He kisses her. She wants to believe him, so she says nothing.

Note 1013
Just disappear off the horizon, don’t even finish a sentence. Let all the pieces fall where they may. Shrug your shoulders and walk off like nothing was ever there. That’s how people handle entanglements in this time. Run as far and as fast as you can, it makes no difference. Thanks.

Note 1048
I’ve hated May and June for the last 11 years. Like a plate full of needles that you have to swallow. Thinking “well if things all land in the right place” it will be fine. But odds are that will not happen. Just digest. And the metal will taste like blood. And it will paint your face even if you are quiet as fuck. Charge on. I leave marks over my shoulder for every time I have to walk by something I don’t care to even touch. Throw it all the fuck away. It’s everyone’s answer anyway.

Note 1037
I’ll hashtag #wastedtime or some other fucking witty crap to throw into a sparkling bucket of social garbage. Like it matters anyway as people are fueled by “likes and thumbs” so much they believe it’s going to ignite themselves in a way that makes them sleep again. Good luck with that.

 

“I’m not a poet. I’ve never moved anyone with my words. Maybe that’s why they chose me.” – Solaris

 

A room keyed for everyone, but you.

Note 1176
I yelled through the glass until everything began to drive in slow motion. I have no idea how that story crept upon me, but it closed off every crevice that I attempted to retreat into. People change on a whim while outside forces chisel away with a constant showering of mental debris that ultimately becomes what you thought were stepping-stones in directions that might cling unto stronger merits. It adheres like wet sand, and weighs down the attempts to find any reason, any footnote that could foretell some point of direction that you were headed. You will never know that magnitude. It sews my insides into a thousand knots, each one a pulsing reminder of how it feels to be kept outside of a crowded room. A room keyed for everyone, but you.

And then it all comes spinning down, the awards will be handed out two-fold. For someone who really won’t survive half as long as you did. It will be hollow and transparent. The cardboard walls will dampen and be flung to and fro. It won’t matter, and it will draw all to gray. People will look for you in them, and they will feel lost. Then and only then, will the spiderwebbing synapses of thoughts play out and write the story that you would “want to believe” was going to happen. The one that had already happened, you were just too entangled into believing how you wished people wouldn’t see it for what it was, and only being succumbed to what was really streaming right in front of you. It was real. More tangible then you’ll ever feel. And it slips away just as easy.

It’s written above your head, only you can’t see it. It’s tattooed under your skin, only you can’t feel it. It makes the timbering of your heart rattle when you breathe, leaving you shaken, and tired, and empty. And you will allow it to drag you behind the curtain one more time, until it spins you disarrayed back through piles of your own curtailed decisions. Decisions that now become an undertow over and over, spray painted upon the very direction that you walk. And those new stones will shoulder you repeatedly until your bruises all begin to bleed.

It’s gutting. Like meaty ropes growing out of your sides. Stumbling, with feeble ankles rallying across the grain of the floor. It’s hoping that you find that hearth, in something – anything. It’s being lost, surrounded by arms and you being blind to the touch. I leave it, pulling at my head. I lay there letting the minutes bullet across my face. They stitch me to the floor as I talk the rain into just drowning me out. Drowning me out loudly so that I can crawl under the covering of sleep, again.

 

“You own everything that has happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” -Anne Lamont

 

Don’t bore me, just give me more gray.

“Life is all about change. If it were static, think about how boring it would be. You can’t be afraid of it, and you can’t worry that you’ll mess things up. You deserve good things, and I want to be one of them”. – Elle Hopkins, Impulse

// Photography from my Tumblr: Red All Over  //

Austin Music Awards 2017 // WORM SUICIDE

 

Last year my horoscope read : “In 2017 you will achieve things that you have never attained in your life that were absolutely deserving.”

If I don’t land anything bigger this year than I will go ahead and credit tying for 1st place in the “Best Performing Punk Band 2016-17” category at the Austin Music Awards to being just that. Well deserved. Humbling as it is, indeed – I marvel at the fact that we got to say “fuck” about seven times upon receiving the award in front of 3000 people at the Moody Theatre that houses Austin City Limits Live during SXSW.

I’ve spent 30 years playing music, discarding to the wayside what most take for granted as a “normal personal life”, playing literally hundreds of shows in 18 months at a time, traveling across Texas and beyond crammed into a van that you hope makes it home at 5am so you can get ‘real rest’. To those stormy times when you had to use your last bit of energy to keep your knees from buckling on stage while finishing the last 3 songs when your body was well done and exhausted, well 4 songs ago. You just do it. You fight as much as you can, relentless as you can. You hold on to every one that supports you, to the fans, to your many brother and sister bands, to your merch team / band member wranglers, to the close personal people you love that weather out ‘the missing you’ when you are afar, when inside you know that you wish that you could ‘just be nearer’.

It’s those liner notes that no one gets to read, the names that people skip past and the faces that blur into the crowded dark venues that make you understand the blood and grit first hand at how taxing all this can be. I’ve sat kneeling, breathing heavily, sweating, counting how many times I have to ring myself in the head to just revel that this is what I am wired to do.

And thankful yes. Honored yes. Knowing that I may never see something like this in my life again, yes. When the party is over, and the doors are locked down, something has to matter in your head – and I am glad that occasionally the ‘fire’ of the fight is recognized, because it fucking damn well should be.

Thanks again Austin.

Time seamlessly stops.

 

I don’t even rally in the thoughts of storms and flailing nights too much as I have done in the past. I get closer to most things by launching myself through them rather than around or over them. I’d rather feel the intensity of the falling, knowing that the catch is worth ten fold the ringing of the landing.

The heat and flicker on the lips that causes that flutter, it’s very hard to walk away from every time. It’s rush, roars loud as water forcefully does up against a clouded pane. It pins me and pushes me, and I like that. People need that.

Distance is just a digit. I can sit across from someone and fail to notice an insect on their face but then finely feel the flutters of a heart 200 miles away. Intimacy is the fuel that continually revs that connection.

 

“I wanted to freeze time. I wanted to savor that moment, to live in that moment for a week. But I couldn’t stop it, only slow it. And before I knew it, she was gone. After the door closed I felt like the last person on Earth.” – Cashback, 2006