another day, I call and never speak
and you would say, "nothing's changed at all"
and I can't feel much hope for anything
if I won't be there to catch you if you fall

chorus:
again (again we fail)
it seems we meet (meet and meant)
in the spaces (spaces safe)
in between ('tween intent)
always say (said too much)
"won't be long" (long been gone)
no, but something's always wrong

another game of putting things aside
as if we'll come back to them sometime
a brace of hopes (abrasive hopes)
And a pride of innocence (and pride in innocence)
And you would say...something has gone wrong

again (again we fail)it seems we meet (meet and meant)
in the spaces (wend our way)
in between ('tween intent)
we'd always say (said too much)
"won't be long" (long been gone)
No, but something's always wrong

and again (again we fail)
it seems we meet (make amends)
in the spaces (wend our way)
in between (between intent)
always say (looking back)
"won't be long" (not moving on)
no, but something's always wrong
something's always wrong
something's always wrong





something's always wrong - toad the wet sprocket

chameleon by numbers


i’ve been walking in the dark. i touch a wall but take away my hand quickly from what i feel each time. my mind plays tricks on me. i start believing that the white noise are pixies guiding me away. that maybe a see a glimmer of light from a far off tunnel end. thing underfoot threatening to bring me to my knees, make me crawl towards nothing with tears in my eyes.

fear over takes anger. no. they take turns leading their merry little dance in my head.

the empty quiet has been deafening since . . . i don’t remember when. my own questions bouncing around. redefine.

my skin must be turning gray. i imagine chasing my own shadows, waving my regrets like a weapon, stumbling on the road somewhere out there.

am i in a circle, a square, a triangle.

am i too far gone.

playing with my fear. enjoying being scared. looking forward to numb.

it has to rain sooner or later.
can’t wait.

blind eyes


across from the gray man, lives in its own little world, the patchwork dog. it lives in what seems to be the afterlife of a bedside table. he’s been there for a long time, his skin shrinking over his set of bones. i’ve never seen him being fed but he always has a makeshift bowl full of leftovers. mostly of rice. there is always a bowl of water.

at first i was afraid of him, thinking that an animal treated so badly would always be looking for somebody to bite. but his eyes grown cloudy from whatever sickness has gripped him seem to call out for help, compassion. nobody listens. i don’t.

i’ve never seen anybody pick on it either. perhaps peering into the box on legs to throw things at the dog. i’ve seen no one try to hurt it or throw live cigarette buts at it as my neighbors treat each others dogs. i think we all pity it but don’t know what to do.

i think it cries out loudly on some level that keeps us from harming him more the pathetic state he’s in already.

his eyes grow cloudier everyday. the chain around his neck hangs looser everyday. there is more and more food left untouched everyday. sometime i thin he’s calling out to someone i can’t see for release.

what can those cloudy eyes see?

all the changes in a week have made me dizzy. waking hours i spend dreaming like my consciousness is still in tune with the rest of the cement city. my fingers shuttling over the keys driving slaves through another mindless work day. my feet scraping the carpet tiles. it’s a wonder i don’t walk into walls. my dreams spill over to reality. i greet people who aren’t there. i shake hands made of mist and wishful thinking.

i guess the gray man on the front steps of the Baptist chapel has been showing me the way. there is no better drug to escape than my own ghosts of regret. i see him walk from store to store knowing well enough to beg for food. but the there are those times, times when he points at shadows in his mind. he screams at betrayal, at pain. for someone who has shut himself off from everything he likes to visit his emotions in such a strong way. maybe that would be the drawback. locking them away makes them more powerful when they break through.

someone's gotta hear me. i hate being alone.

slug

lazy ass bastard. i can't decide whether my body refuses or it really is too early to move. so i ask for fifteen more minutes. i toss and turn trying to fall back into sleep but the side of my face that has pillow scars is getting numb. focus. maybe remembering where i left off in my dream can edge me back. but then i can hardly remember what it was all about. maybe it was one of those pathetic dreams i get where i'm just somebody's sidekick. how much of a loser can i be? in my own dreams i have the shortest part. i bet i die in reel 2.

now i'm facing the sun with the curtain shadows killing my concentration. now i hear the dog barking. now i hear the neighbor's baby screaming its head off. i need a twilight zone moment whene everybody disappears and i don't have to go back to work. how come friday feels so far away when its monday morning?
placing the pillow over my face is supposed to fix both problems of sense of sight and sound. but now can't breath.

concentrating on another moment.

the wind in her hair. night time at the beach. before we became us. a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. trying desperately to look cool but not obviously. she talks, she smiles. a little laugh here and there. a moment in time that i wish had never moved on. a loser on the edge of making it but not. a geeks safe zone. trying but not hard enough to get turned down. just enough wit to move to the next set-up and punch line.

i feel so calm. the wind. her voice. time has no meaning. i drift.

my brother says the fifteen minutes is up.

shit. now i'll be dreaming all through work.

mitsa

my skin's set aflame. can't run cause that'll just make the heat harder to bear. everywhere is heat and hot light. the way the street gets a haze lifting off of it under the summer sun. my bones seem to be the source of the heat. a pain that goes to somewhere in my stomach. can't think straight. can't see straight. my mouth is unbelievably dry, cracking lips can't shout. no glass of water can quench this. my mind races any which way.

the color red, hoping to infect somebody else with this fever. yellow makes it easier for other people to see what i'm thinking. then there's the white unerneath it all. scorching. uncontrollable. it grabs what it can in my mind to feed itself.

sweat drips on my chest. i realize i've been gripping the arm rests too hard.

myghad

that can't really be the color of her eyes. her hair too straight. every item she is wearing says fashion. in one hand a mobile phone she is typing into. the other hand taps a cigarette onto an ashtray. a cold coffee drink cup on the table beside her bag. i'm sure she's a nice person under all the labels. her face seems like she's bored with everything even the person she's frantically typing a reply to.

it doesn't look like she's here for a particular reason. pretty sure she doesn't have a normal desk job by the time i see her there. she is very attractive. i couldn't look away.

she looks like she has the life i want to have. no real cares just getting from one point of entertainment to the next. i'm on the other side of the glass at a fast food place trying to eat, but i can't look away.

maybe this should be considered as some sort of sin.

tebili

the little girl stood beside the lamp post in midday. the flower necklaces she was selling in one hand. the other hand scratched at her head. her hair looked dirty. in fact she looked like she hadn't washed since the last rainfall. i'm sure she's a cute little girl under all the soot. it seems she had once swiped across her face and smeared her cheek with something and it had caked on.

it doesn't look like she's trying hard to sell the flowers. probably just holding them for an older kid making the rounds while the stoplight is red. her face doesn't have the look of pain as i had expected. she looks calm, waiting. i couldn't look away.

she had a little dress that seems to have survived her activities quite well except for the dirt. the smoke and moving cars are everyday for her. the sun above beating down just as mercilessly as the rain i expect. i'm on the other side of glass sitting in a bus trying to get home. but i can't look away.

maybe this should be considered as some sort of sin.

glasses

i have always had bad vision. i think its from reading books 3 inches from my nose. when i got glasses early this year i suddenly realized that everybody was right: i wasn’t seeing the whole picture. it was cool that everything was so sharp, not the fuzzy outline of moving colors. but it did make my head hurt.

makes me wonder though, how much of things have i taken for granted when it came my opinion. i’m not saying that i could influence worlds to stop war but still. i do have the tendency to be hurtful when it comes to criticisms. how many times have i dished out the bad taste in my mind based on something i could hardly figure out myself? that made my head hurt.

instead of walking faster i tend to walk slowly thanks to the glasses.

page break

out the window the bright greens and the orange blanket of the sky is pulled away to reveal the gray and then that pulls away to the speckled black.

the stories are all over the place. the fat woman who got on the bus at the corner; the man who fell asleep after a drunken night in front of the doors to a computer school; the girl who keeps picking on the flowers outside my house; the guy i know who picks up women like flowers but throws them away just as easily when he tires of the scent; the woman who i watch out of the corner of my eye and have a crush on; the man who lectured me on integrity and i caught stealing company money; the woman on tv who wants everybody to just get along; the guy who selling food out of a pedicab; the person with one hand on the mouse staring too close at the moving pixels that tear pages away from his life; the woman who feels her fart doesn’t stink; the teacher who taught well and never wanted anything more to do; the student who learned later that he REALLY should have taken down notes when the older people gave him the cliff notes to life; the guitar player i’m listening to; i’m sure you’ve got one too.

mix them match them let the story play out. at some point or other everybody plays the protagonist, antagonist, foil, comic relief . . . we can’t always have the lead role. you always have to expect slow days.

if you think your life is boring now just wait till they seal the cover on you.

well here it goes

comfortable in front of the flickering screen, this time its not work. i’ve had this feeling before when thoughts would flow out through my fingers. slowly at first then the torrent comes rushing. i hear the noise like a heavenly roar before the downpour. the sound tells me of weight of speed . . . for some reason i’m happy and scared. damming it up is always useless, i end up drowning in something.

everyone sees things through glasses smoked by each of our biases. is anybody really objective? i question motives when people speak to me. i know that we shouldn’t but i’m cautious that maybe someone’s out to hurt me; get something out of me. i’ve looked ahead i don’t want to be the person who feels used or hoodwinked after the dust settles. i want to be the person laughing at the sun, feeling good about doing something for somebody else. and yes i also think about what i can get out of a situation. looking out for number 1. not very often i hope. its not much of a life always looking behind my back, checking for stab wounds.

a flash of lightning. the screen flickers again. the taste in my mouth drowned out by the cold. i’m always sitting down and always somewhere else.