Friday, December 18, 2015

Lake Michigan


I've spent many early mornings this week by the lake. It's deserted this time of year. Hardly anyone wants to arise before the sun to embrace the frigid, blustery winter. As piercing as it may be, I've found it peaceful. The faint sound of the delicate waves brushing upon the shore is incredibly soothing, especially with the great city just over my shoulder. Hurried feet in busy streets. Everyone walking with such purpose. The lake, however, does not. It isn't driven by wants or needs. It moves in accordance to the sun and the moon and the wind, something bigger than all of us. It's important to stop and breathe it all in, to put my hands in the water and know that I created that one, almost invisible wave.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Pizzaku

Add bacon and ham,
Sausage and pepperoni.
Meat Lover’s Pizza.


- afm

Monday, November 2, 2015

Holding Smoke

Attaining nothing when you're reaching for everything. Arms are full, minds are closed. Caring to carry objects that are vibrant and vary, but are not necessary for your survival. It's the vicious cycle to own more than your rival. But if you become more concerned with what will die in the fire, then you deserve to watch it burn when smoke is what you desire.

- afm

The Alex Show - Episode 72

People aren't always who they say they are, not only to others, but to themselves.

- afm

1 oz of Reality

Not an ounce of me is real. Not an ounce of me is real. Yet I’m filled up to the brim of a cup made out of steel. I cannot feel if the contents dribble through. I am numb. I’ve succumbed to a world that holds no truth. I’m stealing all the earth and all the remnants of what I once thought pure. And there is one thing I am certain of: the fact that I’m not sure. Not an ounce of me is just. All my metals turn to rust. I take the field. But no one is standing at the plate. There are no tickets at the gate. As is my fate. None of it was fair. Catching glances and catching air. Passing chances and passing blame. I left my helmet in the cage. I kicked the privilege and my rage. It’s all a game. It’s all a stage.

- afm

Friday, September 18, 2015

A Broken Mirror

A broken mirror can be replaced, but my life cannot. If my life has been shattered, all I can do is pick up the pieces, take time to sort them and put them back together. It's not a new mirror. It's "fixed." Glue wears in time. Much like time heals all, it also destroys all. I have to make sure I am constantly on top of my mirror's maintenance. Otherwise, it will fall apart and shatter into even smaller shards, and putting it back together will prove more and more difficult every time.

- afm

Monday, August 3, 2015

Another Lifetime Haiku

Our paths never crossed.
We took the road forgotten,
Missing all the same.

- afm

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

The Sum of It

I'm trying to recreate
The past amenities
From all the good that
The daylight had brought to me,
But it is the night that created me.
It is the night that consumes me.


I can't escape myself

Without falling into somebody else.
I am reluctant for
No more than a second.
Reward or penance,
I'm missing out.

I'm trying to recreate

The past amenities
From all the good that
The daylight had brought to me,
But it is the night that created me.
It is the night that consumes me.


When twilight falls the sun will rise.

The radiant visage, erased from the skies.
A begrudging look can change 
Success to failure,
And peace to rage.

Climb out! Climb up!

You can grasp the rope.
Climb out! Climb up!
You can hold on tight.
Climb out! Climb up!
In the end you'll choke.
Whether weak or sturdy,
You'll lose the fight.

Climb out! Climb up!

You can scale the summit.
Climb out! Climb up!
You can reach the top.
Climb out! Climb up!
In the end you'll plummet.
Whether full or empty,
Your heart will stop.  

- afm

Friday, June 5, 2015

Dangerous Waters

I am swimming.
Caught in the undertow
The waves, a heavy gavel,
Slam my back into the sand
With unmerciful blows,
Sentencing me.

I should have pled guilty.

I am drowning.
Stretched out from my body
Into the body of the sea,
The currents carry me
Farther and farther from shore,
Buried below the surface.

I should have stayed on land.

I am rising.
Down in the depths
I welcome the water into my lungs.
I deeply breathe it in,
Aware that the fight is needless.
Nature always wins.

I am glad to have swam today.

I am floating.
Currently weightless,
The currents pull me back
Engaging the once distant shore,
Departing from my salty shell
To breathe life once more.

I should have never believed.

I am breathing.
Your lips rush over my own.
Your mouth hot like the sun,
You spill into me;
A cold-blooded flood.
I welcome the water into my lungs.

And I am drowning once again.

- afm

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Fishbones and Eggshells

Swimming up the conjured deep,
Swelling up my limbs to keep
The bread and butter from the gutter,
Which I refuse to meet and greet.
Distal motions truly show
These humdrum notions down below
Are nothing more than what's ashore,
So who am I to judge alone
From what is muscle an' what is bone?

Saturday, April 4, 2015

The Alex Show - Episode 71

____: Everyone's so much nicer when they find out they're dying.

Alex: We're all dying, _____.

____: Then you better be nice.

FLASH FLASH FLASH SPIN SPIN SPIN


Saturday, March 21, 2015

Powerfool


No power then, no power now.
No power has ever been powerful enough
To pull me off the ground when I needed it.
The gateway to Heaven has been paved,
But the gates are now closed.
God handed me the key,
But it unlocked what’s below.
So down I go. Down I went.
Sent from heaven, heaven sent.
From the clouds I descend, to the ground I repent.
You think I peaked in high school?
I peaked when I was six.
Less support than a barstool.
I sound like a drummer with no sticks.
I leaked like a faucet, closed door like a closet
Of a gay man whose father told him he’s abolished
From the fam. He’s an abomination
Of the enter name here clan.
But that’s OK-K-K by me me me.
That’s OK-K-K by him.
He’s honeybaked, make no mistake
That’s more than okay for him.
Side table. Side debate.
Pass the gravy, pass the yams.
What’s the yams? Just a plate o’ potato grapes.
Nothing to do wit who I am.
Merely a first mate. Merely a blank slate.
A hypothesized contradiction.
So what was it all about? What am I all about?
I have less brains than a head that’s been scalped.
These scatter brained thoughts, like dollars out the vault,
Can be traced but serve no purpose if held victim to a torch’s assault.
So torture me, hypocrisy. See if I give a fault.
A fuck. A fuck. A fuck. Go run a muck.
At the end of day, your opinion won’t stick, it’ll be stuck.
Stuck the landing. I’m handing out hand me downs like party favors.
Save your sighs. Save em for later.
Save em for someone who actually cares.
I dare you.
Or waste your breath on the uncsicous, cool collective.
How’s that for obnoxious when the fool is respected?

Friday, March 20, 2015

To Pimp a Butterfly

I am a bit reluctant to admit it, but To Pimp a Butterfly is probably the best album of all time. It is the great American novel of this generation. It's a Pollock. It’s a Picasso. It’s a Monet with an impression so complex that you have to be outside of the stratosphere to see it correctly. Even then, you can’t tell if the image itself is out of focus or if your vision is blurry, forever questioning if you're viewing it the way it was intended to be seen. It cannot be compared to other albums. It’s simply unfair. It’s not music. It transcends far beyond that. After this release, I will no longer question if Kendrick is the greatest rapper of all time, but rather one of the greatest artists of all time. Kudos to his laundry list of producers. To write an accompaniment that appropriately matches Kendrick's unorthodox flow and quick-witted, quick on the trigger lyricism was surely no easy feat. The album could stand alone with only the accompaniment. The album could stand alone with only the vocals. Combine the two: the latest sacred text. To Pimp a Butterfly is nothing short of a religious experience. To Pimp a Butterfly is God granting your entry into Heaven. To Pimp a Butterfly is a buzzer beating swish through the net. Game over. 
#endrant Just my opinion. 

Monday, March 2, 2015

The Alex Show - Episode 70

FLASH FLASH FLASH SPIN SPIN SPIN

Oh, who am I kidding? Talking to myself. Insert scoff here. Talking myself out of this and talking myself out of that as if I am my own judge and jury. I'm not. I don't come to terms. I don't reach a verdict. I merely carry out the actions based on what I am dealt. I am the executioner.

ASIDE: There I go again. Deeming myself the "executioner?" One second I am an ant, the next I am the master of the universe... the next second I am the shit of an ant.

Talking to myself is not an empty task so long as I address the audience.

ASIDE: But let's be honest...

… I created an audience to discredit God.

FLASH FLASH FLASH SPIN SPIN SPIN

Insert text. Insert flashes. Insert spins. Create. Backspace. Manipulate. Post.

ASIDE: There's a thin line between creation and manipulation. I'm tiptoeing both sides.

If man gives child a gun to to play with and the child accidentally shoots himself, the child is not considered suicidal. If man gives child a gun to to play with and the child accidentally - or intentionally, even - shoots someone else, the child is not considered homicidal. The child is not to blame. Man should know better. Man created child. Man is to blame.

ASIDE: But who created man?

COUNTER ATTACK: If you are dealt a shit hand, and lose your life savings, does the blame fall on the dealer or you? Sure, the dealer played his part: he dealt your cards. However, there would be no cards to deal if you had not initially placed your bet. So who is to blame?

No one. No one is to blame. We hold God accountable for all of our actions.

ASIDE: Thank God.

- afm

The Alex Show - Episode 69

I keep thinking I'm the screenwriter and forgetting I am, in fact, the protagonist. Perhaps they are one in the same. Either way, I am reaping none of the benefits. All cost and no reward. Life has been one cleverly placed booby trap after another. One would assume that after being beguiled time and time again the bewilderment would fade, that I would point out the gun long beforehand and disregard its illustrious power and well-burnished allure, that I would be smart enough to avoid the bullet after I stumble upon the trigger. Or maybe I do see past the gun. Maybe all I see is a myriad of inescapable strings. Maybe - just maybe - I've been tripping on them with calculated sincerity the whole time. Maybe I enjoy the fall. After all, something is always there to catch me.

If action is premeditated by thought, and thought is premeditated by influence, then how can anyone truly be held accountable for their actions? 

ASIDE: Either way, I've been shot.

- afm

Friday, February 27, 2015

Fixated


So fixated on the road we traveled upon
That I neglected to see when you left me.
Where have you gone?
I can't turn back the time.
The minute hand moves in cadence with mine.
In circles we spun.
Now you're out on the run,
And I can't match your stride.

I'll travel wide. I'll travel far.
I don't need a map, and I don't need a car
To find my way back to your heart.

So fixated on the roles we thought were wrong.
I played my part. Deceit was my art,
But you caught on.

We found solace in the trees.
Covered up with leaves,
The world cannot plague us now.
If you stay with me
I promise I can be
A stronger man somehow.
You're the one thing I cannot do without.

So I'll travel wide. I'll travel far.
I don't need a map, and I don't need a car
To find my way back to your heart.

- afm

Standstill


You caught the cradle when it was falling.
You hurried faster when I was calling.
You wrapped the bandage when I was bleeding.
You kissed my bruises when they needed healing.
My careless days are far from over.
I'm still drunk, and you're still sober,
Sober to the bone,
So learn to let me go.

"How could I let go of something so beautiful?
I think you should know that I can't do this on my own."
I'll stop trying, you'll stop caring.
Call me blind, but I'm still staring at the kid I know,
The kid I know who'll never grow.

I'm not the hero. I'm not the villain.
I'm just a criminal who's only stealin'
All your time and all your pride.
All the things that you call mine
Are buried down below,
So learn to let me go.

"How could I let go of something so beautiful?
I think you should know that I can't do this on my own."
I'll stop trying, you'll stop caring.
Call me blind, but I'm still staring at the kid I know,
The kid I know who'll never grow.

- afm

Monday, February 23, 2015

The Alex Show - Episode 68

Life is so short. I wonder how much of it I've wasted reminding myself this.

Sunday, February 22, 2015

third is the one with the hairy chest

video
I was taught to be second to none, but they say first is the worst.
Take the wheel and drive, son. They gave me keys to a hearse.
In this day in age, it's not about the money you make,
Or the people you touch or the lives that you save,
But how many likes you get on your pictures, so that's why I figure
I'll apply the same idea to my grave.
No sons to list, not husband or mister.
No "he'll be dearly missed," no passage, no scripture.
Just a blown up selfie of me flippin' my finger while grabbin' my dick
Turned half way around so you can plant one on my kisser.
Speaking of plants and of birds,
I'd much rather prefer no place for the flowers to grow or the wallowers to sit.
Instead, do me a favor. On every able acre replace that space with a canister for the haters to spit.
Or you can light a candle and burn it from both angles,
Hold it still as it burns you and try to test your limits.
Once you can't take it any longer,
Let the flames wander and engulf the cemetery and every body buried in it.
Now, that's a candlelight vigil. No need to keep it simple.
You didn't need to bother, but you did. I feel honored.
Bless the son, the holy ghost, and most of all, bless my father.
Turn around and you'll discover my whole death was but a hoax.
"Th-th-th-that's all, folks," as I appear from Heaven's foyer.
I hope you have enjoyed yourselves. You've been Tom Sawyer'd.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Seeds

Seeding. Seated. Wilted. Weeding. Rip the vineyard. Blistered. Bleeding. Bleeding. Blistered. Filtered. Feeding. Heed the figures. From their reaping. Tenured. Fixtures. Fixated breathing. Every breath will keep you feeding. On the death. Of all those sleeping. Seeded. Sitting. Fear thy reaping.

The Fall

The fall. The jacket fell. Not me. Not spiraling. But a straight plummet. To the salted floor. Patches. Footprints. But leave the fingers out. Not a trace. Not a taste. Leave the senses out. Filed out. Filled out. Spilled out. On the floor. Seeping into the wooden grain. Fill the frame. Till you're nothing more. Than sodded soot. Run afoot. By the foot. By the grain. Do you refrain. From what they took. You mistook. The curator. As a vile crook. All the while they defiled the robber's hand. Shaking hands. Forgotten lands. Apprehend the foreign man. Cast him out. Then let him in. Once the bastard. Now a leader. Of the clan. Torch your kin. Marbled plaster. Shape the sand. Tiny stones. Of broken bones. Now the master. Claim your throne. Take a stand. Take a seat. Rub your hands. And rest your feet. On the frontlines. On repeat. Set the landmines. Then retreat. To the forest. To the leaves. That once fell. In the sprawl. In the winter. In the fall.

Monday, February 16, 2015

a walk below the surface

i've been playing with fire for so long/ burning bridges and turning heads/ the spectators speculate from a close distance/ and debate whether the flames are in need of assistance/ he'll land in the ocean/ a neutral notion on the attack/ shrugging shoulders and turning back/ i never learned how to swim/ i never thought of the advantage/ i was thrown in the pool, but my limbs would protest/ striking the slippery, salty, cerulean surface/ sinking with all that i possess/ i realized the importance, but it served no purpose/ my riches abundant, yet nothing proved buoyant/ swiftly swept under the violent torrent/ it came in waves/ measures of happiness measured by the current/ but lacking the oxygen i need and the confidence to breathe/ a tangible currency/ but feeling nothing beneath/ my feet reached the sand, but i was far from the shore/ supply and demand were valued no more

- afm

better left buried

i lost my footing on the trampled path/ covered tracks, consumed the bread/ buried the parcel and the bag/ i had to go stag/ the stagnant sun was beaming down/ once it gleamed/ but now it seems to melt me deep below the ground/
i'll carry nothing/ i'll care for no one/ take the money, take the plans/ bury it all into the sand/ it's better left buried/ better left buried/ take the photos, holograms/ bury it all into the sand/
the shooter's shooting branches in the fen/ arid wetlands, blaring sounds/ buried the bullet in the head/ i'm better off dead/ then swimming for the chest/ teach a man to fish, but still he'll wish to inherit it/ so pluck your lashes/ pray to fascists/ forget the forest and the tracks/ if life's a gift, then leave the tag/ i'll exchange it/ for a mattress on display/ since either way i'm on my back/
i'll carry nothing/ i'll care for no one/ take the money, take the plans/ bury it all into the sand/ it's better left buried/ better left buried/ take the photos, holograms/ bury it all into the sand/ a barely breathing apparatus/ a crowning case for the problematic/ forget your patterns/ forget your status/ bury the bag and cover your tracks

- afm

Saints And Sinners

If lust is a sin, then I sin for you.
Much like the wind I can feel it without proof.
If greed is a sin, then my arms sin for you.
I can hold you forever, it simply won't do.

They say time will heal all wounds.
Then I am frozen in time if that is true.
They say give up. They say try hard.
I say do as you please.
You can live with purity,
Or burn beside me.

If lust is a sin, then I sin for you.
Much like the winds at sea it can't be subdued.
If greed is a sin, then my heart sins for you.
It overflows past its brim, and it spills for you.

They say time will heal all wounds.
Then I am frozen in time if that is true.
They say give up. They say try hard.
I say do as you please.
You can live with purity,
Or burn beside me.

Saturday, February 7, 2015

The Wait Is Endless, The Weight Tremendous

The gate was left open with malicious intent.
Your fate was not chosen, but a business assent.
Lead and be followed by the hollow adherent.
Open and swallow to be coherent,
Or choke on the bottle and pretend that you demand it.
Reckless abandonment, for your life is but an instant,
Yet we're hung up on the news and the views it elicits.
Dazed and confused, crazed then induced.
Sedate the abstruse like slaves in the noose.
A door to door census bearing questions that are senseless,
Yielding well-constructed answers with no ounce of sentiment.
The air we ingest grows thin from embellishment.
We'll charge by the breath to cover the deficit.
We're building buildings on buildings with rooms made for elephants,
And sending the billing to tombs of unfortunates.
Desolate inhabitants of arrogant gentlemen
Healing the world for extravagant elements.
Marble and granite are granted to skeletons,
Succumbing the manic with middling medicine.
The slate was made broken. You wiped it clean just for profit.
The gate was left open, and we refuse to close it.
You can blame it on the government or Jesus of Nazareth,
But at the end of the day it's your reflection where the mirror sits.
There's no emergency entrance, only a mandatory exit.
Walk, do not run is the bane of our existence.


- afm


Friday, February 6, 2015

Slaughterhouse 6

So it goes.
. . .

There was no one. No one was around him. Nothing at all, for that matter. The other prisoners swiftly dispersed throughout the streets. Billy did an about-face, and once more for good measure. Only the inhabitants of the mines remained. He was alone, but he was free – and so was the wagon, abandoned no longer.

There were no reigns in the wagon. No grain or water for the horses. An empty coffin. Fitting, since they were still attached to their bridles, clearly left for dead. Billy did not think twice on the matter. Whether their previous owners were abandoned in desperation or currently floating in the post-war debris, their loss was now his gain. 

So it goes.

Billy found some rope they were using as equipment to hoist up the corpses at the mines. He tied a fisherman’s knot around the hitch conjoining it with two bowlines, placing each one securely around the horses. Still, far from a carriage. A coffin on wheels. Death's chariot. Freedom was not certain, unless one finds sovereignty in death. It was time to find solace. It was time to find life. With a quick flick of the wrist they were off.


. . .


No grain. No water. The horses collapsed in a matter of minutes. Billy was so set on reaching a destination, he forgot the nothingness that encompassed him outstretched for miles and miles. The bombings defeated the Germans just as they defeated his chances of survival. The horses lied dead by their ropes, Billy was at the end of his.
So it goes





Sunday, January 25, 2015

The Alex Show - Episode 67

You brought magic into my life,
But it was all a disappearing act.

Saturday, January 24, 2015

The Alex Show - Episode 66

It was January when I first saw her. She was walking without a purpose - an incremental hangover from the previous years. Out with the old, and in with the nothing is new. Eyes sullen, hidden below the hair she purposefully refused to push back behind her ears. Someone used to do that for her. Used to. Now just the thought of the motion was reason enough to hide behind it. Shoulders heavy, tired from the weight she figuratively carried, waiting for the day she could stop defending the emblematic as problematic. You cannot see the wind, but you can feel it, and enough of it can destroy you. Providing proof was never proof enough. It only made her appear more defensive... eager… guilty. 

Spine curved, or at least that's what happened when she no longer acted as if she had one. She shuffled by, her feet brushing against the pavement mimicking the sound of the bottomless pile of papers she once rummaged through at her desk, each sheet a reflection of one day in her so-called life: seemingly infinite, covered in constructive nonsense, specifically different, yet all the same. Days like DNA of fraternal twins. Days like numbers on a calendar. Days like stats when you're losing the game. The familiarity of that shuffling sound made her cringe. A shiver crept up her spine - or where it once was - tearing limbs. Oh good, she thought, at least I can still feel. 

There was beauty in her sadness. Or perhaps it was not her sadness that defined it, but rather beauty so truly undeniable that nothing could fully conceal it. She possessed an undeniable beauty the same way the sun rises still, gloriously spilling over the mountains covering the earth with its radiance, regardless of how persistent the darkness lingered from the night before. Sadly, it is all a cycle. An ugly one at that once reversed, for the days are bright and undeniably beautiful, but the sun always sets, and the night always rises.

I stopped and paused and gazed back in her direction, my eyes and heart following suit. I could feel the wind seep into my lungs as my lips dispersed, filling me with the oxygen we all so desperately need. But nothing came out. Just more wind. You cannot see the wind, but you can feel it, and enough of it can destroy you. 

Who am I to break the cycle?

It was January when I last saw her.

FLASH FLASH FLASH SPIN SPIN SPIN

I hate sixes. Sixty-six is my least favorite number. Fitting.

- afm

Friday, January 23, 2015

Time and the Ocean

You were like time and the ocean.
I could hold but a fraction of you in my hands,
And whether I kept them steady or clenched my fists,
You always slipped through.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

The Road More Traveled

I bought a calendar/ to help me keep track/ I crossed off the days/ pretending X's could subtract/ all the previous moments I no longer wanted to possess/ But each marking only emphasized the pain that I wished to forget

Better sleep when you are gone/ is not a sign of moving on/ but a failure to face the days without you/ All the edges start to blur/ Memories of who we were/ are flashes of a dream you can't hold onto

So hold on before the feeling's gone/ Letting go is just a road less traveled upon/ Once you let it slip right through/ there's nothing you can do to get it back/ You can't turn around/ You can't recover your tracks/ So hold on before the feeling's gone

I bought a comforter/ to help me keep warm/ I reshaped the structure of the bed and its contours/ Different sheets, a different mattress/ A silver screen, a better actress/ What more could I ask for? A shorter road without the atlas/ A distant world without the axis/ A room without a door

Dim the lights, unload your gun/ Shut your eyes, black out the sun/ Nothing burns, no, nothing stirs, no more/ Faith aside, I lost all hope/ Curtains fall without the rope/ Take a bow, and take it all, why don't you?

Because nothing is the same/ when memories remain/ Well, pack 'em in/ We'll pack 'em in and drive/ further down the road/ We'll drive further down that road/ so when you turn around there's nothing left behind/ but you're nothing without the passengers inside

So hold on before the feeling's gone/ Letting go is just a road less traveled upon/ Once you let it slip right through/ there's no nothing you can do to get it back/ You can't turn around/ You can't recover your tracks/ So hold on before the feeling's gone

Beside A Pale Horse and Regiment

Bear your arms; prepare to take cover.
Forty-one through four are years marked for murder.
Suddenly, our poverty is greater than our blood.
Aim your gun at the head of another.

You're caught in a war,
So make sure your chambers are full.
Aim low, because you're in peril
When in sight of your foe.

Walk amongst the dead, and charge into battle.
The ground beneath the barracks starts to rattle.
The infantry and the calvary are barely raging on.
Sight your time, and pray to your God.

You're caught in a war,
So make sure your chambers are full.
Aim low, because you're in peril
When in sight of your foe.

Death can be fun, can it not?

Stab and kill.
Trample the dead.
Cut throats of your fellow man.
Show no remorse.
Shed no tears
Or mercy at all.
Stab and smile.
Laugh as they fall.
Murder we must.
Murder is just.

circa January 2006