Lost Bounce

   Eyes open, and I'm awake.  That dog's barking again, (the one down my street).  Can hear it, outside the window, muffled, or behind a fence.  It's ugly, this bark, it's undisciplined, and anything triggers it.  Anything sets it off.  It's never-ending barrage of primal vocal chords just further reminds me that trying to nap, trying to get mail without someone approaching me at the mailbox, -trying to do anything on this street is fucking useless, and all my neighbors, friends and facebook people must think i'm dead, they must think I don't care, and quite honestly...

I don't.  

   This generation, I don't understand them, especially in America.  They're lost, they're confused, they're into some weird shit I just can't relate with.  Dubstep.  Raves.  Plugs, and stuffed animal backpacks.  Elmo.  Shit like that, and The Voice or Twilight or Kobe Bryant and the Lakers.  I don't understand it all, and secretly wish not to be a part of this industry, or work my way through the enterprise.  And laying there semi-sweaty, not too hungry but all the more empty, I think about how badly I would just want to get away from everyone else dying, and me and my dogs, our woodland camo hats and m21's... We would just spend the day filming viral video clips, and firing weapons at herds of running pigs, with my bug out kit, and 4WD Polaris -back at the ranch and big screen TV, Xbox live and our helicopter... We would forget about all the late people, and co-workers that call out... We could come to terms that power isn't in the people, and the media which informs you that auto-tuned rap music is the shit, and furthermore; wearing hats that resemble animal heads are cool, and that making other people happy is the way to life, and in between trigger pulls, and recoil control, we would reflect back on the Street of Old People, on the Street of Scared Community and friend's brothers being shot and killed at their front door... We would remember Club Tempo, the pool hall down the street from a house I grew up in, when kids ran the snack bar, when kids ran the basketball courts, and gas was less than two dollars.. All the young families, grilling and listening to tapes, when they seemed so happy... It makes me sick really, to think my tax dollars, (or just my currency in general) are being circulated to pay for MTV's latest hip-hop rotation, or the latest political campaign filled with lies -transmitted via tube, via "devil box" to the person brainlessly sitting there, on their hemorrhoid-ridden ass, and it hurts not to see anyone else standing up for this shit, or their dreams, or just their identity as fully-functioning, clear headed adults.  Defending themselves, cutting people short.  It's un-inspiring, this whole economy, this whole situation, so I've held onto what little inspiration I can get, and milk the words of somebody who sees this whole thing from atop a perch, and it's not about money, it's not about the kinda numbers we will never see again, it's not about sales or pie charts that remind us how successful we are -across the board, and the kinda digital capitol we search for.. it's about being successful at living your own life and inspiring others to go out and get the happiness of their choice, the meaning they find and imprint in the marks of their experience.      

   and if it were truly up to me, I'd make my living as an artist, and getting people to think, getting people to question the ideology of their lives, looking deep into how their passed has shaped them, and how it helps contribute to their little village today and hopefully, undoubtebly inspire them to multiply themselves ten-fold, get them to see that every voice matters when it's building up, when it's putting down...

                                                                          [Rasberries]
                                                                                                haha.

1st.

Woke up, with some things on my mind, another bad dream last night.  Strapped on (literally) my new shoes, running.. watch too, but went for it, out of my house; 0415 hours or some shit, 0415 out in front, fog hanging over, and a gray sedan passing (headlights on), and up the first hill, thinking to myself:

• hotcakes (3) 
• bacon
• sausage 
• eggs
• extra syrup
• hash browns 
• and a muffin. 

   Anyway, no really (that was serious) but anyway, fucken...sometimes we get an apple, and on the outside there's a spot, a big black one, discoloration on the red, and the spot of brownish apple we see inside this hole makes us wonder, makes us question if the rest of the thing is just the same.  If the rest of the thing is just as rotten?  If it's even worse... and after a few bites -walking into the store, you have the confidence, (because you know what's in the bank account), what you want is here, and what you saw on the outside, wasn't the entirety at all, and instead of being hungry you are set... the third time will be easier than the first -if you can hang...       

snapping a picture

   Boxes in hand, walks out.

   "I'm quitting this job, -fuck this place."  He said.

   About half a minute later, not even after a few seconds from when he was gone... I run around the corner, and into his (former) office.  Raid the bitch...

   Supplies, highlighters, pens, paperclips, staples, and a calculator.  I needed to re-up, and took his envelopes too, the Vanilla kind.. 8.5x11.. Those are hard to come by, and took some "post-its" too, the sticky notes, the kind I can write absurd numbers on, the kind I can leave around my office -with false notation and fake phone numbers, giving the appearance that I work hard...Sitting in the office, waiting for the phone to ring and walking to everyone's cubicle, individually telling them i'm going to "break the seal" and nodding at them, waiting for some eye contact and a nod back to tell me I can use the bathroom now.

   That awkward moment when you tell a complete stranger you have to "drain the lizard", and subsequently stand there, waiting for their approval.


   returning to my desk (the one I sing at)  I think about how annoying it must be to work with me, when I dedicate songs to people, and proceed to bust out all the lyrics from Mariah Carey's "Can't Let Go" single, and emotionally belt them out loud.  Vocalized enough so my Iranian boss can hear, and silently wonder if I'm being completely serious...honest about my Livescan, criminal background, and fingerprints.

   I think about that one time I got screamed at for doing 90 on the freeway, or the time he accused me of masturbating in the bathroom.

   I think about how shitty this economy is, and how much of a fucking joke/waste of time it is to try, and attempt to maybe, possibly sell a car to some Southern Californian, oriental Chinese low-baller...and staring at the phone, watching the seconds tick by on a digital clock... I remember all the other jobs I've had, and how great it is to keep a list of all the people i've seen fired from this current location.  I think about what it must be like... totin' around old pictures of yourself, back when you were "in the scene" with a Coors Light in your hands, and a smile on your face.  Everyone in the picture -gone, except for you.  Last one here, -with thin, receding hair and people that fix your car in secret.

   I think about how great it must be to finally fucking leave this place.  Finally do it big, when Jay-Z's "Somehow, Someway" finally becomes real, finally happens to a used car salesman, when it finally happens to me...

"Bryan..." He says.  I turn around from pretending to mark up some imaginary list in my folder...
"What's up Todd?"
"I'm quitting this job, -fuck this place."

   We shake hands for the last time, and even though we weren't cool all along... He says nothing to anybody else, silently gathers up the things he's packed, and with his boxes stacked, boxes in hand, opens the door, and walks out.

R Coaster.

Falling from the strap, the motorcycle you rode.

   Weaving passed, the children in cars, camera crew rovers; Your daughter on the back, it all made sense.  Wave one hand (throttle side), weaving passed; It all made sense.  Out of sequence candy clips, you wore a helmet riding, but didn't think (or) question twice, the safety of a thousand yells, and rotor tracks.  Metal grinds, a spark flies.  

   We watched in slow-motion, the replays of your arrival.
   We watched in slow-motion, the exit of a soul.

   Atop a building as you fell, fall down.  The people scream, at a thought of an accident, at a slip of a strap. slipping the belt, spin and hurdle, slip the belt, tussle pull.    

   Weaving passed, the crowds of people: Seeing your wife cry, at the son she lost -it all made sense.  Your mother aches, for the husband she lost -it all made sense.

   Close your eyes, it all makes sense.  

Uh Huh (Volume 5)

x.b.l.

   I almost crashed an SUV the other day... With three of my friends in it.  We were doing about 75 on a busy freeway (the 15, Northbound), and merging into a lane, some other person decided that was the best time to merge right in with me.. almost took us out, crowded time, cars glinting all over and whatnot.

Right after I avoided the collision I, (myself) almost caused, I said this:

   "Don't worry guys, I play alot of Call of Duty."

C ?

[link]my Latest book is Now on www.amazon.com. Order it, get same day shipping -all that shit.[/link]

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Someday.

   Only me, only I, -know.

   At the time, secret filming, oblivious.  And watching and listening, cutting the audio, noticed it.  Saw you.  Background.  Behind, everyone else.  Screamed at the surprise, happy day, had to be caught, dead on film.

   Before digital, on real film, view finder, black and grey.  Pressed the button, to peer through;  A happy crowd, and you in the back.  Didn't you see?

   Couldn't you see me, my camera, our red little light?

   Have it on film, and still haunts me today, what you did, throughout the time.  Nobody knows, but the film I have, the camera and me.  Hurts to think what people do when nobody's watching, but we caught you this time, oh yeah, we found the real one, the real you.

Troubletable.

   I knew I was in trouble.  Fuck, I knew I was in trouble.  No matter how I worked it out, in my
head, no matter how it played out (all over the table) I just knew it, had to be real with myself:
I wasn't winning this one.

   With three "balls" plus the Eight.. trouble, tonight.  Fuck.  My rack, my dollars, my pitcher, my
friends... They were all judging me based on this game, at "my" table in "my" bar.  Couldn't lose,
and wondered where the fuck, where the shit this all went wrong.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

   Challenging a professional,
   that's where.

   He did time in Flordia, he did time in the "four corners", and now here he is...   Greg.  Whooping my
ass at "his" game, (the one he plays for a living), and all my pride, -passed, present, and future...

It's all embarrassed,
It's all been puked on, by this decision: To play this game; this particular night.

   I fucked up,

and only a hail-mary, or group push could win this one.  Only a couple different prayers -to every
god I know, in the fourth quarter (now) could I turn this around...

pLease

you know what, I was reading this article about some teacher that moved in with a student, I guess she was 30 and her student was 18 or some shit.. a Reversal of what just went down in california or whatever, but anyways the point is, the point is: I wish something like that happened to me. Ms Brew. Wherever you are, I'm still here (and waiting)... I wanted you to take me in the 8th grade, but here I am -in 2012. I'm ready