President of the Unites States of America.

Barack Obama

unconscious phone calls.

Get comfortable listening to your own voice.
The daftness of your own ego is what makes it best.

"Yeah...?"

it's silent once more.

"Hello...?"

"....Sorry did I wake you?" voiced.

The softest part of the mind must be the part when certain times lets us lose control of our cerebral strength. There's no consciousness in what we do or think.

It's a pure human act; primal.

Unattended by opinion or experience.
That hello is your real name.

The Underground Disco Club

Think of that fat Kool-aid man,
shaped as a round glittering ball,
bursting out of a bright red brick wall
not just saying oh yeah!,

but to tell you

HELL, OH YEAH!

Disco is underground now.

Only in moderation

"Shit, quiet...it's on...."

He scrambled to the ledge of the table and quickly sat down.


Never too poor to watch television.

Never too poor, for Wednesday nights at eight. Aside from sleeping, it's the closest to death you've ever been.

"If I just wasn't too mindless, I'd invent a way for me to eat food and watch..."


But that's what this is, isn't it?
The invention of imagination.

Imagine losing your mind.

Hail to the metronome.

it's leaders, cease fire,
rhythm standing between the argument and case.

lay low, business men, lay low:



it's neither safe for you, nor the rationale that's encased your game.

ring ring ring,
we swing together on beat,

swiveling a mystery; of up and down,
following or leading,
our foots tapping or our bodies moving,
slaves to our own decadent ownerships.

we lie, do we not?
we steal, do we not?

jingling our thoughts in sporadic succession,
like the construction of eminent rain,
canvasing the ground to form puddles;
these signatures of the earth.

we swing back to what we are.
we swing pass original thoughts.
we swing, centered.



hail to the metronome.

Thoughts not words: part one

Taking a careful glance at the side of your head, from left to right, you're pretty sure that a little meant only a little - not the gaping scalp, left between your temples and jaw.

Whatever happened to common sense?
Nobody knows whats best for me.

And to be fair,
even I don't know.

Not knowing whats best really isn't the point.

I took a neat picture of a shameless man selling women's panties and bras. He sold them, knowingly how creepy it must look, to his potential customers - so he must've thought What the hell, why not? and put them on and put on a show.


god bless the panty dealer.


the end.

The man, once.

Once he finished his climb, he sat down.

He visioned himself upright,
in an all class-act of sophistication.

But the poor fella, just continued
to slump against the wall,
dampening his shirt from
the sweat off his back.

A woman walked by and looked away,
as he forgot to remind himself
that he's been drinking, earlier that night.

He completely
forgot the progressions of the night,

forget the facts,
forget the obvious,

that there, is still a bottle in his hand
and there's nothing can change that.

The contents of the bottle
would pour in from yesterday:
fired for stealing money.

Caught for things you really wish you did.

If it wasn't this, it woulda been something else.










dedicated to criminals.

crammmm.

i think free time costs the most.

ten minutes before work.

mellow.



set in moods of bright spheres,
of purple, orange, and green.

crumpled thoughts
and disposable waste,
shredding thin between the lines
and an uttered cosmic-nothing-scream,
yelling in colors of yellow and blue.

your words turn off
and switches off before
i hear it all.


you're not screaming.
just breathing until the tunnel ends.

the avid man

So what are you looking at?


"I'm not quite sure I follow,"
said Avery.

He slowly looked from side to side, across her face, wondering what she was getting to.

She briefly frowned.

Taking a deep breath, Simmy looked carefully at Avery and pointed above his head.

"It's right there...up, up. Look at that pipe," she explained, "see that cup hanging on a string?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Thats it."

Avery wasn't sure what Simmy meant, but nodded his head. He noticed her expressions during the conversation and felt she was trying to hard not to be swept up.

Rather she liked being elusive or she was becoming self-conscious, too quickly, about everything she did; either or made for an awkward situation.

Aside from being one cold morning, Avery also forgot his scarf. The ominous cold drifting onto the back of his neck began to make him feel stiff. He began to wonder if a scarf would really make all that much a difference. He can never remember a time when he actually felt warm outside; even when dressed in full.

Simmy cupped her hands for warmth as she began to speak,
"Well...I need a drag, it's cold."

"I'm all out actually, wanna stop by here?"

Avery stopped and looked at the convenient store. He was hoping to catch a glance at the board behind the counter.

"Dammit, I can't see how much from here...hope it's not a rip-off."




To be continued...

The Rad Racer: Why my girlfriend should drive

I'll be honest: mostly.



Here's how it went down

:

"Hey are my keys over there?"
"No...wait....no, I don't see them."
"Okay...so keep going straight?"
"Yeah, but you're not suppose to be running a red light."
"I'm what? Oh shit...a cop."

I can't read Red! I'm Illiterate

:

I would have been better off
giving her the car keys,
Seeing how it was her car to begin with.

Looking at the mirror,
I saw that familiar expression,
from my friend of me.

the absent minded man

:

"Crap crap crap, should I turn and lose him?"
"No, just go straight...here, turn in here to the left."

triple lights and 4th syllables

:

I like donuts.

But how would that make sense to anyone right now?

It's simple:

He was waiting to make that left.

He'll make that U-Turn,
shooting a bee-line to my ass.

So before he'd rob me of a couple hundred dollars,
and the hours I'd spend in traffic school,

I'd quickly narrate his very existence.
It'd be only a matter of moments,

I'd have to stop.

But I would be able to smile with satisfaction,
while he's walking closer,
between the words Objects" and may appear.

Why you ask?

Like I said, It's simple:

I like donuts.




Sayonara Sucker

:

We lost him.

We pulled into B rated shopping center.

Across the front I'd see the chatty teens
loitering in front of Starbucks, adjacent would be the intellectuals,
squabbling over comfort seats at Borders, and of course jobless M.T.M wonders,
suckering in their latest clients by the fountain.

All of them there, completely themed
at what Americans do best:


E x c e s s i v e .


We hopped out of the car,
ducking and dodging our best friend, Officer Donuts.

Once the coast was clear, we decided to walk into
an Office Max - You know...until the heat was gone.

Walking around,
we past the aisles of pen & paper, the artsy portfolios,
and schemes of fashionable office chairs...


Oh! The chairs...

:

"I give this an eight"
"I give this one a seven"
"Really a seven?"
"Oh...this one is comfortable..yeah definitely an eight."

We decided to rate the chairs on a scale of 1 to 10.

A sharp red velvet chair, placed alone in the corner
looked like a great seat.
I gave it a Seven.

A black fake-leather chair, scooted inside a desk.
Gave it a four.

Donald Trump'ss soft-fabric seat, with an extra plump.
Yeah...this was a eight.

Man..I love eights.

After testing a good portion of their display chairs, we got bored and left.

On our way out, I grabbed her hands.

She looked at me and smiled.
We continued to walk.

Reaching for the door, I sat down comfortably.
She held the wheel in her hand and started the car.

Back on the road,
We were going home.