Doldrums · Writing & Writers

“Bring me back to life”

Caption Here

I decided to do a 21-day-challenge for April, being the National Poetry Month. The links back to the blog I found it on, by the way.

I’ve thought a lot about how I got to this point in my life. It’s thanks to a buddy of mind who posted a certain Dr. Dre song feature Eminem and Skylar Grey. And I’m having trouble admitting that it’s probably time to put things on hold, get a real job and figure some shit out. But part of me wants to run away from those thoughts.

A few years ago, Richard Yañez told me a writer has to put everything else on hold to mold yourself, perfect your voice and your craft. Now I’ve put off so many things and wondering why I’m actually doing all this. There comes a time in everyone’s life when you just gotta choose which path you want to take and I think I’ve at that fork in the road where I gotta choose the life of a responsible adult or continue on this path until I get that option again. I can tell say that I don’t know how much longer I can put it off before I wake up and find all that I worked so hard for not sleeping soundly next to me.

Maybe I’m not a natural writer. Maybe I just fooled myself because I thought the glory of reading my work in print was something to look forward. But how much longer can I just say “fuck it” and continue on dreaming? I have the support and I have the praise, but do I have the gift that turns a word to a phrase to something meaningful that will change the lives of others?

There’s so much I can do. Anything I put my mind to. I’m blessed with a mind that can grasp almost anything. I’m a fast learner. It came to the point when I just had to pretend I’m just an average joe. But the truth is, I’m not. I’m not average in any way. And it’s only a matter of time before every sees how much potential I’ve hidden away. How I just play this role of being “normal.”

I like jobs that leave me tired. I can’t imagine standing in front of a computer screen everyday crunching numbers. Or presenting reports. Sorting things out. I get bored easy. “Smart” white-collar jobs bore me, despite my ability to do them. Despite that I can be easily trained to put on that tie every morning and pretend that I enjoy all that I do. I don’t want a job where things come to me easy. My whole life has been easy. And nothing makes me feel more meaningful than being able to work with my hands. But when I apply for jobs that’ll leave me tired, I’m turned away because they accuse of me being “too smart,” of being “too good” for the job.

I’m a problem solver, but I can’t solve my own problems. I can instruct others how to live their lives, but am completely at a lost on how to live mine. And I’m tired of having to be the one to ask for forgiveness. And I’m tired of the one having to pick up the slack. I’m tired of having to stroke other’s egos. I’m tired of feeling like I’m living for nothing while I have everything I ever wanted and building an empire out of my life.

Just for one second I need to be reminded that I’m not wasting my time. That I have a gift instead of just making it up as I walk along. I just need to hear something other than, “Oh, Willie that’s the best I’ve read so far.”

And I’m tired of playing the smile. I hate having to be happy when I’m not. I’m exhausted myself being pretending to feel more than I do, or having to hide tears behind this mask. I want to feel weak and vulnerable without having someone take advantage of me. I’m tired of crying out with teenage angst that should’ve expired nine years ago. But here I go, rolling the dice. Playing the victim when I’m everybody’s hero.


Writing & Writers

“Party in the Graveyard Tonight”


Kanye ain't got nothin' on me


So I turned 28 at the beginning of the week. Some people remembered, others didn’t. Still others I didn’t give two shits if they did or not. On top of that, I also came out of hiding after much pushing from Richard Sanchez and Dr. Anne Estevis.

On the 24th, Dustin Sekula Memorial Library held a poetry reading/music night. The moment I walked in, I didn’t recognize anyone. The sheer panic of being in unknown territory (meaning around unknown people) was enough for me to concoct a get away plan. I did what any person of my mentality would. I went outside and think. And like the proverbial guidance that I so often long for, both Lady Mariposa and Richard Sanchez showed up. Both convinced me not to run and stay for the night. If you read my live tweets, you then know that I went from wanting nothing to do with the reading to being the MC for the night (don’t ask why, but I think it had to do something with the fact if I was going to feel comfortable around these people, I had to put myself out there like a whore without a pimp).

I was going to read ZITO, but I felt it was too long and thanks to the mixture of music and poetry, we were dragging on. Because I appointed myself master of this thing, it landed on my shoulders so I pretty much read a poem by Jason Walsh which later became the opening track to his EP (which you should totally buy). Along side with this, I read my short story, “12 Notes.”

I must’ve started writing “The Birthday Boy” fifteen times already – the apparent fifteenth time was earlier tonight. It’s funny because when I started it, I subtitled it “the story with multiple beginnings,” a shot at the face that several of my past posts held characters from the story.

Writing & Writers

“God, You’re So Empty”


How I imagined you carrying a flower pressed between your teeth.


I’ve given the characters Mackie and Anderson – plus the many side characters that I’ve created since – a world of their own, in which they can frolic and play. I’ve even created the femme fetale that I kept brooding in the background.

Both Mackie and Anderson are male prostitutes, who exploit their barely legal looks, enticing men to live our their deviant dreams. However their relationship is being to feel rather Dorian Gray. That’s where the femme fatale character – a redhead (go figure!) who threatens the foundation of Mackie and Anderson’s relationship.

I’ve toyed with the idea of writing something slightly erotic – even though I always feel that sex isn’t my strongest topic. And every note taking and rough drafting project deserves a working title and playlist. The working title – jokingly as yesterday was my birthday – is “The Birthday Boy.” The playlist is as follows:

  1. Treat Me Like Your Mother –  The Dead Weather
  2. It’s Not What – Skold vs. KMFDM
  3. Girl on the Floor – Ayria
  4. I See Red – Uh Huh Her
  5. This Empty Love – Innerpartysystem
  6. Electrovamp – Etylen
  7. Out of Control – She Wants Revenge
  8. Fanatica – Eisbrecher
  9. Flirt (With Me) – Zeromancer
  10. Serila Thrilla – The Prodigy
  11. Video Kid – Birthday Massacre
  12. Kill Her Off – The Ropes
  13. Stripped – Rammstein
  14. Automatic Lover – Teddybears
  15. Heaven Tonight – HIM
  16. Waking Up Beside You – Stabbing Westward

I’m aiming for a longer project that ZITO. And, of course, less horror and more sex. We’ll see where I go with this idea.

Writing & Writers

“Look it’s happening all over again”

Clocks spin forward as I walk backward

Riding on of what is left of me
you’re feeling good
have you thought about what you done
have you thought enough yet
have you done enough yet?

now i’d like to say
god only knows what we’re going through.

“Picture this,” he said. “You in your bedroom with your head cut off.” You grit your teeth and you say, “Why did I trust them? I swore I’d never trust them.” But you did.

Something in my has snapped. A final straw. The disjointed camel’s back. I find no comfort in the ways of the flesh. In the ways of being human. I want to erase my existence. Not kill myself, but remove myself entirely. Past. Present. Future. Eradicate myself so I never existed.

A process of self-obliteration conducted by an effort of the will. Pleasure, bordering on almost unendurable exstacy, comes from feeling the will working at a new task: an act of destruction which develops paradoxically an element of creativeness in the totally new application of totally free will. Learning to use the vigor of the body for the purpose of its own deletion[,] standing vitality on its head. —Vladimir Nabokov

Mackie says, “The monster’s on your balcony and he wants to join your party.”

Anderson responds in question, “Do you let him?”

The red-head with the green eyes cracks a seductive smile, “Doesn’t it feel good to be yourself in at the end?”

There is nothing you would rather do than steal a kiss from the lips of a goddess, a creature of such exquisite beauty.

They’re just voices, I tell myself and I continue on. Characters I created to identify myself in my writing.

“Explain the ballpark,” Mackie cracks up.

“Or the boy with the golden arm.”

“Do you hear the chorus of angels?” her lips crack another smile. Her eyes mesmerize me.

“I wanna take you out if it’s the last thing that I do,” I say.

“In what way?” Anderson says.

“Do tell,” speaks the red-head.

Trouble, I write. There’s always trouble. Close my eyes and they vanish. I erase them for another night. Until I can create myself. Renew myself. Express myself. The only thing I know that these characters of the night are remainders of those I’ve lost. Physically and emotionally.

Note: The quoted material at the beginning, the first paragraph and parts of the dialogue are lyrics from the band Flick. The middle quote is from Vladimir Nabokov’s posthumously published, final novel The Original of Laura.


Heads will roll


If I eat them, will I become Spider-Man?


A thick layer of dust – dirt, I should say – covered the tables. Dirt and debris coated cobwebs hung down like bead curtains. Dead bugs scattered across the floor, in the drains of the sinks. Mold covered wash clothes and scrubbers. Empty cement cleaning fluid container. Receipt rolls and straws. Krist, why can’t stadiums stay clean?

I’m the guy they call for the dirty jobs. I work miracles. This year’s miracle might be half of last year’s miracle. Last year I had better toys to play with. I had better cleaners. I had hoses that were unwounded. I look at the tear resistant hose on the floor, remembering Jeremy’s words last year when he bought them for the stadium me. Instead of a power wash, I had some stick that supposed to pressurize the water stream. I look around and I quickly wish I had a cigarette, which is sort of fucked up because I don’t smoke, have never had a smoking habit. I take in a deep breath and hope that I haven’t breathed any spores. Fuck it, let’s get to work.

It’s a day job. Last year it took me four days to clean one concession stand. But then I wasn’t on schedule then. And because I was being paid per hour. I don’t even know my payroll at the moment. And I also made the  mistake of cleaning up rather than down. By the time I was finished with the shelves and tables, the floor was a mess again. This year it’s been decided that I am clean down. I walk to the stutters and work on the one. The handle pops and nearly hits me in the face. Great. First day back and already I’ve broken stadium property. It’s inaugural. It’ll happen next year should I return. I ignore that shutter and work on the other one. Something – a baseball or bat (as Jeremy suggested) must’ve hit it – has damaged it. Possibly someone who wanted to prove his muscular physique. I toss the moldy wash clothes. I refuge to let anyone use them. Ever. Even under hot water. No. They’ve been ruined. I got it all clean. Smudges remain on the counters. Ignore them. Later. Start the water. The hose sprays me. The stick sprays me. I’m wet to the core. Fucking hell man.

I go over the four three times before working the counters with the water. Then I return to the floor. I don’t have the tools I had last year so this will have to do. It’ll pass inspection. I grab the schedule for the year and see that we’ve lost three teams – the Amarillo Dillas, the best team I ever worked with; the Coastal Bend Thunders and the Laredo Broncos. I see four new teams – the Lake County Fielders, the Rockford River Hawks, the Schaumberg Flyers – all of which are from Illinois – and the Maui Fighting Warriors (Na Koa Ikaika Maui). Along with the San Angelo Colts and Rio Grande Valley WhiteWings – my least favorite team to work with – and, of course, the Edinburg Roadrunners, these teams make up the North American League, a merger league that consists of the United Baseball League (our former league), the Golden Baseball League and the Norther League. I feel like I’ll have to start from the bottom of the barrel again. I’ve worked so hard to get the other teams to like me as clubhouse manager that I feel that this year will be a repetition. And it’s not the teams I’m worried about. I remember Brady Bogart telling me that it’s usually the manager that causes how the team behaves. And it’s true. RGV has the tendency of skipping out on me because their manager is headstrong that they don’t have to pay the dues – which they do because the Roadrunners pay their dues in Harlingen. Oh well, here’s to a new season, starting in May. With soccer games in between. Year. That’s right. Soccer games.