thousand Dollars Worth of Dead Raccoons

"I think it would be the kind of hunting you would like the most. You drive around smoking joints and listening to loud music and you shoot animals. It's pretty fun"

Very true

There Are No Punk Rock Ballads

"Steel on the skyline
Sky made of glass
Made for a real world
All things must pass

Waiting for something
Looking for someone
Is there no reason?
Have I stared too long?"

-David Bowie, "Heathen"

For example: When I was
younger, a teenager, I took

things that didn't belong
to me or maybe anyone

change on coffee tables
or road signs covered

in vines, holiday decorations,
bicycles. I stopped

for no righteous reason, I
simply grew away from it. Well,

One night I fell for a bell
shaped compulsive liar in

an attic bedroom. Her
complexion absorbed light

passing through the skylight. Her
stories don't make sense and the

people may have never existed, but
understanding was not a part

of our love. Sometimes I would
catch her slipping into fiction, and,

obviously concerned, she would leap
to kiss me, springing from her hands,

the same hands that slipped my
possessions into her purse. A

forty-five, a wooden pipe, vintage
clothes and shot glasses. Two years

later and I'm not sure if she
took anything with her.

Death and Texas

The moon swings like a dull scythe loosely held
by fleshless fingers on a summer night
and scarce can anyone this evening say
that it is anything less than a glimpse
into the mind of death itself, to know
who sees the sun for one more day and those
who fall like dying flowers in the cold.
So when we few fearful men came to ask
if the sorrow of death (and mine the same)
should make us take some pity on ourselves
we came to understand, without sadness,
that the sun surely brings us the day. But

Death will rest, as sure, and wake with the moon
to deliver us from summer too soon.

Sorry.

I don't do much here. But first:

Thanks to the handful of people who have read what I've posted here. Oh, and everyone who has commented tends to be a better writer/human being than myself, and you/they deserve credit/kudos for that. w/e.

So anyways. I don't do much here because I've been taking a break from the internet.

My social life is out of control. I am 'busy' for the first time in my life, whatever that means. I have ways of dealing with it, mostly illegal, fairly predictable, but enjoyable.

The more uncertain my future gets the happier I am, but I feel like there will be a point when I grow up very quickly. Some situations that would cause me to grow up:

I get arrested.

A parent dies.

Blood shows up when I cough.

I lose my job.

A car accident injures me moderately.

Radiohead puts out a terribly boring record (I feel this is least likely to happen).

John McCain wins the presidency of United States.

Barack Obama wins, then is murdered on live television.

Certain friends grow to despise me. 

Former adversaries become friendly acquaintances.

I father a child.

There could be more.

None of these things have happened, so I remain a twenty-year old male with high ambition seeking the path of least resistance while hiding behind a shroud of 'personal experiences' that supposedly shapes personality.

Side note: I want to submit poetry for many new sites started by some acquaintances. If you are one of these people, I'll try to get something to you soon.

Out of all the things that have happened around me over the last two months, one reassuring moment of clarity: Poetry has helped turn me into a better person. That seems like a ridiculous sentence to say but I feel like I neglect or ignore certain things that are far more important to me than I'd like to let on.

But not poetry. it's fucking great. it's the bees knees.

goodnight.