throwingroses

Angel the puppet

Sun, 22 Jul 2007 22:09:34 -0700

It's time to try a new venture in life, me+ Angel the puppet vampire = the future of comedy!!!

Birds live in my hair

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 23:04:40 -0700

Birds live in my hair

Photo 3

Thu, 03 May 2007 23:07:11 -0700

New Mac Book Pro Celebration demands a full family photo.

Odd Couple

Sun, 01 Apr 2007 11:03:20 -0700

She's laid back and i'm a bit uptight and crazy. This summer of the WB well see who laughs last!

elevator

Sun, 01 Apr 2007 11:03:12 -0700

Promo Shot

Sun, 01 Apr 2007 11:02:59 -0700

Mista chuck.....

Sun, 01 Apr 2007 11:02:54 -0700

Dreams do come true

In dark night..

Mon, 19 Mar 2007 09:27:53 -0700

the good side

Mon, 19 Mar 2007 09:27:46 -0700

There is no hell, just a life of not knowing.

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 01:37:12 -0800

I adjusted the links on this blog through the act of addition.
---Being linked is the second base of blogging.-----
-----We can now send shirtless pictures to each other----

I am back at work now, the bad work where I stare into space and inside the faces of people who make more money than I ever will. Of course this works pays more than my words do so I must do it, begrudged with a fake smile like the rest of the country.

I have read the chapbook Atlanta by James Iredell seventeen times. Each time I finish reading it I write a slash on my wrist and wave my fist at this city, the same one named as the title of James Iredell's chapbook. Atlanta (the chapbook) is hard to define, much like the city. Is it prose? Sure. Is it poetry? Sure, why not. Atlanta (the chapbook) is more punk rock than punk rock itself. It contains the most vivid writing to take place in The Clermont Strip Club I have ever read. For those that have walked into the dank place where boobs go to hang like coats on a lost and found rack you understand the backdrop I am speaking of.

If you don't buy Atlanta (the chapbook) you must throw ferrets at your mother.

On another note I am writing down people's alien abduction stories. Heard two the other day while serving coffee. Over the years strangers have just given me their stories of interstellar kidnapping hoping I have answers for them because I have an alien head tattooed on my wrist. The other day a man got very angry when I told him my alien was a little joke. The veins in his arms spurted up rather fast and his eyes grew wider.

He whispered "2012".

"What?"

"2012 you'll find out what the joke is."

I stood there hoping he would go away. I wondered if he was about to jump the counter.

"Gimmie my damn coffee joke boy." He shouted as I stepped away.

A new post. Yeah!!!!! Pop the cork baby because this is France without the air travel hangover.

Sun, 01 Feb 2009 04:32:46 -0800

Mark Baumer of Everyday Yeah! asked me about my home. I answered his question without taking a hostage.

Everyday Yeah is a place that makes me smile. I enjoy it with my morning coffee as I shine my boots that have a switchblade hidden in them.

I reviewed a wonderful piece of vinyl with music in its grooves and painted spaces for Not Popular.

As I stand now...

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 22:31:09 -0800

I AM GOING TO PUNCH YOU IN YOUR FACE. now it won't hurt. to even think i could hurt you would be true fiction of science. WHEN I DO HIT YOU, FOR THAT MOMENT YOU WILL NOT RECOGNIZE ME. YOU WILL WONDER WHAT I REALLY AM. I COULD BE A GOD OF PAIN. I COULD BE THE SYMBOL OF EVERYTHING EVER UNDERESTIMATED. I COULD BE A PUNISHMENT KARMA HAS BEEN WAITING TO HAVE POUNCE YOU.

okay. you dodged my punch. i did not expect that. i figured you would just take it, at least to just to see how i hit. PLEASE DON'T HIT ME. NO AMOUNT OF FAMILY SCARING CAN SHIELD ME FROM THIS PAIN. THIS I KNOW.

THAT'S RIGHT-BACK OFF. I AM ONLY IN A BIRTH POSITION TO THROW YOU OFF. YOUR PAUSE TO THINK AND LOOK AT YOUR FRIENDS SAYS I HAVE SUCCEDED. YOU QUESTION ME NOW!

why did someone yell to hit me?

I AM BRUSES. I AM BEATEN. I KNOW MY PLACE.

The damage is done, now who is going to hose this side walk down.

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 22:31:09 -0800

A woman fell outside the coffee shop. She was fifty, give or take a few birthdays. Dark red blood ran down her forehead after the result of her knees giving out. She lied on the pavement. She didn't move aside from an occasional moan and still breathing movements. The sun was everywhere. Due to the lack of gas in the city there were less cars passing by to slow down and grab rubbernecked stares.

My co-worker rushed out with ice and rags. He also grabbed the only first aid kit we had in the shop. It had a dusty jacket on it and it remembers Reagan being president. The band-aids all crushed at the top told me they believed in trickle down economics, but now they had their doubts. I told them it was too late, the damage had been done. They said they would try to help mend the wounds of the lady.

I stayed in the shop to deal with the mob of gender specific and non-specific suits demanding lattes while they speed dialed. Each person said the same thing upon getting a drink.

"Have you called for help about that lady?"

"My co-worker has. I think."

"Well you should be doing more to help her. There is a lot of blood," each of them said while their lips smacked and cracked the foam off their lips.

Once the line faded I went outside. The gender specific and non-specific suits were all standing around the lady. They said nothing. They drank, they dialed, they digested. I went back and cleaned the espresso machine until the ambulance showed up.

The Lynch

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 22:31:07 -0800

"That's a great shirt. I loved that show." The fifteen-year-old kid bagging my groceries said.

He was talking about this shirt.

And about this show.

I paused for a moment. To be truthful I don't hear that about shirts I wear that much. I looked at the kid taking a moment to gain some kind of an idea of what I could say to such a great, but unexpected compliment. I rarely talk that much in public settings so just saying 'thank you' takes time for me to muster out of myself.

"I'm sure you hear that a lot though," he said cowardly like he was ashamed to have even mentioned my shirt in the first place. I felt bad that he held some shame at this point. I should have replied faster in order to give his excitement for the shirt its needed pride.

"Actually I don't hear that that much," I said as I watched him bag my groceries. I was a grocery bagger at his age. I was just as tall and lanky too.

The kid smiled, even his acne smiled a little. "Have you seen Fire Walk With Me," He asked.

"Oh yeah," I said ready to have a conversation, "hopefully one day the real version will see the light of our eyes though."

"The real version?"

"Yeah, the director's cut is almost three hours long and his version had every character from the show in it."

"Well this makes sense. I always thought the movie felt like it was edited in a choppy way."

When I was his age I looked at how film's were edited too.

"Why doesn't The Lynch just put that version out," the kid asked as he packed my cheese in with my turkey meats.

"Well," I explained, " some company in France owns in it. They don't want to give the film and footage up unless they get a few million up front."

"Oh." The kid looked sad by this news, like I had shown him the greatest Christmas gift then set it on fire and pissed on it. By this time he was finished with my groceries and I had paid. It was time to leave the store.

As I pulled out of the line the kid said, "I never understood Bob though."

I stopped my cart at the dismay of the line I was now creating behind me; eyes began to roll the moment I stopped moving. "Bob was all that was evil, the original evil possibly. The problem was the show never got to get to the point of explaining Bob and The Black Lodge further. I don't even think David Lynch had fully gotten that far in understanding Bob himself, but that is how David Lynch works. Visual first then figure out the story."

"Well that is The Lynch," the kid said as I exited out the sliding glass doors.

That conversation was more worthwhile than any I had in college. I need to talk to that fifteen year old version of myself again.

It's in the air baby.

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 22:31:07 -0800

The air is bankrupt.

What people feel always becomes palatable and understandable in the air. Okay, so a given group of people are speaking of hope and believing in it, but these people, as they spit h-o-p-e out of their mouth they are truly scared.

Scared of losing. Scared of a false hope. Scared of no change, and, of course, scared that if it all goes to hell faster than a bullet they can't give up and not care.

I am not a decider. So, this season is nothing more than a time to let my mind wander more, but I am choking on this air. No matter where I go the air comes up to me, bully-like in a way that makes me take some steps back. I end up penetrated by the air, all force with no romance.

"You hear about that business up the road that went under," a voice asks as I fall to the ground.

I clench my chest, grasping for a breath with no weight on the bottom. " I just saw on the news that another company shut down," another voice says in my direction.

Then like a choir from some kind of gospel video directed by Prince a hundred voices fill the space around me.

"We are all damned because of the other side." Their voices echo.

"I'd kill you all for some white noise," I mutter under my fading voice.

No one hears me. The voices adjust the buttons on their jackets and the air gets heavier.

Breathe.

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 22:31:06 -0800

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Each time your lungs fill you are closer. That's what everyone says.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Everyone says to just keep breathing--faster each time and soon God will be upon you.

Everyone said God's touch feels like your floating, that you can still feel everything going on, but now all sensations feel different. They also said you feel like your in a bubble. I told my older brother this and he said everything good makes you feel like you're in a bubble. My brother got arrested last week.

I guess God makes your knees weak when He comes upon you. Maybe we aren't meant for God to handle us. Maybe we are too fragile from being so low, for so long. When James fell to the ground he looked like an elevator that had its chords cut. His legs suddenly forgot how to hold his weight. The fuzzy youth room carpet was no match for his large build. James left a mark. I could see it when he began rolling on the floor chanting and laughing in god's voices.

Terri fell. Three members of the varsity basketball team fell.

One person felt nothing, just their breath getting faster and their lungs getting sore.

One person only felt the speaker's hand on his forehead when he walked by doing his Godly rounds through the youth group's congregation. His hand was wrinkled and dry as a desert that had no watery gulf hidden inside.

One girl fell and made a noise when she hit the fluffy green carpet. The noise was high pitched with a tear that followed quickly behind it.

One person just recited the promise over and over. "Where two or more are gathered I will be there." With each breath he repeated it with more urgency like he was actually running after God. "Where two or more are gathered I will be there." He raised his hands higher. He shifted his feet. Eventually he fell.

In the back the leaders stood. Two stood by a board while three were runners to make sure no was hurt when God tripped them down with his mysterious touch. Slashes were added to the board. "This is the best Wednesday night service we have ever had," one leader said. "I told Pastor Steven we didn't need a big production video, just God," the other one said.

"I guess we're going to get that pizza party after all," one leader said as he went to see if he could help the only kid left standing.

The shell opens up. It doesn't crack. Try to break its seal and you will not see the sunlight ever again.

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 22:31:05 -0800

With one drink I begin to smile. Look at my teeth; it only takes one whole glass of German mechanics to make them shine. I hope you enjoy this moment because, as we both know, my stained and crooked chompers are special guest who don't come around that often; my teeth are wet snakes that happen to live in a turtle's shell. Expect anything and everything will happen.

With two drinks I am free to laugh. The annoyances, the anger, the malcontent desire to make bombs out of piss and poked chads have gone away. Now my teeth have some friends. My mouth stretches and transforms as badly timed jokes are tossed around the table.

I say a prayer to my god in-between sips that his gracious hand will come to form as a disaster unleashed upon our waitress. Her death could heighten our faith. Don't you feel it?

With three drinks we are firmly in this, and I'm okay with that. If you had asked me about charity, service, or love during the first sip of hoppy darkness I would have said nothing. My silence would have made all my hatred clear. My silence is my way of saying when the car gets fast enough I will push you out.

With the fifth drink (fuck the fourth I'll pound that one like our god does his enemies) everything becomes clear. As our elder told us the other day "when we are blurred we can see more than we normally do."

I love you, this I know. Our god I only like. This moment will be the memory I look back upon when there is nothing left but the tethered ideas of who we once were. My teeth will hiss from under their shell.

A Mix Tape of Words. Vol 4.

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 22:31:05 -0800

For the past few days I have hated all words I have formed; this goes for what I have scribbled, what I have typed, and even the awkward minutia that has been coming out of my mouth. This is why I have not written anything as of late.

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I had a series of dreams last night. They felt real. When I awoke from each separate chapter of sleep movies I had the sensations still showing themselves off in my brain. I even was sweating in the same spots on my body where I was in my dreams. In each dream I was shot in the face, each time I was shot differently, and each time I was shot by a different assailant. In one dream after my face had been given a large hole for red goodies to escape from I called my job to tell them I wasn't coming in.

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I have been reading. Here are the spoils of what I have enjoyed.

Voodoo Doll by Jimmy Chen

There is something about this piece that is so grabbing, and not just the "skull fucking" part. I think it's the speed. There is a running pace in this story that poses a bunch of questions and answers none. I love words that move faster than I can read them.

Untitled By William James

William James put out my Perfect Disgrace chapbook, which I want to re-write one day. William wrote this little piece for his blog. It's graceful in its direction of complete disgust. I love it. Every fucking word is a feast I can't stop taking in. A good story is something to get drunk on. Will gets me fucked up a lot.

Non-Medical Description... by Matt Bell

Around the fifth time I read this I came to believe this piece came from a series of writing notes. I like that and never want my idea of it to be changed.

THE NIGHT I TOLD MY PARENTS THE TRUTH by Brian Costello

I love this story; it starts out like some kind of sitcom idea in its worn out set up and then turns into something twisted that makes me desire more. This story reminds me how my partner, before we went out on our first date, had everyone of her friends warn her through almost declaration types of rants that I was the biggest asshole that ever got to breathe air.

Feeling like a throw out.

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 22:31:04 -0800

This is what I look like all day.

I am sick. There is no trick of shades and computer magic to that image, that darkness over my face is the shadow everyone sees of me, all day long.

I can never write when I am sick. When I try what comes out is usually awkward thoughts that fall off the page and end up taking long naps at my feet. If I take enough drugs I'll join those thoughts on the floor.

This is the best thing I have written in three days of coughing, yacking, and looking for my breath.

On/Off/On/Off/Silence

Fri, 30 Jan 2009 22:31:03 -0800

One of my external drives just turned on without being plugged into my computer. The computer tells it to get ready for data, it touches where it like to be tapped, and a light lights up accordingly, which is joined by a loud metallic hum. The light and sound just gave themselves life with no power, no touch, and now I am scared.

I sense that the drive is lonely. I don't use him that much now that I found a much bigger drive to give home to my amassing music collection. I hope he doesn't conversate with the other devices I have gathering dust in random spots I used to huddle at in the apartment.

If I am found with a usb cord wrapped around my neck know that it wasn't an accident, know that you will probably go soon. We should all go hug our electronic dives now- just in case.