There is silence here, no motion ticking sloppy sounds into my ears, no bleeding through of bleating horns and and tire squeals. Your hair is a mess, and it's ok cause there is no sound of the judging minds wondering why you look so and so. It's quiet here, and so you can rest, you can wear an apron and cook a meal, you can eat it in peace and in silence, that's all that's here.

I thought that by coming to providence this weekend I'd be able to escape the doldrums of pouring cup after cup of boiling hot coffee, having to deal with self absorbed consumers who will jump for the most convenient option. I thought I'd be getting away for a while so that I could clear my head, so that I could think, so that I could spend some time with friends so that I could write a few stories, so that I could let my gray matter air out.
but you can't escape the things that make life what it is, the doldrums of pouring cup after cup of boiling hot coffee for the self absorbed consumers who jump at the chance for the most convenient option. The drama that always follows you, the expectations of others who don't even understand that expectations only hinder the growth process. This is life, this is what breathing in the air, filtering out the oxygen, and exhaling toxic fumes is all about. This is life.
So rather then try to escape it, I should embrace it, live in it, and find my peace of mind in the middle of it. A quiet afternoon with ryan, a pack of smokes, a glass of water, chopin on the record player, and a note book; suddenly the chaos quiets for a moment or two, it's never gone but its quieted for a few moments and sanity almost sneaks in. This is life

Dear reader,
You and I, we dance this crooked dance, in morbid grace. A waltz for mercy, and a pirouette on the edge of love . Never quite committed, yet never quite refused, we dance towards towards the future life and away again. To be sure our steps in tandem choreography glide, to and from each other and back again. We twirl, sway, spin, and swerve. Little giving, always taking, we're drenched in perspiration from the effort of maintaining this facade of graceful existence.
Sincerely,
yours

Love follows footsteps to echoey graves, hanging high, swinging feet inches from the ground. Lively steps surround the dead, the escaping few, the joyous just from work to rest. But you hold me close, you hold me close, you hold me close. And now I'm closer to your hell burning heart than we though to ever be. And I say we, when you say I ought say me. but I am two, the angel saint, and the devil times two. These are the we, or for your comfort, these are me. You ring my bell, you ring my bell , you ring my bell, and it is resonating in the head that my birth mother gave me, the ego that my father grew in me. So what's the catch? The catch you caught, it's my swelling swollen head.

We connect the dots, drawing God with our fingers, pictures and paintings of God in our likeness, slipping slowly into the role of limited deity, failed mothers and fathers. The windows leak sounds of the houses we built to hold in our secrets and internal lies. Those which were told to ourselves and only us, verbalized in synaps and neurons, thoughts and emotions. The off balance actions of the outwardly balanced mind , and oh the cheer of joyous occasion brought to light in civil deceit. I document the moment and forget the reason, release the idea in exchange for the ideal. I've lots of gaps in the memory, but really none at all, it's just words that I say to keep the wall of my house standing safe. But, I breathed in once, felt the breeze of freedom, the rush of the wind as it told me the secrets of truth. We are the wanders, the beggars, and liars, hoping for a future and fighting to protect safe our past.

Alexander

Alexander is a friend of mine, but not by any choice of ours.
We the two on stools, elblows on the bar, hands cuddling with glasses.

Alexander roams as I roam, no where to go no where in mind.
We the two strangers to the places we have been time and time over

Alexander does not exist, well at least in the sense of someone I know
We the dreamers who think about each other but do not know the other is real.

The road of lesser things is a softly padded road, one of comfort and ease, but one of discontent and unfulfilled joy.

Just when you think you've gotten into gear, life hits the brakes and sends you through the windshield. And when you're laying on ground amidst the shards of glass and twisted metal, you realize that you were traveling in the wrong direction anyways.

I am proud! A pride filled bastard even, not in so many open ways,
but it still leaks through the cracks of my humble shield.

There are many folks I meet who make me wish I was not squimish around blood.
for I would murder them .
perhaps it is a good thing that I am as such.

Our hearts are little machines. Tiny magnificent machines. Contrary to what you might have read, what you might have heard, or even what you think you might have felt, these machines do not break. Operator failure is the only reason these machines might malfunction. but they never do break, well actually they do break, but that only happens when you are dead. Did you know that we will all die one day? Well regardless of what you may or may not have heard it's true, we will all die, and when we our little machines will then break and not a moment before then. Our hearts are little machines. Tiny magnificent machines. These machines do not break.