Archive for January, 2014

Oh How Post-Modern

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on January 19, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

I don’t want this blog to look professional. I want people to think, “Oh how grotesque.” I want you to hate it. Like really hate it and be drawn to it. I want this to be like a sweet poisonous pastime. A place of imperfection. Because imperfection is the only completely capturable essence of our humanity. All the choices we make have impact, and the medium is part of the message. And the message here is in the spelling and grammar and political incorrectness whether I like it or not. The message here is that imperfection can be pretty. Just like humanity.


To Extend the Metaphor

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on January 19, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Water always finds a way to seep through the tiny holes 

There is always a chance your socks will get wet on rainy days

And tough exteriors hide what others may call weakness

But we both can tell which lies to tell and which lies to keep away


So picking at your interior felt somewhat intrusive at first

Like taking layers off of onions, little by little revealing,

At the cost perhaps of my own sanity, your inner beauty

Unmasking what’s as sweet as the innards of a banana

And what at times is as grotesque as what animal hides hide


Knowing you, and knowing me, there’s a chance I might be dreaming

There’s a chance that our imperfections add up to just too much 

There’s a chance that we love each other way too much and that

Our self-deception on it’s own is what keeps our souls intact


But think of all the hidden pleasures beyond the plateau of our collective insecurities 

Think about this like the most expensive and most rewarding lottery ticket 

Think about the beauty that our puzzle pieces would create,  

Even if they do not fit so perfectly


The winter, I have learned, or tried to learn

Is very cold and my brown coat is far too large, and it is impossible 

To stay warm in such a large coat but once I wrapped it around the both of us

It felt for a tiny second so warm and cozy



We are, I’ve found, both too afraid of truths

Even when truths are all what’s keeping us from hurdling down a mountain which is too difficult to scale

But contemplation and wishful thinking has lead me to believe

That I’d rather have you than the summit to myself



And some part of me is sure that I am lying to myself

And some part of you is sure that you are lying to yourself

But it is perhaps this fact that makes the task at hand so intuitive

It is in fact my unease that makes me think that this is right

Death and Other Stuff

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 7, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Faded socks, charcoal, sulfurous talks

Of old men dying far too young, and chalk

Sentences on withered spines and old tree barks,

Bark out a tale of loss and tears on city blocks.

The mockingbird, so called because it mocks

My ecstasy in broken English, homeward flocks;

And me, the lonely virgin dancing dances, walking walks

Cannot perceive in loneliness my own shadow on ocean rocks.



And ships and planes that carried me alone on Sunday mornings,

Carried rust and strangled necks and spangled flags and stained gold flags.

And talks of sorrow bring tomorrow faster now, today.

Mourning in the morning the innocent, and in the night the light of day.

And when all is said, and in your head, there’s nothing more to say

Greet in spangled flags and stained gold boxes, the decay.



How quickly I have seen your tears travel down your cheeks,

And your tongue in ornate dances, grow secluded, and grow meek

Your eyes have lost their sparkle, lost their fluster, so to speak,

So to speak of old dumb boys, and old dumb girls, and to grow weak,

Grovel on the gravel like a dog who on this day became a father

Or a bitch who birthed last week

And the lord on who’s lap you’ll cry shall give you what you seek.

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