perhaps this is all coincidence, perhaps superstition, perhaps predestination.

Every-time i pass by the museum i see the old brick catholic church, and i always look at the steel placard on the side of the door that announces the services and confession times, for some reason they are always during the time I am either trying to convince people to buy a lava lite with their drink, or listening to a professor ramble on about the great knowledge they have accumulated into their brains no bigger than mine. I always have the urge to run inside and sit inside the small brown room, covered in old rose wood inscribed with arabesque flowers and crosses, with a small window, a screen and hear the voice of a priest ask me my sins. be drowned into the darkness of this cublicle, and feel the small rays of light being deflected through the stained glass windows...I don't know why i feel this way, i have for years known that man has no power to forgive but the sins committed against him. I don't seek absolution, i don't seek heavenly acceptance or assurance in an after life, all i want is to sit there and have the words unfold, tell my story, say the words that are zipped inside my mind like a compressed file locked up in a small black usb memory stick that fell off my pocket written in code.

Sometimes i honestly think that there is something awkward and innately wrong about me. Ever since i was twelve i have had recurring dreams, dreams that change a bit and dreams that come back identically like yesteryear. I have fears that are not normal, I see things beyond their usual sphere, and i don't know if this is normal. I have contemplated on killing myself but that has now past years ago. I have waken up in the middle of the night and felt my skin ripple, my back fall, as though i had fallen from the ceiling, like someone grabbed me by the collar of the shirt, spoke into my left ear a chant and then let go. I wake up. Not knowing what to make out of it all... i think i am going through a mental break down, funny thing i was telling someone this and they said perhaps it was a breakthrough, perhaps it is. I can't speak to the priests, i feel awkward starting a conversation with my father because no matter what i am wrong, i have lost my sense of religiosity and think to myself i can always go back, praise in public, kneel in front of them all, join the choir, point fingers and quote the good book, but who am i fooling that is not what he had in mind at all...I sometimes think it would be better to suddenly disappear, after all the dreams i keep having over and over show a story unlike the dream of the man i one day would like to be. i don't understand my own writing, i have lost any sense of passion in life and would like to ignite the flare that will create a chemical reaction, a psychotic c4, here we go.... i see the painting, my eyes are adjusting, i'll shut my mouth before describing it, let it focus and then i'll give it a name.

asteroids to my senses

Asteroid for my senses.
These thoughts seem to flutter through my senses quite like asteroids, revolving and rotating always coming back so often, not noticeable at once. Its been several months since I felt this. This hope for a resolution, a dramatic ending.
I have found God in the blue seat of a torn transit train seating across me with a bright smile hidden behind black tarred broken teeth, a smell of reeking piss and layers of oil, dirt, and grease. I see his smile, he has no home, he has but a nickel and three pennies, a euro a tourist dropped and a small wrinkled and slightly ripped picture of his mother. He sits alone; the car is packed with people resembling sardines in suits and pencil skirts, blackberry’s and Iphones, New Yorkers and Wall Street journals. But the seat to his right is empty; I lift my hand to cover the stench. His arse is angled on the edge as though he was inclined towards getting full coverage of the climatic scene in a film, or waiting for the gunfire to start a three hundred yard dash. He speaks. I put the white plugs on my ears, press the home button, I scroll down to a song and hear the drums boiling sense to my asteroids, throwing my conscious unto a flyaway object. I close my eyes and try to forget the face that looks back at me, the smells that creep up on me. I open my eyes only to find an empty seat in front of full of blood. I look out as the doors close, an there he goes, he begins to tremble and suddenly falls, he seems to be in shock the world stands still but says not a thing, the small picture is floating in the blood. I can’t help but wonder, and ignoring my phobia for blood dip my index finger and thumb to grab the small wallet image. Only to find an image of myself, and all I could do was but ignore him as he stuttered to tell me something. I guess things are here, they have always been, I have just never known the shape of things. If you paint a painting with garbage and multiple TV screens and show it to an indigenous person and ask him to describe the object that they see there, they will see nothing. You see what you know, and what you know is little to something, anything, in reality nothing. please, Open my eyes!