coffee is getting cold

strike!

stuck in brooklyn, cause the mta workers are sick of the shit.
yeah man. i'm with you. except it takes about 3 hours to travel 2 miles.
and unless your inclined to swim 'cross the river, you're stuck
in brooklyn for now. those wings i put on my christmas list
sure would come in handy now.

art. selling art is like selling unflavored snow cones in the middle of a blizzard
in alaska. i am not saying this out of cynicism, but from experience. it's funny,
when you love creation, you try anyway. but sometimes you just gotta take
what is, for what it is.

there's a man sitting across the way from me at the coffee shop. his graceful spider legs are draped over the table in front of his chair. they look nice, and he looks enticing with those graceful legs. but i know he's only enticing cause i don't know him. in all reality he's probably a prick, boring, sloppy, inconsiderate prick. but i can atleast dream, as i conjure up how sexy he might look naked. though in all reality, i have absolutely no desire to try to find out.

tonight i was asked "so how did you and trevor meet?" and upon churning up the memory, i realized it was one of the few memories i had of him that was really positive. the sad, the mean, the pathetic were all in greater quantities than the good. but remembering how we met forced my brain to reverse to that moment, when it was actually good. and i remembered how much i had loved him, how one hundred percent i became at the birth of that love.

which made me all the more mournful of how incredibly hateful he became. of how inadequate hands will break budding love like the irreversible concrete on the back of a chick who's fallen from his nest. we endured that fall early on, and
spent months trying to overcome a fractured body that would never be overcome. it's greatest hope was simply that it end. but we struggled in the deepest of pains before releasing our reigns tied to torn limbs and malfunctioning appendages.
i had tried to find peace and a gentle passing, but that man wanted nothing but the bitter end. he insisted upon it. there could have been flowers, and cleansing tears, goodbyes, and fare the wells, wishes for what is to come. but he insisted on the bloody end, the pistols and punches, the blood for sake of scarring, the misery for sake of something to hold on to when all else will one day be gone.

he only knew how to create sadness, madness, chaos.

so how should the end be any different than any other time?

our fatal flaw lies in this.

above all else, when all else fails, he clings to darkness
above all else, when all else fails, i cling to the very faint sliver of light just beyond

we both understood that the world is a mean place.
but i prefer to offset that general rule of thumb by not participating in the ills that abound
he only knew how to give in to them, indulge them

and so our love was consumed by all the ugly in this world

and i mourn for him more so than for the love, really
because that's no way to live
those evils will perpetuate themselves and eat him alive
unless he realizes he is still a child
and does not have to be that way

but that man thinks all that he reads becomes understood
when really words on a page, are merely shapes
until you have lived them and put the momentum into
their steps and fire in their hearts

and he will not hear of it, even by the tongues of gentle friends
who wish nothing but love
because that man still hasn't learned how to love himself
so how ever could he trust the love of someone else?