• blog

    600 Days Ago…

    Exactly 600 days ago was the last time I tried to kill myself. Depression is a real thing. Anxiety, stress, self-harm, self-medication, self-doubt… are all very real things. I grew up thinking that you don’t cry, you don’t express your feelings, and you certainly don’t ask for help. So, when I got scared, overwhelmed, anxious, sad, angry… I found a way to cope. Over the years, overeating was quickly replaced with alcohol. Attempting to poison myself to death was a difficult task to complete. After my third trip to the hospital in a two-month period, after many failed attempts before those, it was time to finally start unraveling my wiring.…

  • poems,  poetry

    Jennifer.

    walked past her house every other day going to jason’s or ben’s house snow white husky behind a chainlink fence i would crane my neck hoping to see her her hair glowed in sunlight and in shade green eyes cut into me i never talked to her but had conversations with her in my head we had everything in common favorite color and lucky number 8 a perfect match made of my own delusion i would make sure we never met walked past her house and mumbled what i would say if i had the nerve never talked to her didn’t want to break the dream of nervous infatuation j-

  • Uncategorized

    Bukowski.

    “For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can’t readily accept the God formula, the big answers don’t remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.”

  • poems,  poetry

    Song.

    in a quiet room his heart skipped. he saw her from so very far away. his throat was dry. she sang. it was STRONG, fast, yet blissful. he never thought to talk to her. he would walk near her and listen for her voice to warble. that voice. it shook his soul. she made him cry. Every fucking time. His heart shook. Her deep blue eyes. Her shining red hair. He worried. it was love. curiosity. pain. infatuation. she never knew he would never tell her that it was love. it would always be random chance awkward times to meet with an anchor in tow

  • poems,  poetry

    Michelle.

    michelle wrote in my yearbook “I haven’t known you long but you have a nice ass.” she held my hand and I kissed a woman for the first time hot summer morning we left school and drove for hours amusement park pool and haunted house hot dogs and potato salad trading tickets for second base we burned styrofoam and cigarettes felt lips and tongue on my throbbing adolescence she cussed drank never wore panties michelle was always ready she needed a boy man a woman girl she confused me she loved me she mystified me

  • poems,  poetry

    Confused and Sad

    blurred eyes he walked to the end of the street barely remembering where he is and when he needs to meet her he sits on the bench with a schedule in his starched pocket smoking a cigar and gazing through amber tint buses come and go the sun drifts behind that hill and he squints his worn schedule confuses him fountain pen pencil marks scratches and tape keep his day together she explodes into his broken mind her bright blue eyes and searing red lips that summer on the lake when she taught him how to swim and not be afraid that humid night when they held their bodies close…

  • poems,  poetry

    tequila and cash.

    monday she sits in the dark her ass tingles from the hard seat she wiggles in her chair she bites her lip tuesday awake at 3pm at home ramen on the stove takeout in the fridge wednesday night at a bar nachos bright orange cheese pickled jalapenos tequila and sour her will is pliable legs wobble a weathered man with large lobes blurry images she relents her body wants to feel thursday she rubs her eyes her thighs are bruised a bag of frozen peas between them she remembers when it was passionate when she loved that one special man her eyes close she lets it rush into her soul…

  • poems,  poetry

    Late Night Waffle House.

    8:15 A night of family and awkward glares from past loves. Beer in hand smirking and shaking hands. I bite my tongue. 10:30 Driving. We need food. Greasy, cheap, food. The truck stop comes and goes. Waffle House. 10:37 Car parked. Holding hands as we walk up the steps. Worn red vinyl and chrome chairs prop the doors open. It’s stale thick and greasy inside. A once tall man greets us. Sergeant bars on his apron. Bill shakes my hand and we sit at the counter. She asks for quarters. Louis Armstrong and Otis Redding spill from the jukebox. Short order cook named Brandi fries up a banquet. Plates appear…

  • poems,  poetry

    take me home.

    darkness that is almost deafening. one red hot dot. a car passes by and I see the curve of her body. I can see her birthmark, and that scar when we got drunk and smashed bottles behind the drug store. she takes a long drag and tells me that she can’t do it anymore. it’s not high school- we aren’t kids now. she pretends that she wants more, that she wants to go to college and wear a lab coat. she just wants to steal oxycodone from work. I think back to that night. When she kidnapped me. took me to the lake sitting on a picnic table- hearing soundgarden…

  • Uncategorized

    sundown.

    riding towards the light to unfinished concrete and soft grass. that one cement seat for rain and filth we sat and wished of riches, women, and fame. as it set past the land we wished of love, understanding, and parents that never fought. it was always the same frustration, hope and fear. it was never the same hormones, sex, and anticipation. riding away from the purple and orange. hoping and dreaming. we had sat upon the concrete and knew that was our haven. to wish, to dream, to imagine. a secret shared. a hope confided. a future dreamed. I sat at home. looked to the sky ignored my life, and…

  • poems,  poetry

    Hooker Love.

    musty cotton sheets soft, hot skin, sweat. she smells like cheap patchouli and benson & hedges freckles on her thigh, her arm resting on her drooping tit. she buries another fucking butt into the ashtray and asks when I’m going to get a curtain for my goddamn shower. she likes the avocado ones with mushrooms on them. I tell her she’s a moron and can’t pick it out.   the ashtray empties in my face her fat ass and small waist gets up. she still smells like sex- her legs wobble and buckle as she sits on the toilet. my door doesn’t lock. she wants breakfast. bacon. eggs. coffee. the…

  • poems,  poetry

    Food Haiku.

    Cereal happy box on shelf contents may not have settled prize is on the top   Pizza hot and gooey cheese stuck to the top of the box no tip for you, pal.   Burrito warm soft tortilla filled with meat and spicy love, belly hurts so much.   Carrots crunchy orange goodness in ranch they are amazing and now not healthy.   Lasagna food of fat orange cat popular italian dish noodles from china   Fruit oranges are tasty pineapple is really good kiwi is fuzzy.   Corn Dog hot dog wrapped in corn mustard is the best on them ketchup, not so much.   Chinese Food better the…

  • poems,  poetry

    how i wish we’d met.

    dirty frozen pavementpristine lines of whitefootprints melt intoconcrete path passing strangerscold windpink nosesand visible breath narrow walkheads buriedin rhythmof clumsy steps fleece and woolenelbowsbrushing oncefor just an instant a gentle toucha quiet nuzzleof elbowa moment of spark no glance backto watch her gojust softwarm weeks passthe walkwas lonelycold and wet watched feetold canvassnowflakeson pale denim nervous chestfeels heavy as sheglides past mequiet and fragrant sudden rush ofsweat and anticipationthat gentle nudgeof elbow that rushlingers onhours daysmonths years a lifetimewritten inthe touchof an elbow. j.

  • blog

    30.

    Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. 30. Birthdays are surprisingly punctual. Same time every year. This year was just fine. All the birthday staples were available- cake, gifts… etc. I am getting closer and closer to the age that doesn’t look at a birthday and say,”Another year older! Joy!” No, I am starting to think,”Another year older? Oh damn.” But, every year I get a little wiser. Every year it gets harder for me to stay up late. Every year I look at younger people more and worry about the state of this country. Every year I wish a little more that the music would be turned…

  • poems,  poetry

    cold rain does it to me every time.

    frigid rain fogging up black thick frames knit wool tight over ears and eyebrows. howling wind through cotton and denim sleeves over numb fingers new shoes kicking icy puddles racing dreams thoughts of places far and hearts close longing for the chill to subside time forgotten in stares through wet windows and shining metal playing out a life needed

  • poems,  poetry

    Booth at the Restaurant

    warm amber dances against her face into her eyes the booth is soft and quiet they hold hands across the table stolen glances from so close breath lost whispers forced from throats that beg to scream their love the gentle glow from frayed lamp and dusty shade flush against the walls his eyes catch hers that perfect slow motion stare that kills you their hands shiver spines freeze and they remember that moment forever.

  • poems,  poetry

    to the movies.

    crunched white ice under worn bowling shoes frayed laces and empty circles stone dead hands inside borrowed fleece and cotton holding rolled coin knit cap on top gray and black over long thick hair he walks alone to the near empty theatre and asks for just one paying in rolled quarters and looking past the popcorn he forgets why it took him here the cold weather and the coins in another place the dark helps him calm his world for just 2 hours j-

  • poems,  poetry

    in the moonlight

    reflection of solid red glow in the cracked scratched glass sitting up in sweaty sheets and dry throats quenched by stale mineral water linen sheets breathing over naked legs and soft corners and lines of pink skin chest heaving still trapped in the moment locked in that embrace that has no words it has no moment no defined time or feeling memorable yet vague forever entwined the sweet smell of love and bodies twisted in knots that go on forever deep sighs and closed eyes stealing wanted kisses and glances between puffs of smoke in the silence the mirror beaming moonlight giving us enough to light the next cigarette to catch…

  • poems,  poetry

    Sunday Morning.

    quiet lovedraped in deep sighsand cigarette smokeeyeglasses andcold coffee long days in bednewspaper on the floorashtray fullbaggy shortson the floor calm brainno need for thoughtjust breathingand lovingholding onto the sheets talking in pausesbetween long dragsand sipswhite cottonworn like a uniform the memories flowand fill the roombillowing and stingingthen fading intonothing

  • poems,  poetry

    untitled.

    the red flowsout of slits incarefully manuveredmovementand slices the releaserushes up fromtoes and fingersfeeling the lossinstantly against the grainsolid linesinside frail skinleaning againstcold white wet and afraidbut feeling thecalm and endseeing lessand taking nothing

  • poems,  poetry

    hydrants and wrinkles.

    stones feel red hot silent bottoms of pink toes and hard heels bounce. we took pleasure in the tower of wet refreshed in white cotton and store bought uniform, we darted and jumped- the red man spewing from above. shiny hair, matted locks on backs, swollen eyes and out of breath. we were the same. children loving the moment till the light dimmed and our teeth chattered in the summer evening heat.

  • blog,  poetry

    My First Attempt At The Biography Section.

    So I have started reading Charles Bukowski. I have also started reading Pablo Neruda. I knew that they were influential writers of the 20th century, but did not know who they really were until I started reading. As dissimilar as they first appear to be, their emotions parallel. So, if I got any of this wrong, would someone tell me? I’m new to the whole “biography of poets I hardly know” thing. Bukowski (Heinrich Karl Bukowski/Henry Charles Bukowski) was born in Germany to a reportedly abusive father. He went to college out of high school for two years. At 24 he was published, and then again two years later. He…

  • poems,  poetry

    found, cold and ashamed.

    awkward feetstinging in wornshoesdrenched with mud shame and sweatstabs in chesthurtfrom the cold air tired handsshaking in the darktremblingsearching found hersilent, coldblue and alone her chestis stillher breastsdo not heave he would gazefrom afaras she curvedand softened he felt hermarble cold facetouched the skinhe longed for took her innocenceshe never lostwhen red love coursedin her thighs

  • poems,  poetry

    A 30 Second Dream

    in the dead blue nightthe solid hard still coldthe steps are smalldarting and weavingfor sure footingto find the journey end feet entwinedstumbledreaching forfamiliar and exquisitei find her her tear soakedchinher warm chestfumbled handsknow the skinthat has never touched his it is calmserenepureand still he criesnot hearing her voicebut feeling her words in the still warm comfort.

  • blog,  Uncategorized

    Mr. T Loves His Mama.

    I try not to give the traditional holiday wishes… I tend to go for more eclectic tidings. Mother’s Day is one of those holidays that should not be forgotten. Mothers do so much every day, they give of themselves selflessly. Think of your mother today. Do something for her. Even if she is no longer with us, remember her and cherish her love. There is nothing like a mother’s love. It can be unbreakable, total, and pure. Mothers would take all the pain they could to keep their children from a second of that pain. Unconditional. With that said, and what was said earlier, I give you Mr. T singing…

  • blog,  Uncategorized

    I want to be a Systems Analyst when I grow up…

    I’m told that life is full of sacrifice. The small bit of optimism in me wonders why it must be that way. Why do we give up our dreams… why do we put the wishes of our youth away? We grow up and we do what needs to be done. We lose those dreams for staunch resolution. Compromise and negotiation. Why are we conditioned to do what’s “needed” instead of what we want? When we are children we have all of this wonderment. Naivety. Innocence. We want to be firefighters, astronauts, doctors, and cowboys. It’s so very easy to say. As kids, we just want it to happen. We don’t…

  • blog,  Uncategorized

    Snow. In April. In Texas.

    I woke up this morning to snow. Well… fluffy ice. You’d think that we as Texans would be used to the most unusual weather. 80 degree days in December. Thunderstorms in August. Snow in April. But of course we still point and take video of it as if it’s Bigfoot. It didn’t stick, and it stopped and started all day. If it had been December, we’d have a glossy sheet of white all over the lawn. Being April, it just melted as soon as it hit the patio. Snow is great. Snow is great in Texas. It’s like the aunt that comes to visit, gives you $50, and leaves. Nice…

  • blog,  Uncategorized

    Look at how young you look…

    My mom has been cataloging all of the family photos recently. I looked through the photos that she had piled into white plastic boxes. I came to the pile of photos in the box marked “Jeremy.” Flipping through each one- none of them were the same size. A school photo here, a Polaroid of a Superman cake there. I dismissed the rest of my family’s memories to reflect on mine. My brain is such an odd duck. It remembers such random things… I didn’t remember what I did a week ago, but I remembered my first “Fisher Price Magic Show.” I was so young once… unsure and naive. Birthdays, baby…

  • poems,  poetry

    untitled.

    Banana boxesfilled with booksand journalssit outside the door Garbage bagsstretched thinwith clothesand twisted hangers Dusty framesoff of the wallin a twisted towerthey lay Ready for the jumpdivots in the carpetholes in the wallsempty closets It will all make sensesooneven if it’s confusingand new They cry for their lifethey smile for the newthey hold handsand journey ahead.

  • poems,  poetry

    untitled.

    Banana boxesfilled with booksand journalssit outside the door Garbage bagsstretched thinwith clothesand twisted hangers Dusty framesoff of the wallin a twisted towerthey lay Ready for the jumpdivots in the carpetholes in the wallsempty closets It will all make sensesooneven if it’s confusingand new They cry for their lifethey smile for the newthey hold handsand journey ahead.

  • Uncategorized

    I read a book!

    I bought ‘Me Talk Pretty One Day’ by David Sedaris on the advice of a Barnes and Noble employee. I never talked to this person, but their name was Robin and it was one of her Picks of the Week. I pictured Robin walking the shelves and plucking this book from the shelf and embracing it. Reading it from cover to cover during her lunch break, raising an eyebrow and giving a succinct impromptu review. I could see the other names of employees that had chosen books… their names attached to philosophy books (Enid), photography of still life (Stanley), and a manual about grooming your poodle (Martha). All lofty goals…

  • blog

    Bluetooth. New Page.

    I was one of those that would profess to never purchase a Bluetooth for my phone. “I don’t want to be THAT guy that walks around with a tiny thing attached his ear- talking to himself in thin air and ignoring everyone around me.” Yet, here I am at the computer with a dark blue, shiny, blue LED flashing piece of splendid gadgetry glued to my ear. It’s convenient and small. It works with my media player. I can voice dial by pressing one button. I am sure that later, when I am used to it, I will walk out the door without my phone. My brain will register that…

  • poems,  poetry

    her.

    radiant witunbridled lustamazing humorglowing beauty.her. she cries every dayshe can’t sleepher anger and painis heard throughthe distances. he listensand cries for herhis heart sinksand meltsin the same breath. they closetheir eyes and listenhopewish. she keeps himsteadyevery dayradiantand beautiful. soon the daysand nights willbe completeas it shouldalways have been. the tears endand the smilesare biggerand the heartsknowwhat they needed.j-

  • blog,  Uncategorized

    This might turn into a habit.

    My daily Wikipedia browsing took me to the ‘Comics’ portal. I read ‘Blankets’ a long while back, and noticed it listed among the graphic novels. I read that Craig Thompson had written it to put on paper the feeling of laying next to someone for the first time. I would agree with others in saying that he succeeded. I thought of the first time I was in love… laying with someone. Hearing her heartbeat, feeling her chest rise and fall under my arm… contentment. I’d never even had sex with her. I put my head in her lap. She sang to me, ran her fingers through my hair, and just…

  • blog,  poetry

    dot net.

    grungyparadigm.net was easy to buy from godaddy.com. doing the whole dns setup and all that mess was easy too. although, i’d like to have a real honest site that i coded myself. but, i’m an unmotivated cheap sob who doesn’t want to pay to have a site hosted. so until i decide to crunch some code and do all that, here it is. the unofficial grungyparadigm.net. not that anyone ever looks here. bah. i have it on good authority that .net is cooler than .com… it’s dotnettastic. grungy-In a dirty, rundown, or inferior condition: grungy old jeans.paradigm-1. One that serves as a pattern or model.2. A set or list of…

  • Uncategorized

    wow. snow.

      snow. i won’t discuss the snow. it’s there. it’s wet and white and cold. so very cold. i am sure there are a multitude of snow and winter blog entries that no one ever reads. so i won’t contribute to the wasted bandwidth. oh, but i sure have done just what i set out not to do. like stubbing your toe in the dark. you don’t intend on jamming your toe into the credenza, but you sure as hell do.   old men from other states up north will tell us texans stories that seemed to come from the worst survival movies.”oh, this is nothing. you should have seen…

  • poems,  poetry

    goth and the jock

    jake sat with his friendsin the same uniformwith the same lunchlaughed at the samejokestv showskidsmaddy stood outside with her friendsdifferent clothespuffed a clove cigarettedidn’t laugh at the samejokestv showskidsjake walked home with his buddiesmaddy kicked rocks alonejake came home to lovemaddy’s mom is never homejake went out to a moviemaddy sulked in her roomjake walked to schoolwith maddythey held handsand kissedand talkedabout their lovemaddy walked to the bleachersjake walked to classmaddy bummed a smokejake did the workmaddy cursed overachieversjake yelled at the goth kidsbutton down shirtsscuffed black bootsperfect slacksholes in old jeansperfect hairblack eyesthey walked homeholding handssmilingkissingtogetherstill alonej-

  • blog,  Uncategorized

    san antonio. day three.

    today we went to the enchanted springs ranch. lots of cowboys and damsels and stuff. usually. but there was no one around. we walked halfway into the place before we saw anyone. it was fun though. lots of animals. zebras and cattle and some exotic animals i couldnt see. from there we went to gristmill… a restaurant in an old cotton gin. very good. then we went shopping at an outlet mall. books on the cheap. nothing better. enchanted springs ranch. texas rangers. not the baseball guys. the entrance to the town. pretty sure it’s all fake. donkey! the local post office… leave a forwarding address. the undertaker… boxes on…

  • blog,  Uncategorized

    san antonio. day two.

    today was a bit more hectic. we were going to fiesta texas, but it’s only open on the weekends now. so, we went to the alamo. i took pictures of the front and on the grounds, but somehow they weren’t on my card. so… i have all the other pics i took. i bought cheap touristy crap… but you are supposed to… it’s vacation. we went to the riverwalk and had a margarita… but there aren’t pics of that. we also went to the wax museum across the street from the alamo. $85 for four people to go to the wax museum AND the ripley’s believe it or not exhibit.…

  • blog,  Uncategorized

    san antonio. day one.

    day one went pretty well… the first stop on our trip… brand new gas station. my dad’s behind the door… those are my mom’s legs. my brother from afar. the entrance to oma’s haus in new braunfels. german food! rack of beers oma’s haus serves. german, of course. mom, dad, and daniel. i’m the one taking the photo, natch. tha schnitzel. and potato salad… of the german style. yum. steins for german beer. it’s a crime to put anything else in them.a plaster stein welcoming me after i left. finally! our hotel suite! big bed! the living room of previously mentioned suite. we had wendy’s in the room. watched tv.…

  • poems,  poetry

    sat

    sat alone on the first daywas the only oneeveryone watchedfingers tingledhead heavy and pounding sat alone on the first daywasnt the only onewatched everyonehands sweatyhead heavy in thought sat alone for many dayswith new friendsthat did not knowor understandor care sat alone for many dayswith old friendsthat knewand understoodand cared sat alone for many yearswith no onewith pen and papereyeglassespouring it into the blank sat alone for many yearswith myselfwith my drawingsvisionskeeping them close to me. j- I don’t really know what it means… usually I just sit here and try to let the words come through. Sometimes I tell a story and it’s just random- sometimes I tell a…

  • poems,  poetry

    falling short

    i read the listall of it makes senseand in an instanti dont rememberthe words my heavy heartcringesmy eyes blur insolitudeit is all true failure is normaljust another symptomof my gifted mindwired wrong fromday one i read the list againhoping it has changedconvincing myselfthis is not whyim a genius and a mess author artist poetfriend lover confidantson brother nephewall fall shortsomewhere not enough to be completesufficent in quantitylacking in depthhiding my voiceand inexperience jj-

  • poems,  poetry

    the house.

    so much was in himfor many yearshe was strongand faithfulto them all over time he fadedhis joints creakedand achedbut he was brought backby the ones he loved in thunderous roarand cold snowy evethrough hurtand sadnesshe was there the old mancomforted themsheltered theirtired bodiesagainst the world even when theywere apartthere he waswaiting patientlyfor all of them to return away they gosoon to buildnew livesand dreamsand loves forever he standsin their heartsand memoriesfor the nextto come to him his arms openready to love themand keep them safefrom the cold and sadnessthe roar and the hurt j-

  • poems,  poetry

    upstairs and alone

    fist pounds against metalshe staggers into itit opens and she is thereshaky feet as she yellsthe half empty bottlespilling outonto the front step she confesses her sinsand stands therewaitinghoping for embraceand releaseof a forgettablenight of sweat that aromaseeping from herthroat as she slursand kisses andcussesand touchesher invitation isall too hard to ignore her body is warmand her heart is coldyet still my arms find heri kiss her foreheadthe night so dark i dontsee her face asi leave i hope and wishfor morethat her breath willnot sting my eyesthat she will notcurse me for spendingthe night in her bed but the music isdeafeningheart on fireher closenesswith conditionsher lovewas casual j-

  • poems,  poetry

    untitled:

    he sat in the darkwiping back the tearsspinning the gold onhis dry fingerwondering why it hadto be this way she had alwaysbeen theresince they were childrenholding handslaughing at the worldpraying for the best their skin thinnedin their agechildren grew oldbut they had theirsouls to appeasethe fading memories young and pigtailedslender and sprythey took on the worldwith youth and lovekind and patientwonderful and decent building their worldas they neededwanting onlyfor each otherthey were lovethe purest form he poured his heartinto her dying breathholding her coldfrail aged handaching for more timefeeling her pain his head againsther shoulderafraidto look into her eyesas the sparkle he lovedsank into the dark so he sat in…

  • poetry,  Uncategorized

    wishes:

    i was going to wait to write about my birthday on the actual day, but i decided to get it out of the way. the day will come and go, and i will not be changed in mind, body, soul, spirit, or outlook. i will go out to eat with the parents, i will open some gifts, some mediocre fanfare, and the day will end. the birthday cake will be in front of me, i will blow the now 28 candles on the frosted goodness, and close my eyes and wish for: wealth fame love happiness all that other stuff we all do it. we all wish for these things…

  • poems,  poetry

    field:

    early morningmy legs numband steelyfrom the abnormalvigilimmense and placidmy gaze is the sameopen or closedmy blind eyesdarting for a glimpsea huea shadea colorfolded armsworn gray warmthpulled over my bonehard fingersshufflingfeeling for anythingbut the darknessmy world isin front of meif i only knewwhich way to standturnand walk coldly jj-

  • poems,  poetry

    flight

    the wind invites my stridepushing my heelsagainst the worldarms spreadfingers hardand clenchedgazing throughthe dark greenmy heart liftsdigging heelslighter beneath mepiercing pale bluedeafening screechrushing past my earsopening my fingerstouching the open worldin the cloudsthe haze belowthe blackness abovefeet free from the worldmind untethered from the earth

  • Uncategorized

    untitled:

    i try to remember her face. i close my eyes, and try to remember her perfume. her scent that i could smell before she came into the room. i try to remember her laugh. her hearty, loud, boastful laugh. she only smiled when i made her laugh. my brain strains and hurts to recall anything that will open my horrible blocks of memory. anything… a word that her thick accent would butcher… her soft small hands that i had kissed for hours as i pleaded with her to take me back. i despise my cursed brain. the back of my eyes throb, my neck is killing my concentration. i can…