All the Cliches Were True and Beautiful

[written on drugs in the woods]

Youth always languished in me like an innocent I had kept in an ivory tower, playing with it in younger years; a friend, something familiar by accident.

The colors came as fresh as the day, and it was only later in my years when I saw them dissipating in the horizon that I realized how unexplainable they were. I had taken the colors for granted, which is a trait all men carry like a badge. We will take things for granted and we will look for the next day. How foolish it is to only believe in the past and the future. Not the now, never the now. The present is for the weak, because you can’t honor it and you can’t defeat it.

This feels like the first time I saw a cartoon while eating Alfredo sauce for the first time.

You can move in any direction. The idea of walls is the most childish notion. We are capable of building an entire god. A pitch keeping weight to a picket fence is laughable if it was anything to even begin with.

A writer is a master of his own world and it’s too much power to stay sane with.

I’m half giraffe and half sloth.

I can endure anything. I might actually be immortal.

This is a test.

Nothing is real.

All the cliches were true and beautiful.

That’s what I was looking for, this whole time.


Why didn’t we love them AND everything?

America has the worst mantra: “Anything is possible; nobody cares.”

It’s not even the sassiness. It’s the apathy. At least with sass comes the heart. Death comes from nothing and you can’t breathe life back into it, no matter how much you want to use your love for someone as the nation’s new clean energy.

God, you have love.

It sickens you.

Maybe it’s for existence.

Maybe the women were muses.

Maybe the women were noise.

Maybe this was always more than me and my problem was self-focus. Self-focus and want are all that have destroyed the world.

I’ve always thought of each person as light trapped, wanting to explode. Be released, an entity so boundless it can save everything.

I just started wondering what the market price is to save everything.

I’ve always been an intellectual weasel (with a weasel intellect); a bookworm with a craftiness.

I came into this world where landing on the moon was old news.

Do you, dearest idiot, realize how fucking batshit that sounds?

Do you remember the Old West?

Do you remember looking up at the stars and wondering?

Do you even realize that Heaven is something you build?

That moment is the tragedy, realizing we all want the same thing, but only the dreamers will save us.

I feel like I’ve been alive for hundred years, which is not how The Moment should feel. That’s what TM should be, not trade mark. Who gives a fuck about patents and copyrights when we were born into, after, or because of the epilogue?

That’s the problem with this generation, this year, this country; we’re the epilogue and we think we’re the first chapter.

So, once again, only the readers will save us.

The monks were artists, sure, but the Christians were merchants and all of it was pointless.

I just realized how good my life is.

I’m working in the woods on drugs.

And I’ve been working through the cycles of America.

I’m too old-school high for this now — like 16 years old at a friend’s house, not like I’m about lead the Earth.

This is a Disney adventure of life.

This is the way life was given to us.

And yet the world is dying.

We destroyed the only world we had.

And we think we’ve been figuring out the narrative.

We had centuries to figure it out and we’re still warring.

We are in the dystopian days.

And we keep looking at Epcot as the future.

The future left us 40 years ago.

Do you realize how terrifying that is?

Tomorrowland sounds dated.

That will fuck you up forever.

And it should.

This is the truth.

We got what was coming to us.

We are the Doomsday, in the bunker, pretending the world is wonderful and perfect and not unbroken. But we destroyed it and that’s a sentence I can barely write.

We were given the Garden of Eden and we let it go like a breeze or a history page; which maybe the past was always old movies…?

Everyone keeps acting like everyone else did a better job before us.

But this is our first shift.

Everyone alive is doing their first shift.

Past lives are old wardrobe.

What you did now matters, and that’s something history books only catch right sometimes; it’s just a matter of looking up at the right time. Everything else is everything, so wait for the nothing spotlight.

Do you want to be the character or the author?

That’s what doomed Hemingway. He was a real person who ventured into the fantasy.

We’re not saving anything.

We’re just trying to be the final word.

We think ourselves the final period on the gigantic epic and we can just restock the typewriter when we feel like it.

Art is nothing.

Art, by definition, is a distraction.

Even when I thought I saw the truth, it was actually part of the joke.

We will think we have it figured it out forever.

We never will.

I can’t believe we had one shot that lasted a million years.

And the internet was The Matrix that we confidently mocked, all stocked behind.

We’re stuck in the footnotes laughing at the dedication page for being too sentimental.

I can’t believe I’m writing this.

I can’t believe anybody lives through the last era.

The world was infinite.

And we chopped it up and then were stunned to learn that this joint was pre-owned.

We’re Kurt Russell laughing at Goldie Hawn aging.

That’s what the Westerner is until death.

We built the dream to last any and every year.

I think you and I have lived eons here.

What if it’s just been this, the faulty two brothers who rewrite all of existence?

Hell, all the Bible is just women waiting for us to stop pissing on each other.

It must be so exhausting to a woman.

It must just be paying the bill and watching a boyfriend/husband wrestle another boyfriend/husband. Our entire society is nothing and still we complain.

And here I dick about like a 13-year-old thinking I’m rewriting Shakespeare.

This is what will be the end of the world. This will be nuclear holocaust, just a girl waiting out the dudes.

And yet I strive for perfection, the most drug the world can give me.

A trade you’d give for a heart, the truth, all the wonderland you thought we’ve been building all this time, all while you’ve been waiting out youth, only now realizing that anything is everything and we created jobs and treehouses the same because we had too much time on our hands.

[a new narrative]

Why can’t we do this forever?

The “hired help” are the ones who put up “stay off the grass” and then charge grass for a price.

And there it was: “a moving landlord,” that’s the job to be forever. Toss in 3D if you want to but reality’s the craziest pitch. All you need is a good editor.

[hours later]

I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea.

No, worse, I thought this was a NEW idea.

We’re searching for the truth, only to find that there isn’t any. It was always within us and it was always anything we had.


The Western Dream is just reality and you keep reaching for (and, worse, selling) heaven.

The problem is nothing. The epidemic is too much of it.

Meanwhile, the mystic is the better merchant.

Christ was a magician there for fun and the Bible monetized it. All religion is the sales pitch of a guy doing nothing and being happy.

Think about that before your Yelp review about experience.

I found it. It was what they prophecized. It was the everything.

It was total happiness and…that’s what we were searching for. We had happiness and we thought that was only one ingredient.

Meanwhile, here I am, the author, an observer (but comes with experience, to see if, maybe once, they trip or get it right).

I used to always wonder why the older gent would tell the movie hero a random anecdote or fable, seemingly out of nowhere, but then I realized I ain’t the movie hero. I’m the older gent. I just threw in poetry, or at least a short story, before I saw another upstart come through again.

I’m a storyteller, and I’ve been here forever.

And even I wonder what the only known feels like. I wonder about death. It’s the only tale I haven’t tasted.

[hours later]

Who would even want to hear the tale of two drunken princes?

[hours later]

And to think, all this started because I wanted to tell the world that youth peels off like dead skin. What more could you do than want it? What more could you do to keep it?