sooner than later (or i'm not sure, but...really?)

something happens and we all want to exchange our self-concept for some worthwhile or worthless ideal we see as promising, but the truth is: where are we trying to get by floating so high? 

dropped back down to the ground, is the only conclusion i can draw from looking at the mess that's left. 

and though the fall is fleeting, there really is nothing like flying once in a while.

the turning of the earth is in our feet and we all sit down more than we take time to walk through sand and trees and wind and stone and fog and smoke. 

we are all so undeniably small and that fact is the most amazing thing about us; face it.

however it is we build we do it from scratch and if we can't we fall down dead.

remember: 

- that it's within the properties of light that we find our reflections

- that no matter what circumstance grants us, 

        we are bound to the way things are

- that we are purposely nervous and carefully incautious in our denying

      that large structures are brought down with explosions

- that we have to realize it is impossible to explain a flame to a fire

      and

- that sometimes burning is our only way out.

this has been nothing much from no one in particular. good evening.

some things the wind once told me

*(so this is something i wrote in my caffeine-sweetened gasoline induced stupor earlier. no one is paying attention to this, right?)

no joke

  no words to be spoken

only prerecorded messages

  to get the pointing done

 and passed the streetlights

more manic than the

  stop and go that surrounds us-

the ebb of traffic

   meets high tide and

 soothes the waves in our heads

  in a tiny but not-so-crazy way

a sense of patience meets

     a patient's senses

thought out as far as the

   fingertips can press down on

 whatever it is they wish to hold-

there are streets in common

there are buildings all over the place

but there aren't enough screens

      to make the words big enough

not a microscope strong enough

      to see under these nails

for the quiet complaints

   build bridges-

or just walk under them-

or simply cross them without looking down,

  all the while wondering which doors open

      for all the ones, undeniably small, 

                who all the time pace

with the spinning of the earth in their feet

stop with the rocks, please

so, i suppose i am to regale you all (by which i mean trevor and all wary wanderers that may grace these pages. or this page, whatever) with some hitherto unknown act of debauchery and/or gluttonous indulgence, but...i am far too uninteresting to have anything like that for you.

the best i am going to be able to do for you, here on my blogthespot thing, is to share some half-ass poetry (that i can't stand to look at enough to do any actual revision work), put-up some of my music (that you probably won't like), rant in my usual self-defeatist, pseudo-elitist, overbearing, ass-hole, i-just-need-a-hug-or-a-bullet-to-the-face-or-both way about all kinds of shit you won't care about; everything from my horrible eating habits to the way i think art is polluted with an utter lack of sincerity in all senses. i don't know how much of a grey area that gives but i think you get the sentiment here: i will do my best to not sound as stupid as i invariably will. 

i'll try to put quotes and things from other people as it is sure to grow old hearing my self-loathing, self-deprecating ass drone on for too long.

is it too much to ask that you don't make fun of me or throw things at me? it hurts, thanks.