Still in It Somewhere out There

By J.W.C and Anabel Armenta

This work is hard core and not for the weakest of souls. I dont worship the devil nor do I take part in cult rituals and nor do I do much at all, hell, I am very lazy. I do not attend stuff sacred rituals because I am a lazy piece of crap. I will say this, though: this book is made up of grim and intrepid societal bush whack of uncanny proportions. There are a lot of good love stories because after all, there wouldnt be anything for anyone without some good old love. As far as this books limits, like Dirt from Hard Time Radio, 89.3 said, as he said it best: this work was put together like a horror movie and thats all it is man; and there it is. Good luck to all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 21, 2009
• ISBN: 9781469122656

Book preview

Copyright © 2009 by J.W.C.

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4415-5701-8

            Softcover         978-1-4415-5700-1

            eBook               978-1-4691-2265-6

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Contents

FROM A FRIEND

FALLEN CARDS

WIN FOR WHAT?

LOVE SUPER FLY

RE-RISING FROM RUIN

TORCHED SEMESTER OF SCHOLL

REVERSION IN REFLECTION

‘POR DAR’TELO’

POPS

A HATER IN THE MIDST

FUCK IT

DEAD POLAR BEAR

A MODESTLY PROPELLED ZONE

ME ESTAS PONIENDO

ABBOT SPRUNG ABOUT

SPRING

BREAK UP LONG OVER DUE

CREAMY

BORDER BLOOD

OLD KEY IN THE BELLY

BLACK CANDIDATE

LOVE SUBTERFUGE

GOD IS ON ME SIDE

WEATHER OR NOT UNDERGROUND

DEAR MOTHER EARTH,

THE ‘EN’ WORD

SOUL’S SERVED

HOPELESSLY DEVINE

FOOLISHLY LONGING

MAYBE I DO HAVE THE SWINE FLU

 . . . I JUST GOT DUMPED

IS THE LONELY

LA PERITA VERDAD

THE MISTRIAL OF TIO ISABEL

DRUNK AND STUMBLE IN TRAFFIC

NOT ALONE TONIGHT

THINKING ABOUT THOUGHTS

VALUE TRANSFER

FIXED JONES RUN

Dedicated to:

Fancy Nancy, Rock band: ‘Until Lenore’, Graffiti Villains: Wreckin’ Crew, and Bone Yard Tattoo

Inspired by the likes of what people are capable of in their every day unscripted lives, I have collected for you these tangents of poetry which arrive to an ultimate purpose of love. As it all continues to fascinate the very being of my inner jest, I will share with all of you everything accept the rest. Although, delighted to come across an abundance of ironies and their rich theatrical elements, I sometimes contend on the side of misfortune. Unable to cry, I feel obligated to endorse the melancholy side of life with cheer as I attempt to figure it out, finally.

I do as much as search for that salty water faucet in my soul. I trek and study a vast compartment of emotions and for years I have searched far and wide.

Sometimes neglecting a newly parochial ego based on my fifth life, I forget to enjoy freedom sometimes, for I still live. It is almost as if my emotions are in a provision now, and as a result I am very glad to be here with you all. Also I am not as handsomely beautiful as I used to be; I think that may have, also, went away with the third life. Acquiring the ability to forgive invasive judgments, as those peculiar snarls and foul gestures of distrust are always derailed when on their way to my subconscious, people are cool with me. Laughing my way to chores and singing like I have just been birthed, simulating a delusional person for not complying with a certain norm stretched out across society which shunned exertions of joy… that’s truly too bad… after all they only have one life to live. In this one life here, believed to be my fifth (due to four close calls), I still search for my tears.

I am thirsty like a horse galloping over night across infinite Texan landscapes, instinctively carrying on pare-diddles of 18ths with my hoofs, rapping on the summer beat soil. Water, a distant lover, is the one thing that will make it all worth whatever was at stake; for when caught in such a stream line of commissions, one forgets to laugh, think, cry, live, and other things people ought to enjoy doing more. It is that crying thing that I have not surveyed well enough in these new times.

I have cried before, I reckon I will cry again sometime here.

I have cried before… and I must say, as I remember it… it is a lack of disposition that has alleviating qualities to it like none other. I remember when my first love was the world to me. I was Columbus in Puerto Rico, and a God at that, for I had discovered something wonderfully breathtaking, and ground breaking, that only spells of wonder could explain. I loved her because life was easy, and because it was such an easy ride that needed not a navigator at that point, I cruised right in to a wall, I crashed; I purposely lost myself in the depths of this unknown wilderness of emotion. I cried and I sang songs by Marvin Gaye.

I cried and I took a breath. I cried and cried, and my eyes began to dry up… so I arbitrarily cried again using… well nothing, I really had nothing to cry about but the song. I sang and sang until the lament from the song was transmitting directly from my heart.

Suddenly my brother walked in on this troubling, earnest state of wretched dismay… he extended some help: are you o.k.?

Carrying on until the verse was complete, I then turned to him with sour red eyes and answered him a different question, one that I would particularly ask myself at that moment, and said yeah… This… is alright… this is good… I continued to cry until the song was over and looked around, noticing my sight was distorted due the tears backed up, I realized that I had things to do instead of cry, that night.

With an exhausted face, I looked in the mirror that night. It was terrible sight: sour red eyes puffed cheeks and laser pupils with shinny gloss, and not much to show For this experiment accept to have felt a few pounds lighter.

I got busy on some drawings, I was working on. It was a surreal feeling in a way, a feeling encroaching on an actual reason for the emotional release, almost levitating. The research caused me to wonder if that ‘after feeling’, after balling out, after dispensing leaks of salty water in a desperately pathetic manner; if the feeling after all of that is the relief that people succumb themselves to at funerals and hospital labor rooms. I thought I understood, from there on I grew up more, ‘and got back in the saddle’ a few more times, and now all I do is laugh.

I laugh at worldly things and laugh at bases of imaginations. I laugh to be sharp and laugh to be stark. To laugh when you win and follow that which is candid; nothing beats laughing so hard that your chortles and tears are not apart.

Enjoy.

FROM A FRIEND

I guess I am faced with a moral dilemma,

But I disintegrate selfishly any morals or dilemmas.

Hell, I don’t give a shit about dilemmas or morals;

I care about her.

You see everything that surrounds,

isolates everything inbounds;

Such sweet sound from her lips to my ear,

A gentle kiss from her lips pump my heart with easy desires.

This is what I have wanted for so long.

This, the love I sought to ground.

This is the likes of why treasures amount.

Yet I convinced myself to stay away and remain astound,

At the fact that there is truly a love I can pronounce.

Like the Bridge of Argenteuil,

Everything that surrounds is imperfect and there,

the Bridge of Argenteuil:

Rudimentary architecture in its divine obligation consigned

To carry over tenacity of minds, hearts, and souls,

Prophetic as her touch, for it may carry me off

with an insignia of bliss.

When I sit before her I prey she not wink.

Confidently releasing, in the air, her chemical clout;

For if she did so much as wink, my will would shatter.

Wishing to lay with her in bed after love showers;

I realized too long and ago

If I embrace the love that is shared here tonight

I would rifle treason over definitions of friendship

known to human kind.

The world as a whole is like the blotchily clouded sky,

Below, mal-proportioned bows on boats

and indiscreetly subtle waves;

She is the Bridge of Argenteuil standing bold,

beautiful and across