It starts out innocently enough. The vessels that gifted existence want to meet up and light up. Maybe now I see where we got the lust for mischief from. Tearing open cardboard like a hopped up hyena And turning every shoebox into a case for every terrible idea that we had Except for the big one. That’d even be a struggle for Babe The Blue Ox’s big lonesome best friend. Push it all off track. And learn the ins and outs of every knack we haven’t built up yet In fact, we’re currently working on it. What the hell do you think we’re doing in here? Split open face with a squared off metal shovel Lying about front flips gone wrong So we avoided too much trouble. Split open face from the wand that grants you total shame An innocent game at the time? It turns out absolutely not. This sticks with you on every front No matter how far you push it down inside. No lie, I’m sure it’s had its way with me. The unforgettable sight of stumbling down the blacktop But the heat waves rose up And my brain’s brand finally started to show up. Burned up. I tell myself to shut up. Grow up. Maybe I’ll grow out of it. Grew I did on the outside But once again I would be lying If I said the brand will heal. Once again, no lie Numb for years but somehow, sometimes If you prod it you can kind of feel.

Three of us sitting in sand next to some old brick stairs Jumping those plastic people with joy until I said something weird. Soon enough the trio turns to one just on his own Sure it’s kind of sad But I guess at least I learned just what was possible. How did I ever acquire a pink and white Power Ranger action figure? Are all my guardians as concerned with my potential masculinity as they’ve heard that they should be in that situation? Situationally, I’m sort of a strange shell. As evident by the ditching in a ditch in the sandbox. And the river rocks. What the hell? So now that I’m alone again I guess I’ll just bite the bullet and stay the hell home. Popping in a VHS of Summerslam ’94. I recall not liking that one that much. They let Bret beat Owen in a cage match Because for some reason Bret always had to win When it all came down to personal preference I always liked Owen so much more. I wonder if I’d had myself a sibling too Would I have turned out substantially lucky like that? Learning from the first or force-fed responsibility I'm not sure it would have mattered that much at all. All that matters now is I’m still kind of picking sand And I’d be kicking those river rocks if I still could see them.

Walking through the desert Wearing nothing but black clothes I stand less of a chance Than a crayon in a frying pan. Testing out my wherewithal I’m told the sun shines out my ass But in front of me it’s goldenrod I’m under a clear cut piece of glass. I left the window open And all my belongings out on the table The burglar’s biggest breaks always come at the expense of childish mistakes. Waiting for the bug to bite me Did I bathe in passion spray? I’m starting to think I am the anti-Peter Parker Skinny, lame still But no claim to fame from fangs. Forgetting I’m a kid Projectile puking in the wind Stupid choreography that I don’t want to get involved in. Everybody sins. Especially the people that we look up to Maybe their condition wasn’t so mint after all. You crawl before you walk Or so they tell you every day. But I ran straight from the womb with a big ass penchant for dismay. So I don’t want to go today And I don’t want to go on Thursday Wouldn’t it be easier that way? It’s always easier not to do something. Right? But I took my medicine and flew across the room I’m doomed for now but maybe in the future I will find some light. But this method’s grip is not all too damn tight I’m losing interest faster than a blind boy trying to fly a kite In the calmest winds. I told you I have no interest Unless the wind is blowing all the cherries right out from underneath their skin. 300 yards away from a gruesome stabbing at Que Rico We’re pointing out the differences in knives Because who the hell knows why. Will the knives come back to bite us? If bugs won’t munch me probably not. But still would you blame them if they did? I probably wouldn’t have any blame to place at all. Five years trapped inside the house The vases couldn’t be more tired of me That’s alright. I’m tired of me too. Everything I do traces back to those old norms It’s warm today so maybe I’ll just get a pity sesh going. Practicing. My yellow belt in thorough planning is on its way today. But I forgot to follow through. What’s a plan that’s not been bred? How is that not dead? Walking through the desert Feeling yellow in my head.

Spending time and money on some things I may not want now In the car. I’m choking Pellegrino in the darkest parking lot in town Even though I’m not a sparkling water fan at all. I kind of hate it The only part that interests me is seeming fancy schmancy in a faded way. The longer you stare at your skin The quicker you’ll look hideous. The more you’re moving motionless The higher all your neighbors’ eyebrows will raise. What malaise while I’m playing A text based video game I forgot the name of Just kidding. I didn’t. I just prefer to keep it hidden. The notion that with time I’ll start to grow much stronger. The beautiful days that I wish lasted longer are easy, peasy pills to swallow I’m pretty sure that’s all a crock though. 42 seconds ago it was feeling pretty beautiful Now I just feel like trash.

I’ve got a list of things I need to do But first I’ll trick myself to know how. Devouring Seinfeld reruns in the afternoon instead So who’s the looney, fed up fuckhead now? Two mental purges of urges every night Until I start to feel sick of it Which will probably be never. It’s not necessarily that I am addicted I just fail to see how I’ll ever find something better to do. Immediate regret And wondering why the hell we’re wired like this 30 minute lifelessness Repeated seven nights a week. On the outside I’m a clean freak But I’m just a regular freak where it counts. No one else is gonna call me out So why shouldn’t I? Tennis ball colored bruises An excuse for seeming sluggish But when the lights go out My mattress sees fit to straight punish me.

Aromas of damp dust are filling up my domicile. That’s what happens every time I haven’t acted silly in a while. Staring at the sky. One part black. One part lime. The same shade of green as the car that Kenny Irwin died in. So what’s the point of seeking out a visually stimulating lightning storm? I’ve already been struck once And now I’m just eroding to that flat black. A white silhouette on the curb across the street. Is this a metaphor for the empty extension of a one, true me?

I’ve become duller than dirty dishwater Dumber than the public perceives a 36 year old dishwasher. I make believe in my daily life That my nightly life is just harmless practice For the future that my making believe’s ruthlessly beheading. A hike at night Out of all sight The breeze whips It’s serene. I’m brainwashed So my head feels clean. Till I hear some sticks snapping so wickedly The smell of pine trees replaced by copper Guess it don’t matter where I’m at. I’m always nearby a heart stopper. I fooled myself once. I fooled myself twice. I fooled myself 36 times. I fooled myself a thousand times. I fooled myself a million times. I fooled myself a million and 36 times. Part of me is a narcissist The parts all around that are crippling self doubt Out on the porch with a bucket of candy for my insecurities. It’s always October in my head. The month where you can get away with just hiding your head in a mask of your choice of repulsive acts. Perhaps I should take up praying. It’s not like I don’t already rely on forces outside my control for every little thing I should know.

A mystery house nearby was blaring “Dramamine” the other night. They followed it up with “All Apologies” Turns out I’m not the only melancholy one on this street. Was it all because the sky was looking bleak? Personally I’d probably rather have this cloudy weather than the sun. Done with most of tasks by the crack of 1:00 PM All that’s left to do today is see if the weatherman was right about some mayhem coming. Sure enough it’s now whiter out than my skin Not that my skin’s all that white My complexion’s missing more chunks than an empty soup can. December 3rd I’m shoveling. Piss froze to my wrist. I wish I was half the man my black and white border collie is. That little saint’s directly stepping on the ice and non-stop smiling Meanwhile I am all bundled up and paranoid that I’m seen in public. But nothing tops the times I’m mouth breathing out my window. The echo of a neighborhood kid’s basketball And children laughing My damaged ego’s got some growing up to do. Wake up. Rub your eyes. Find your jacket. See if those boots still fit you. The neighborhood’s abound with whispers The hermit just came out. All that snow won’t shovel itself now And the mailbox doesn’t have hands. But please don’t wrap me up in small talk I already know way too much about all of you And I don’t want you to know that I do. I’ll stick to what I know And that’s taking my dog out at night And then going to bed.

Evidently I can’t get enough Of the thought of the smell of ginger ale The taste though? I can take or leave it. A swan picture on the wall again And I cannot believe it. I didn’t fall into the well as much as I jumped in. And I’m redder in the face than the truck that’s coming to rescue me. Hardcore kids breaking bodies When I get home I’m gonna replicate it. A perfect duplication of the most fucked up parts inside me. It’s a constant fight. I never don’t give myself a fright. My gloves are white So you can see the blood clearly Or at least I can. But I am not so much a champion Just champion-ish Lower than the lowest lightweight Ultimately, just a smidgen. I have cloudy rationale Wet algae all around Pull me out of the water once And surely I’ll just flop around So I suppose I’m just more smitten with skin that’s been thoroughly lived in. Is that a problem? Probably, yeah. I think it’s a given.

No road map. No traveler’s atlas forth. No sense of which exact star’s North. I never claimed that I was a constant man Or even a man at all. Directionless is just about the best way to summarize this. Watching foils come together From the vantage point of what I miss And what I’ll likely never kiss hello. But then it happened Bluer than a flatlined ocean captain. It occurs to me that black and white might be wrapping up. The day that I had fun Doesn’t amount to the night that I got gut punched. Oh, delicious cake What a night that was.

Actually, so what? My world is probably only purple But there are way worse colors that it could be. Right? No more shackles. I consider myself fully formed and free now. And that’s the first time that I’ve ever said that out loud to anyone else.