father time

somedays i wonder what's going to happen to you when it's all said and done.

when that body of yours is all used up and you can no longer fend for yourself.

will you come to me?

will you show up on my doorstep and extend a withered olive branch.

and stare at me with empty glassy eyes and recite your plea bargain that you skillfully plotted and rehearsed a hundred times over.

"i have no one else to turn to."

and

"i thought about you everyday."

and

"i wanted to call but a day would pass into a week.

into a month.

into a year.

and i felt too guilty to contact you at all"

and of course the occasional

"i love you"

thrown in for effect and to weaken the knees.

past full grown, past your prime, withering away before me, still nothing but a child.

grasping out for a tit to suckle and restore your youth.

glossy eyed and at my front door.

and i wonder...

will i care?

and i think about your funeral.

sitting in cold stale air.

people scattered amongst pews, like flakes of dust glinting in the rays of sun.

watching family cry and mourn you lost mortal soul.

what's left of you crammed into a wooden box, on display for all to see.

and i wonder...

will i care?

will i shed a single tear for you?

or will it be a repeat of that day on my doorstep.

when i decided to step back and swing that huge wooden door shut.

blocking out those glossy eyes.

clasping that brass door knob in my trembling hand.

that was my final good bye.

now i stare down at your closed eyelids and paled skin.

my hand is not trembling.

my eyes are not glossy.

you are just a man crammed into a well crafted wooden box to me.

i don't know you.

and i said my last good-bye on a doorstep a long time ago.

a time and a place

on the day you decided to kill yourself.

you began to give a certain importance to things.

to everything.

what used to have no sentimental value or even any reason to pay your mind, now holds profound meaning.

an almost enlightened value.

it now is saturated with importance and value, much like an over absorbed sponge, oozing out details of it's new god like status.

but when all things, great or small, hold the same high value, they will inevitably numb each other out.

an over stimulation, rendering your senses dull.

too much for any mind or spirit to handle.

thus you feel numb and empty again.

drowning in an abyss of over stimulation.

but the flowers they hold new meaning.

a butterfly is no longer just a glorified moth.

it is now more beautiful than any creature to grace this earth.

the touch of another human being is more powerful than any drug.

but it all means nothing.

you are numb.

and dulled down to a round point.

and this is when the decision was made.

that this is to be the day,

you kill yourself.

A mouse. A mice. A meases.

The reason I do some of the things I do.

Behave the way I tend to behave.

And on rare and far between occasions, enjoy the things I enjoy.

Psychoanalyze yourself sometime.

It can be a riveting thing.

Try and figure out why you fall in the same pitfalls time and time again.

How you find yourself in toxic and loveless relationships.

Track down that dark and dirty secret in your past, the one that embarrasses, hurts, and pains you to no end.

Dig it up.

Pull that skeleton out of the closet dust him off and politely ask if he would care to dance.

That one thing you hate about yourself, that little critter that lives in your head and makes you do the thing you despise most about yourself.

Take a finger insert it into your nose push as hard as humanly possible and attempt to give yourself a full frontal lobotomy.

More than likely, leaning to the likely, you will find yourself in an ER waiting room next to a man attempting to get off in strange and unusual ways you have never dreamed of.

Those stories you hear about people loosing limbs in the most spectacular ways.

One of these people will be there as well.

Crowded in a room next perverts, weirdos, sex fiends, and addicts, and you didn’t even have to break a crime for such a vibrant grouping.

Or you can simply try to rid yourself of that little critter in your mind, the one who holds that darkest secret, and reminds you of it at your weakest and proudest moments.

Your subtle reminder that you are not the angel you think you are.

Well just try, one day instead of wiping him out, ask him “Why?”

Find out where he came from.

Scrap around that vast and empty mind of yours, no offense, and try to find out what the source is.

Ground zero to your one true mental issue.

Or take the easy way out, but if you do, may I suggest you try a pencil or chopstick.

The majority of the time, the human finger is much too wide and incapable of getting deep enough into the nasal cavity to do any real damage.

Good luck

and

Godspeed

i truly do not no where to begin... i love this, endless reasons

Hello to Eve.

The first truly feminine cigarette- it's almost as pretty as you are.

With pretty filter tip.

Pretty pack.

Rich, yet gentle flavor.

Women have been feminine since Eve.

Now cigarettes are feminine.

Since Eve.

Also with menthol.

boom for real

built for darkness.

built by light.

built with beauty.

built through pain.

built for creation.

built for destruction.

built by memories.

deconstructed by all.

each piece part of a being.

decompressed and decomposed.

still here.

still present.

still the most radiant child.

boom for real.

First "adventures of..." sketches

1964

is it so hard to believe in substance these days.

living a life that values love and thoughts over a monetary value of notes and bills.

to find that one or two or three things that suit your fancy.

those one, two or three things thats value is only denoted by how it makes your heart race and your palms sweat.

you can spend a lifetime lying to yourself.

trying to prove you value them more than anything else.

preaching up and down til your blue in the face about those one, two or three things.

and you know where that will get you?

what it will get you?

i do.

i've been chanting the same lines for longer than i can remember now.

it gets you one thing.

and it is not one of those one, two or three things that glaze your palms or speed your heart.

it gets you fuck-all.

nothing but a sore jaw and blue lips.

and over the years your palms dry and your heart steadies to a slow monotonous beat.

before you know it your down to one or two things that make you clammy.

and faster than you can bat an eye it is down to one.

one single thing.

and with time you'll look around and begin to notice those cracks, those lines digging deeper into your skin.

you feel your bones aching for no apparent reason.

in these times you realize you have a favorite chair.

and that chair it is weathered worse than those bones and that skin of yours.

hurting and cracking more with each passing minute.

slowly falling apart like a monument to unsuccess.

old and failing.

decaying.

and gone.

faded and eroded with that clock of time ticking slowly away.

palms dried up as dry as the sahara.

and your heart pumping nothing but air.

no one.

no two.

no three.

chief

painted this for a

tribute to the trail of tears

play it as it lies

our problem was, and still is for that matter, we were much too alike her and i.
not the kind of similar in the sense that we enjoy the same foods, a shared interest in music, or a drastically matched view on politics or weather.
not to say we had nothing in common, as we did and do.
she enjoys talking, i enjoyed listening.
we both adored the silence.
but our problem would lay solely in the fact that we were much too much alike her and i.
in how we viewed the world, bleak yet hopeful.
how most people and thing can be seemingly uninteresting, including ourselves.
the phrase "on my own terms" actually meant something to us.
and no matter how big our hearts are, most of the time, good luck trying to find them.
and this is where the problem truly lies.
we are so used to cutting people out, if we even let them in, and setting up boundaries to keep from feeling.
for the both of us it had become as common as breathing.
and there it is, there's our problem.
each breath between the two of us carried us further away from each other.
so we are left repelling each other like magnets.
all i can hope for is that old dogs can learn new tricks.

sleepless knights

none of these people have really never made much sense to me.

i've never been able to grasp onto what or how any of them felt or thought.

the weird, the normal, the nice, the pricks.

i have been secluded not by choice, mine or theirs.

but by some twist of fate or a chemical or astrological imbalance in the universe.

i feel as if most the time i look straight through people.

not to their souls or peer into their unconscious.

just through them.

they are as clear as window panes and all i can see is the scenery behind them.

sheets of empty glass floating through the streets.

dancing amongst each other careful not to touch and shatter into a miniature snow storm.

flakes and shards, but all the while still see-through.

only rarely do i find a stained glass window.

a window that i am incapable of looking through or past.

where instead the scenery from behind its view are shone through.

even if it were possible to look through and catch a a glimpse of the scenery behind,

it would hail in comparison of the beauty right in front of my eyes.

millions of colors lite up in a mosaic of pictures and stories.

everything that needs to be said about these people is presented at every moment, in full view.

even at night their beauty is transformed by the moonlight, showing me more each sunrise.

always ablaze.

always beautiful.

these windows i chose not to see through not on my free will but by some twist of fate, some chemical or astrological imbalance of the universe.

even in the dark i can sense their beauty.

the scales can tip on a universal scale.

the planets marbles of weight.

and a countless number of panes of glass gliding about.

careful not to touch.

careful not to shatter into those tiny cosmic snow storms.

if only

sometimes i wish i were a better person.

and in those times, i ask myself;

well i guess i don't know what i ask myself.

i just stare blankly into the mirror as i brush my teeth.

then the tears form.

it's a terrible day when you can't even face your own self.

so sometimes, i wish i were a better person.

and in those times, i tell myself;

"you may not want to brush your teeth today."

but i always do.....

a mild drug. "fuck you dr. suess"

give me one that's not insane
give me one who's good and plain.
maybe one who's nice and kind.
not the one's that have lost their minds.
give me one with a soul.
give her to me as a whole.
maybe one who's not insulting.
not the one's that live by flaunting.
give me one who's right for me.
half-insane and born in flames.
maybe i need them with half a mind.
and an empty soul that matches mine.

work

the beginnings of my very first book.

capsizing

the better half misses you without you being gone.

knowing in a short while i am having you cut from my life like a cheap fabric pattern.

imagining waking each and everyday without those eyes floating about until they catch mine unsettles each and every nerve.

i miss what is yet to be taken from me.

even the notion turns my stomach.

rising tides of bile churn away putting that rotten sickness in the pit of my gut.

then you pass by again and the waves subside, only for a moment until you are gone from my sight and the ocean breeze swells and i feel that slight sting building like a hurricane.

i have no shelter and this boat was never meant for sea worthy travels.

i can hear the waves crashing on the shores and the tide will never break.

stranded and capsizing.

muffled

i miss that warm feeling of a body being pressed against mine.

thin sheets falling into the nooks and crannies between our bodies and curled up limbs.

the glow of her skin as the first stream of light breaks through the blinds.

the millions of dust particles dancing gracefully through the air.

only to be caught for a split second in the beam of light breaking the darkness.

then off into oblivion.

the sound of her heart beating, muffled by layers of skin and bone.

just barely audible with and ear pressed tight against her breast.

the consistent rhythm of the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes through her dreams.

that soft warm bare flesh pressed against mine.

breathing in and out through those dreams.

lost dreams

i am beginning to fear the idea of the end of days is being played out to me in my dreams.

each time i fall head long into my dreams i met by close and personal friends, women i have loved, and select family members.

it begins much like any typical dream of reunion of lost friends and acquaintances does.

faces strapped with giddy smiles and glossy eyes.

small talk, chatting of years lost to time.

slowly but surely the mood begins to darken.

years of suppressed anger and jealousy bubble through one by one to the surface of the water to a slow rolling boil.

hateful words are thrown about freely.

fists fly like anviled butterflies.

and from this point on it becomes apocalyptic.

visions of tornadoes knocking on my front door.

i'm left devising ways to protect the seemingly innocent.

gigantic prehistoric birds ripped straight from the pages of a vonnegut novel roam the twisted and fiery skies.

what at first looks like a beacon of light sent from the heavens parting the clouds.

a ball of energy pulsates from the center of the beam and swells the sky. and the white beam strikes black and is surrounded by rolling balls of orange similar to a 10 ton atom bomb.

so much energy that even from viewing miles away you are pushed back by the breeze.

then the race begins amongst the hundreds of scrambling mice.

to "safe" and lowered grounds.

thoughts of jealousy are long gone, replaced by looming thoughts of survival.

and i'm thrown back to that beautiful harmless beam of light.

how peaceful and serene it made me feel.

the last words uttered by a woman in a red dress.

before the screams and profanity.

even during waking hours it resonates in my ears.

"it's god's cleansing touch."

god sure does have a funny way of cleaning up his mistakes.

a small child kicking and screaming amongst a warehouse ground scattered with toys.

smashing whatever may get in his way.

and he has decided to show me his temper tantrums in my mind's slumbering eye.

i can deal with thoughts of despair and destruction during the day light.

just leave my dreams be.

it's the only innocence i have left.

metronomics

it's amazing to me how sometimes it comes and goes as frequently as it does.
complete infatuation dissolves into that dull void.
that murky feeling creeps up on you and your interest weens.
your mind takes over and you begin to question each and every detail, every glance, every word muttered between quivery lips.
it has become a part of your cycle.
turning loads of laundry over in your mind.
the value of each step has been softened.
echos on wood floors replaced with muffled stiff feet.
that monotonous pattern tapping the needle of a metronome.
each click louder than the next, pounding a drum against your ear.
so you move in time with the beat and your interest wanes a little more with each swing of that arm.
a tick becomes a tock, then on and on.
i just want the motion to stop.
to cease.
leave me be in that time when there were no drums.
no metronome knew of my existance.
back when i only heard the beating of a heart muffled by bone, flesh, and emotion.

it's a cover up

apparently someone doesn't appreciate my point of view on god and satan's epic feud.

my friend/step-brother cody gomes sent me this photo, it made my day.

which is today, so this is my day being made, today.

two guns, and the meeting of ninja mike: part two

this is not an unfamiliar site in these desert lands.

an empty and abandoned building is as common place as stars in the sky, and just about as frequent, depending on where you're viewing.

remanence of civilization scatter the ground as far as the naked eye can see.

rusted spray paint cans, broken guitars, gears and switches belonging to god knows what clutter my mind and give my feet suitable trinkets to kick about.

a wooden fence, incapable of keeping anything out, directs you windingly past two ancient gas tanks, decorated with a cowboy and a davy crockett doppelganger, towards an empty kidney shaped pool and that sore thumb of a KOA building.

the aura of this place makes my skin crawl. something is off about it, and i definitely do not feel any sense of comfort, but my fascination of this place is unfleeting.

i make my way into the A framed structure, to witness what looks like a construction site half finished during the destruction part of the process.

holes in walls give a clear view into connecting rooms.

each step is chosen carefully as to not step on something that will result in the need of a tetanus shot. 

i now realize why so many spray cans clutter the grounds outside, as i walk the interior of this buildings halls.

crude messages and drawings of paint, muddle the walls "jimmy loves suzie" "hank wuz here" "fuck you!!", hardly a stretch from our primitive cave man paintings.

a solid kick to a stubborn bathroom stall door, reveals nothing more than a decaying toilet.

just as i'm about to get my fill, at this former gas station, i get a jolt to my system.

when in an abandoned camp ground stranded in the middle of nowhere, and you suddenly hear another human's voice crack the air, it tends to send a cold stiff finger grazing down your spine.

that's when i do a turn-about seeking the source of this voice, i see the silhouette of a shaggy looking vagabond staring down at me from the top door of the A-framed building.

this is ninja mike.

two guns, and the meeting of ninja mike: part one

somewhere deep in the mountains a subtle hint of a breeze emerges.

slipping between branches and limbs.

leaves and evergreen needles shake the wind.

firing off a harmonious orchestra of what sounds like a million rattle snakes tails warning the clouds.

the breeze runs through gaps and grooves of the mountain drawing speed and energy.

going from a gust to gale force winds.

flowing into valleys and across a desert plain.

it has slowed it's pace now and toys with a tumble weed, skipping it across the baron terra.

up and over a ridge.

in front of my own eyes sheltered behind a sheet of glass and across a vein of concrete raised above the earthen skin.

and that is when i spot it, exit 230, Two Guns, Arizona.

if the land could reminisce, it would tell you it's tale of fires, due to arson,

an indian genocide, numerous curses, and failed empires.

but the land can only speak to those who truly have an ear readied for listening.

by the looks of the dying buildings and scarred land, no one has cared to open an ear in decades.

i pull along the powdery red dirt path and slip my car into park.

i can't help but sit and stare at this forgotten child in the sun.

weathered away by the years of sand blasted winds.

what's left of stone and mortar built homes are sanded smooth as tan glass.

the skeleton with the least decay is an old A-framed KOA camp ground building, turned gas station, turned empty.

this is two guns arizona.

misinterpreted moments in history by paul rossi

misinterpreted moments in history:

so this biblical battle between god & satan was merely a dispute amongst roommates.

satan was always up late partying all the time, and god had a solid nine to 5.

they had a house meeting and the devil got the boot.

then satan got his own pad.

thus a heaven and hell.

the devil made his way down to georgia.

what i can not forget, i can drown

i'd drink myself into oblivion if i could.

i'd tip a bottle back so far that i'd rip a hole in the time space continuum.

if my liver could keep up we would go on fantastic journey's through the galaxy.

fueled by moonshine and other clear liquors.

i'd slip in deep and disappear in cloudy mixed drinks.

i'd have an I.V. drip installed to keep my throat from getting sore.

if my stomach could only handle the weight and balled up feeling in the mornings.

caused by gallons of hootch, and no food to absorb it.

i'd lace my beer with liquor, and that concoction with even stronger alcohol.

i'd miss reunions, anniversaries, birthdays, weddings, and holidays.

drowning each and every moment in firewater, just to watch it burn.

gutrot would be my nickname, and i'd respond with nonsensical muttered phrases.

i'd create an ocean out of drowned memories and sorrow.

i'd do this all, with bloodshot eyes.

because when you hit rock bottom, you've got nowhere to go but up.

and i may as well know how it feels.

pessimism

"In answer to the "Is the glass half empty or half full?" question, the pessimistic approach would be to pick half empty, while the optimistic approach would choose half full."

This is the picture and explanation for "pessimism" lifted straight from good ol' Wikipedia.

Well my question is.... what does it mean if you look at the glass, and think... fuck you and fuck the cup. i'm trying to get a fucking drink of water here, not psychoanalyze my life with liquids. 

better question is: if that glass was filled with whiskey, and you ask anyone i know, if it's half full or half empty... you'll get a resounding "half empty" response from almost each and everyone. i think it all depends on what's in that little glass there. not like this is "signs" by m. knight however the fuck you spell his name, and we are waiting around for aliens to show so we have a clue as to how to defeat them because some little girl doesn't know how to finish a god damned glass of water. and then you have to have joaquin phoenix around to "swing away".

however i may have read way to far into a simple analogy. 

drink up.

clinical depression

i'm really beginning to believe i should be treated for clinical depression.

each morning/afternoon i awake i find little to no joy in anything.

throughout the day i question the point of doing anything.

maybe a constant steady work flow would be a prescription.

possibly if i had something to do each moment of every day it may fill that void.

faint chances of happiness gleam in my eyes as i pass by mirrors.

i could stop and stare but that familiar look just comes back, does not compute.

i tried jogging once, but that just makes me want to kill myself.

and if i'm already depressed clinically, i assumed i should find another hobby.

i'd go to museums, but that causes more depression.

this is what art has become? lousy.

why isn't my work up there? it's lousy.

i couldn't make it up there anyway? lousy.

see depression.

girlfriend? friend? dog? maybe a fish? all expendable.

maybe i'll study some foreign language so the voices in my head have some ethnic diversity.

if it was up to them, they would leave me. hell i'd leave me. i've tried.

maybe i'll move to portland and become an author, they all seem to live there.

maybe i should start writing books first? which came first the chicken or the egg?

either way i'm not getting arrested for screwing the hen, again.

mon capitan

this is "the captain". he is 81. he was my neighbor for over a year. i really don't know how to sum this man up in words. everytime i try to even come close.... some other story involving him and his wife re-enters my mind, and it just throws it all off. i'll try to encompass him periodically through-out this blog, with stories, and unbelieveable wild rides. for example; timothy leary once tried to pay "the cap" for his services with a mason's jar of yellow sunshine acid during the 70's.  not too bad at all.

turn on.

tune in.

drop out.

work history of the world part 3

job i've occupied:

1. school cafeteria dish washer - i was that kid

2. mr. b's pizza - making pies and playing dough golf... highly unsanitary

3. almega/tru-flex wire - i was a master of custodial arts... dick

4. banc-one - data entry... i basically ran the matrix

5. student rick merch guy - dream job at 20

6. superior contracting - me... building and destroying house and land... best job ever

7. some douche contractor in LA - saw terrible construction ideas and follow through.. terrible

8. sperm donor - any future son of mine... i apologize. sorry.

9. website logo design - punks on skateboards... i can dig it

10. 118 boardshop - hollywood - hi my name is life changing corruption.... nice to meet you

11. LiveNation - employee #2994583329. the devil finally made his deal sweet enough.

12. ValSurf - i loved this place. wish i would have realized it more then. i heart nate kaufman.

13. burton/channel islands/alien workshop - ha... hahaha... ahhhhh how did i not get fired. josh.

14. tada catering - fuck my life for life. but i love those fuckers.

15. unemployment recipient - thank you... i guess

i may have missed a few here or there.... but for the most part thats it. ohhhh i did work at aaron brothers for one day. i had to call in and tell them i would need a small hiatus from  work a day before my second day. but on my own behalf.... i was working for the rolling stones at dodgers stadium.... just to think if i would have just done that second day... maybe right now... i paul rossi could be assistant store manager at an aaron brothers art supplies chain store in southern california. some things can't be undone.... damn it.... if only... ohhh and i had to actually fire myself. not quit... i fired myself. the conversation went along these lines:

me: hey, it's paul rossi. i started last night stocking the store, it was my first day.

manager: oh hey paul. how are you?

me: i'm alright, just doing my government issued taxes.

manager: ohhh gezz! tell me about it. last year my mom owed $20,249 in back taxes.

me: wow! that is something else.

manager: yeah isn't it!? ever since then i've been strict on staying on top of my finances.

me: believe you me. i hear ya.

manager: yep.

me: mhmm.

manager: mmmm

me: well, hey i was calling to say, i won't be able to make it in to work on thursday. i just got booked to do 10 days with the rolling stones at dodgers stadium in southern california. off of sunset blvd, just take a left at elysian park ave. think blue. so i won't be able to come in for my 3 scheduled days of work.

manager: well, gez. ummmm.

me: yeah, i kind of have to take it, it's a lot of money, and well, to be honest it's the rolling stones. at dodgers stadium. 1000 elysian park ave.

manager: well i understand.

me: yep.

manager. mhmmm.

me: welllll.

manager: yes?

me: ohhh nothing my friend was asking me if kurt russell, was in "the thing"... i said yes.

manager: the thing?

me: yeah... are you kidding me. he slays in that movie.

manager: what's it about?

me: listen... i don't have time to explain the plot of "the thing" starring kurt russell to you at this exact moment. i just don't think this is working out. i mean we are in different stages of our lives right now. i just started a new job, and it's really promising and i'm really going to finally chase after my dreams. i mean it this time. not like the dog grooming company idea. i have to do this for me. and i can't have any interruptions in my life. i need to alone to think about all of this. i promise you... it's not you... it's me. i mean that.... not just saying that like everyone always does. i mean it... from my heart. i just need to find myself.

manager: i get it no... i really do. i just... i wis....

me: shhh.... shhhh. no. it's okay to cry.

manager: sniffle

me: shhhhhh. it's okay.... it's okay... shhhh.

manager: but... bu..

me: shhhh... shhhh. shhh..... sh.

something like that.. maybe not verbatim.. but something like that.

the sabbath

i don't work on the sabbath... le'chaim!

a wee bit of paint

things to do when it's raining...

window panes

i see all things through encrusted panes of glass.

covered from years of built up filth and grime.

jaded eyes stare out blankly constantly searching for answers, or a means to an end.

as everyday slowly turns and the sun shuts out the light

it becomes a task just to see anything at all.

these panes become more polluted with each passing moment.

i try to wipe them clean and all i can manage to do is smear the images around and distort the world worse than it was before.

soon enough it will get so bad that all light and images seen through these tarnished veneers will slip into only memories and all i will be surrounded in is darkness.

i can only hope that one day pure hands will come and wipe this darkening veil.

and i can see through clean panes once again.

only to find that the world i was viewing all these years is more soiled and covered in filth than my window panes ever were.

return of the MINUTE MEN

in trying times

when your freedom is in jeopardy

and you fear your common man

call on the

MINUTE MEN

to those

to all of those with faith in unknowing.

to all those who turn the other cheek.

to all of those mindless drones carrying out senseless tasks.

to all of those with families.

and to all of those without.

to all of those with ailments dreamed up in fairy tales.

to those with half a mind.

to those cut down in their prime.

to those who try to right a wrong.

to those who are not afraid to dance.

to all of those who dream of dreaming.

to those who stiffle their own mind's eye.

to all of those afraid of towering heights.

to all of those lost and wandering souls.

give in.