The Tale of one Brave Motherfucker

Play some goddamn music. Don’t worry about your hair. Don’t worry about who sponsors you. Don’t worry about people being uncomfortable. Don’t help dig a ditch for your sound. Make your sound interesting. Please continue the intelligent lyrics, please continue the manic drumming, please continue the solid bass, the chunky rhythm guitar, the things that are staples should be kept. Just try. Try to pave some new ground. Do you think, The Who, were worried about what people thought about a bass solo? Did Zeppelin think they were writing the best love making song of the 70s’? Did John Lennon think he was gonna die and write Imagine? Did anyone expect Nirvana? Did Blink 182 really believe they were changing the world by running naked? I fucking LOVE, MUSIC. It’s my life. It’s why I wake up, it’s why I sleep, it’s why I piss, it’s why I moan, it’s why I love, it’s why I cry, it’s every goddamn thing you aren’t, it’s everything I’m not, it’s everything I could be, it’s every tattoo I’m afraid of, it’s why I type this. I. Love. It. and mostly, it’s why I love you.

Rob D.

And then see

How do you battle your own beliefs?
How do you make sense of the faulty decisions?
How do you allow yourself to breathe when your a fucking moron?
How do you say hi, to yourself in a fuckin mirror?
How do you make these questions seem rushed as if you had 20 seconds to deliver your life message?
Do you just ramble?
Do you think?
Do you want to apologize to the virgin you loved now, or wait until Wednesday?
How bout we wait until Wednesday?

What else can I write for you, something that takes your mind off the problems. Something that you get. A gift of my soul. My soul trapped in mediums for your ears only. I get turned off by my voice, think my playing could be better, but you, get a song. Complete with drums, vocals, bass, guitars, and I get jealous.

Ever been a magician?

Ever cured cancer?

Ever solved depression?

Ever smiled in the face of pure anger?

Ever lived as a positive integer in a family of negatives?

Ever realize that your history means nothing to your future?

Ever forgive your mother?

Ever forgive your Dad?

Ever forgive your Brother who was Dad?

Ever been a scared mother-fucker hidden in questions?

Ever wanna say hi?

I meld into a strange house, on a strange road, in a strange city; by getting off a strange train, after getting off a strange bus, that I boarded in a strange part of the city that I traveled to from a strange route that I’m not used to taking on the New York City subway line. 

These strange occurrences happen quite often. Now my question is, how strange are these occurrences that I am currently speaking of? Not too strange, mostly just based on friendship and a natural need to travel. I feel as if my physical wanderings help locate the nomadic nature of my mental thoughts. I prefer the journey over the arrival, I feel more excited by the trip than the destination.

What is happening in every car on every highway in every city? What are those cities favorite restaurants, what are their least favorite? Who serves the best apple pie? The best milkshake? Which city has the best frozen food aisle? What city sells the cheapest buffalo wing?

Why do certain cities not sell beer at 7-11’s but allow take out beers from their finest restaurants? Why did I think that my payment towards a homeless man years ago, to find me beer in Philly, was ok? Why did it work? Why do I feel more comfortable in a city that requires social interaction over convenience? Why does this make Brooklyn seem less natural? Why is it that I come from the bar capital of the world and find solace in a dry city?

Why can’t I stop writing? Why do the words keep having meaning? Why do the sounds of this strange house interest me in a strange way? Why have those sounds become the plot line of this whole piece?

Why did I think that? Why do I keep sipping the whiskey? Oh yea.

We wait like servants for the people who make us feel correct, who make us stand erect, who allow us the opportunity to reveal our true nature; be it calm, collected, insane, detached, hellish, whatever the case by case basis, and for what? For absolution. For love infinite. For earth-quaking, tectonic plate shifting love. I wonder when, “our-self” stopped being enough. I remember a life of clinging to my family, when I was 4 and needed my mom, when I was 10 and needed my dad, when I was 15 and needed to know how to get laid, so I asked my brother. I remember these moments, but I was always comfortable with myself. When did I lose that comfort? I can tell you when I fell in love with different blood, not friendship love, but real, spinal cavity love. When I wanted to puke up my heart to give as my best present to her. That’s when the whole kingdom collapsed, that’s what archaeologists will maintain that some sort of inexplicable putrescence befell the kingdom of Rob. They will document chipped artifacts once pure as sunlight, now wilted sheen. They will discuss the caste system of Rob and how it all disseminated from the primal, infallible, almighty Rob. They will wonder how the society perished, how all beings, all cells, died off. They will recognize that a long term seclusion must’ve started the demise. Air left the lungs of the great society. Water became scarce. The society felt no need to meet appropriate deadlines. The survivors scattered into songs, others fell victim to drink, and smog. They will wonder how tragic the end must have been to the thriving pinnacle of Rob. How disastrous an end could it have been. Well picture your anus being sucked in by a black hole, and a lifeless body recoiling face first into a massive pile of maggot ridden bloody elephant diarrhea regurgitated by std ridden ostriches to feed their malnourished, disfigured children.

But there is life yet. Tiny glimmers of hope in Rob, the legends lived on and are reteaching the early ways of Rob. They are remembering what made the city so majestic. They are cleaning out the aqueducts. They are breeding life again. They are resharpening their tools, because they know that with great tragedy comes a knowledge unlearned by even the smartest of foe. There is no end to Rob, because Rob is the end all be all. Learn my children, and spread this insight to foreign lands. Be what you know you must be. Do what you love. Be. Do. Live.

A man drew a picture. The picture was of a friend. That friend was a popular person. That painting was a popular painting. What everybody forgot was how easy it was to die. The picture burned, the person who was painted died and thus their popularity died. We all die; but, what we forget is how easy it is to live. The painter lived, the friend lived, the painting lived and thusly a story is created, is lived, and will now die.

Exhausting,
terrifying,
unreal.

There is a select group of people
who already know what I’m talking about,
for the rest, well just imagine,
Anytime you eat, drink, sleep, speak,
sit, stand, lay, dance, sing or breathe
that there is a part of you that isn’t completely there.
It’s as if you become Michael J Fox’s character
in back to the future, when his parents might not meet,
I feel as if I become transparent,
and I never want anyone to see that guy.
I am petrified of letting the world know
that I can disappear at times.
I feel a complete withdrawal from the world,
I feel as if the world would be a better place without me.
I want to hide in silence, with my video games
porn, and pizza.
Silence is terrifying, thusly, the rock and roll.
Nevermind,
spin the black circle.