To Anonymous: A Reply To Your Comment

I again apologize for the explosion; it has been a bit of a rough summer for me. In hindsight, you may very well be someone I infact don't know, and therefore couldn't possibly understand what a question like that would do to me, responding and such. Although, you did mention the word "act" which very well leads me to believe that you do infact know me. Ah, fuck it. Who cares, right? Thankyou for responding. If you do know me and feel that I am reserved as opposed to how I write it is for the same reasons and the same actions that I'm sure you commit yourself from time to time. Do you not act differently around your family as you do around your friends or significant other, if even a little? I'm sure, to some extent. I couldn't always be as passionate as how I sometimes write; people wouldn't understand. With the friends that I do have we all posess, in our individual relationships, a sort of understood ground for which we are based on, and we hold that ground until we perhaps see fit to move elsewhere. Some friends just aren't cut out for the sort of things I put down here. Many of my friends don't know about this, nor would I tell them. I would rather be sure, I guess. It's not about judgement either; I've never feared ridicule for the things I prefer, my actions, or interests. It's just out of convenience, I suppose. Oh, on and on I could probably dissect this subject, but I need a shower, and I want to sing a song in the mirror and shave my face and drink some water and smoke two or three or five cigarettes before I rest my head to bed. Goodnight all the rest of you old timey bastards, you devils you.

C.A. Dominick

PS
"Hey, Mr./Mrs. Anonymous, gonna tell me who you are?" If not who, then where from? If you dare, you can send it to my email, dominickontherun@hotmail.com if you don't want to have it be for public viewing.

The Lengths

Heart like leaves falling awkward on the ground,
daffodil smelling features,
Smile like Gene Kelly singing in the rain...
All these things,
And I can't complain,
But just a little bit
Since I'm going away.

In the rain,
Things that never really matter
Suddenly seem
Like bits of forever.

Well she eats strawberries in the rain,
Now how can that
Be wrong?
Not when I'm with her,
Oh no,
Not when I'm around.

Words are good.
Songs are good.
Rain is good.

By the soft light tonight
She'll be awake,
Quietly listening,
Still and sound
To the sounds of the songs
That speak about a
Goodbye.

Bittersweet it is,
Since now that I am home
Somewhere else
Is where I should have gone.
But most of all,
More than the rain,
I should have kissed
Your hand.

Goodnight sweet girl.


Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick

Reflections Ressurected: Where Subject and Object Intersect

"In the thick of it, we either find clarity or doom."

I am only seven days from departure on a trip that will decide the course of events for the rest of my life.

Now, I know that that is a bit of a large and rather loaded statement, but in many ways it is true. I texted my friend today whom will be joining me on this excursion across western America, and I said, "we are 8 days away from our greatest achievement so far." He replied, "and death shall have no dominion." Fate is the strength in me that takes my burdens and turns them into this remarkable event that is near to unfold. I am, by my own governing nature, a body of creation and a seeker of truth and a lover of the written word. Something will happen very distinct and very real and very, very transitionally relevant that will come from me and my creative elements while I am away. He is right, not even death has a say in what performances of my exploratory heart consume me on this endeavor.

Digressing, and changing subjects, I just found this in my files and thought I would put it up to read.

"i dreamed that i was to die. Lying there, and a baby bird appeared,
but it was cast in a shell and helpless, so i freed it of its shell, so that it could fly away,
and to hope that i would not die so thoughtless and alone.
The bird flew away, aned i grew tired.
Each time i would near sleep an awkward noise aroused my ears,
so i fought to stay awake.
I did not know what i would meet upon my death, but i was not ready to forever sleep."

It was some time ago that I wrote that upon waking from sleep. I just thought it was interesting. Death is interesting, I suppose. I could understand how Poe's dominant bulk of work would be derived from such a subject. You can pray to a god and assume wherever it is you go when you die is something of their doing, good or bad, or you can simply think that when you die it is simply death, your system down, the lights out. At the end of the day it doesn't matter, because factually neither party truly knows what happens. It is perhaps the greatest of mysteries, never to be solved. In my time of passing, however near or far, I will call for God, simply because of a social upbringing inclusive and inviting towards such beliefs, but none the less I do not expect it to be so easy. I like the way Whitman puts it best though: "and to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier." If there is one many ever to exist that was an exemplary model for humanity and love it was that man. I hold my deepest respects and my fondest love for the written word because of his works.

I will conclude this entry with a very old poem I wrote when I was a senior in high school. I find it interesting, and I am just as happy with it now as I was when I first wrote it, minus some commas that need not apply. For that, I am sorry, just be patient and ignore them if they get to be too much.

I titled it, "A CALL FOR HELP"

I see the faint street lamps glow across the plane,
And hear a soft breeze that whispers something sacred.
The death of me to not hear its words!
For I see people,
Who reign in judgment,
And hide eyes,
That are too scared to look deep into the future,
And know truths but just ignore,
With actions, fronting feelings,
Pushing away all that is human,
For a feeling of belonging,
A feeling of false comfort,
And they know it is false,
But choose to fall into things anyways,
Forgetting all that they were taught by instinct,
For a fear of rejection.
I will not abide this,
Or allow or condone or promote these actions,
They are like machines,
Pretending to be human,
In any way that they can,
To find a plastic future,
In commodities and stock options,
And trades and commerce and income,
For retirement and social security,
Neglecting what is needed of their hearts and souls,
Through bodies that push so hard to carry on
The life-fulfilling task that daily time consumes
So they can live through unrest at night
And dwell on future failure and feel as if they falter
And beat their selves down until dignity is shouting out
In a call of feign sighs to be grasped and reformed,
To take years of life and leave and lastly, love;
Who know not what devotion is nor care what it is for,
Who live off their own problems, in a blame for blame maze
That repeats and never has an ending, and if so, usually tragic,
To indicate that we all will be saved by a profitable Jesus,
Who will save us with donations, if we give a little, we feel redeemed,
And more alive with passion that only lasts till next Sunday,
When Jesus saves again, and nativity scenes were never so lavished,
So as to reflect the amount of devotion the community has to Christ,
Through a beautiful chalice of baby saints and virgin wonders,
So I wonder why I am still here,
When no one really cares but rather doubts their fellow man,
Because they are too busy,
Distracted with dreams that never surface,
That only brings their quality of life down.
I have seen it, you know.
Marriage counseling after one year,
The couple resides on some alternate source,
Relying on something else to fix the problem,
They both know they can resolve.
I take my walks and see,
The glassy reflections of lost eyes,
They stare blankly as if at a canvas,
And cannot decide what the world really is,
Except a mass of dirt and water,
First discovered,
Then conquered,
Then explored for selfish reasons,
And stupid competition between nations,
Starting out for wealth and ending in blood,
With holy wars that only excuse the fighting,
For the fact that man has built a hate,
That spreads like a fire in all of us,
And soon sandy graves take stake in our soil,
And so we blame someone else,
And grow more hate inside,
Seeking vengeance on another’s’ actions,
While everything falls out of place
And I find no peace in any space
Except in my own heart
That aches to be called out of the corners
And scratched right down the center,
To beat back all the anger in this world,
With tears that never leave my languished eyes,
Confronting feelings I know too well but cannot control,
Or understand or comprehend or mend with simple actions;
I still believe in all of you, don't you know?

C.A. Dominick

Thoughts On The Afternoon: Alone, Again.

There's a reason why I always carry a pen, you know...

I'm going to begin to tell you my story. A story about afternoon sunsprays between the leaves of trees. A story of the crisp, cool, morning air of the winters in the north, and almost everything I have learned with a years' turning. Please bear with me, I'm not the best at finishing what I start.

Love is binding, wholesome, and real- which is why we seldom recognize its actual presence in our lives. I am seeing, in this early evening sun, how it has been with me for a long, long time, only I could never see it.

I don't know much about life. I have not experienced many things in the ways of living. I know that the year I was away was one of the hardest years of mine yet, and because of that it is all the more beautiful to me. When the snow fell last winter like all my struggles it settled to the ground with my anguish and self-doubt. Rising from that trialsome winter, devoid of all comforting things in the ways of home and familiarity, I am forever changed. I've since returned home; it has afflicted me with a sort of sickness that I cannot ignore. I perceived returning home would be a sort of relief from the sometimes dreadful encounters of my previous life. O, however so was I wrong... So I turned to projects but they never kept me still. I turned to false lovers but they always turned me out. I turned the bottle and it turned me angry, distant, and sadder than I had ever known.

It's too late to change now. I've planted a seed that I cannot harvest until the new year's passing. I must return once again to this place and suffer my misgivings until I am purged and found free again.

A Good Chance

There's a good chance...
That I drank four cups of coffee and sleep is miles away;
That I tried to talk someone out of their job tonight;
That I will leave in a week and never come back;
That I'm sitting in my underwear writing all this down;
That the earth is going to erupt and consume its contents;
That the beautiful sky above me is for someone else;
That my love is so far away the heavens cannot find her;
That a frog jumped away from the pond and into the snake;
That tiny bugs sleep in our beds;
That holidays are everydays and everydays are holidays;
That red meat has nutritious value;
That (while we're on the subject) I don't care about counting calories;
That Barbara Walters did cocaine in college;
That Mark Twain liked ladybugs the best;
That the ocean is my one true home;
That you are the greatest thing in someones eyes;
That all things considered, we're doing all right.

Thoughts:

It's about 2am and sleep is far away from me. Of course, I asked for it, blow for blow, coffee for coffee. It was worth it. Some good conversation with a good man about making things good. I miss my northern home, but I don't know if it will be the same at all for me now. One can only assume with a visit. I don't miss this place, but there are things here I could fight for, that would be worth it, even. I just don't know anymore.

On Romance:

All my life, and as of more recent years I have met some amazing women who I have thought my love was of good use to or had the potentiality to be. Time and again I failed in my pursuing of such women, and there response was generally about the same. "You're going to meet an amazing girl someday who is perfect for you and she will just fall so hard for you it isn't even funny." Ha. Ha. Ha. Ladies, if that day never comes, expect me at your doorstep for a refund. You know, I don't expect my special someone to be with me right now. Most people at least have a few relationships or flings or what have you inbetween all this serious love. Not I, lads and ladies. Nothing.
One time I was told that someone said of me how I have some great qualities but that I am always trying to get "some girl." I suppose it is a fairly valid statement, but there isn't any evidence that this is true. I do no more than the average folk in looking and exploring and feeling out the opposite sex for potential mates. I may always be confused between here or there, but almost always the heres and theres never fully exist in the first place. It never really seems to work out like it should. I don't really know if thats my doing or just the luck of the draw. I suppose I don't care, but dammit I get lonely like everyone and you're going to hear that shit because yes, this is my blog, sucka's.

Music:

M. Ward, M. Ward, M. Ward... Calexico.

Randoms:

I ate pizza all day long; lunch and dinner(skipped breakfast).

My father broke his brand new motorcycle today, just a taillight though. It was quasi-funny.

I ran out of Pepsi.

Full leather in 100 degree weather is like wearing a sweater when you've already got feathers.

Books:

A little Rod McKuen is good on ya, and when fall to winter presses down on your eyes, grab Les Miserables for the 4th or 5th time and sink inside Jean Valjean's mind for a while each day.

If you read Charles Bukowski be prepared to become annoyed by your fellow man and turn your ways of gambling and womanizing for the worst. In other words, a good healthy dose of testosterone and general manliness. Seriously though, we all know that gender roles are best to not completely be gone.

William Blake: a helluva do-it-yourself-er is a must own anything by.

Community:...

Is fucking worthless without culture. Yet it still somehow goes on and on...

Goodnights:

Goodnight.

-C.A. Dominick

The Battle of The Inner Conscience Crossed Between A Rock and A Hard Place...

*This is an old piece that has yet to be finished; it changes much from beginning to end. Just felt like posting it. Originality was not in me this evening...



1.
the wind must change, and so do i.
walk i do, beneath my feet a constant change,
i'm all unguard throughout my soul.
let the wind press through my thoughts,
upon my face seems not a mood,
only a look of lost.
ever will there be an answer?
so much so, i search so hard,
still my life will take its pause
from all these bridges that i cross,
but i'm not happy anymore.

2.
so you say,
and some undone along the way,
but none too soon,
to sway and ruin all your dreams.
you're all unguard, not all away.
so some do rest late on this day,
who is oft to know you so well as i?
beneath the moon so well you are,
a breeze of softer-woven scars
that fill your heart, and bruise they may
but not to those so bold to pray
refuge of you through all your pain.

3.
think me not likely to forgive,
your words delivered by a pulse,
still not a heart of which to live,
and not a dream worth any loss
of sleeping or of hoping, for i've fallen.
Aroused by those for lesser venture
to the one and only subject of my fall,
for all be truth in my whole absence;
letting go is so much so
the very nature of my wisdom.
you and i are only places,
never will we meet.

4.
the last, perhaps to say the least,
but not the better, worst or most.
your hate you only seem to boast;
the light of you has everything but ceased.
to you, and so much more than i can see.
the drift of all your dreams will come to be
a lake of your mistakes but not a river to escape
the last of your defeats
because they cannot come to be.
what have you been thinking?
when a paper-thin poet's grin stirs all your sins
into a cauldron of disarray.
A simple grief has you undone again and you give in.

5.
so grieve and give and live and be,
to those who siege some tortured mess,
what now but only to confess,
a sin for saints, a grin for hate,
a love for death, a dream to wake.
your harbor's full of bitter plague,
a carrion to a face so vague,
or mood or sound you can't make out.
calling out of all the corners,
telling some new story-tone fallacy,
some old lie that’s spun anew,
for yours my dear to word and love and follow,...
a symphony of disgrace you'll much rather see.

6.
The eyes that rise have come to burn,
For if they turn its ill-received,
To see the place i stand before,
And wake and break what’s left in me.
I do not know the harbor’s end.
Some say I knew of how to mend all these hard things,
When still truth reigns most presently;
As though I were some ghost of justifiable pain.
If you could hear the sound that all things dear make,
Would then you take your open wounds and scars
To stare against the thoughts that others wear?
Or are you hiding in the meadows of a light so dim
You swim in shadows and you stare so hard
That all is grim and absent of stakes you boast to claim?
For shame is nothing but a whim of what you yearn.

7.
To know what lengths may sleep inside,
Is but one way to yearn, yet hide,
Beget yourself to what you still resign to find.
Running is no use to sleeping.
Dreamers, do but one justice in your hearts;
Place a finger on the ripples for a moment
And save yourselves an essence of that grace before you depart.
You waste and wither, soon you’ll wander;
Do not hold so fast that gain you ever-fail to grasp,
But ascertain a simple hold to anything worthy of your soul.
Among the better do you love,
Why talk and tarry so much as you do,
When you could simply be peering on stars above?
You talk of heavy words and quests,
You open windows full of jest, and yet the best still remains locked inside.

8.
Forego the break of ends we’ll never know.
Abuse the use of easy refuge to catalogue your soul.
Come and go, as if it were a patch of snow,
Leave some tracks to one day follow,
Turn not back to what you let go.
Too much reason seasons sadness in the madness of this world;
Twirl your hair, and you don’t care, so long as you still go.
A place to call a home, a place to sit and stir.
Worlds away might bring you to a time when they will call you “sir.”
They’ll say you were never quiet... always moving, always pious,
Never ever stuck together by a thread of consequence.
For waves of ocean and of wheat,
The best of you still incomplete.
Away to you is nothing new but what has been and what’s untrue.

9.
Now words are pressed hard on your soul.
You want to leave and let them go.
Forget the past; the easy road, you should know better,
That’s not how it goes.
My boy, you’re stronger than they say.
You’ve no good reason to decay
In words so mean and thoughts so dim
Of you whose light is anything but faint.
I see a cloud that’s risen fast;
Storms that rise so fast are also soon to pass.
My time with you is growing less.
My love for you I do confess.
Every time I tell you things.
Every time I watch you change.
Be still and hold yourself from haste.

10.
To leave so soon lets hearts be paved.
Regrets ensue, opinions enslave
Our very notions to call to any motions
Of remaining, lasting love.
Are you not a product of the earth?
Do you not too hurt by the sound of pain unending?
Who are you to go off running?
How may I be of some use
When you ignore my pleads and answers
To questions that you barely bother to release?
Pretend, and find yourself still further
In a place that is hard-forgiving and
Absent of living lively and free.
Sad and free; you make of it whatever you wish.
Your will is strong, your thoughts are right;
Your soul has been pleading you not take this flight.
Give ears if but to hear only things that you feel may be real.

11.
Along the way someone will guide you.
Take that siege, your wings will find you.
In the end is for the end and for the end alone.
Read your books and take your pills.
Recite your lines and get your fill of all the wines
And spirits that do your heart content.
They’re all a product to lament by,
All a way to run away. Yet to this day have I found
Solemn your ways to be so gently running backwards.
Onward, fair bloomer of the stars! Onward,
Let us make of this future what it is we really are.
A movement for the cause of life! A hull of
Straightforward interim; bright, burning beauty.

*I don't know if I'm going to add more; don't know if I can. It has been so long since I have worked on this. I like the last four stanzas or so, but the rest is shit to me. It's awfully futuristic though; kind of explaining my current scenario to a T. I think the last time I worked on this must have been at least two years ago or more. Anyways, there you have it. I must sleep.

-C.A. Dominick

A Poem For The Black Heart Procession

May the word and the lover
Be your comforting covers
Tonight.

May all dreams scattered
Make way to shape and form;
Treading through the darkened hours
To make anew a heart since torn.

May every starlight,
Distant, daunting, and sad
Be swept from their towers of weeping
And find your heart glad.

May lips from a priested whisper
Find solace in your sadness,
And may only joyful wonders
Heal your measured madness.

Men are hard
Like rain and stone.
I am hard,
Worn and weathered
Forever distant
Forever unsettled
And never so resolute
As the years may allow.

My heart,
Born from a parent of fire
Is rifled and spurred;
Jutting the skyline
To tear the stars anew.

My soul,
A prayer from a child
Lifted higher than the cosmos
Sings of longings so divided
That even God cannot resolve.

My lips,
Sweet and still,
Reach deeply inside
And liberate
The harborings of my lovers' soul.

My eyes,
scorned, sold and sifted
Remain the mountains
And the seas and the plains
Of my familys' spirit;
A spirit found unchanged.

May all woes and longings,
May all distant death
All forward life,
All loss in pain,
All love in strife
Be lifted hence;

May you preserve your innocence.

C.A. Dominick


Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick

To Anonymous: A Question Answered

Three posts ago I put up seven poems of mine having to do with love and its different tolls on my life over the past three years. I decided to look over my blog and I noticed another comment under the two I was aware of. This person; this reader of sorts, knowing me probably fairly well at that, asks: "why don't you ever act like you feel?"

Good
Fucking
Question.

Answer: It's a helluva lot harder than it seems. Sure, sure, mystery person, do you always act the way you feel? Probably not, but you're lucky, since you asked first.

I don't act the way I feel for a million and one stupid reasons. Perhaps its fear. Perhaps its that I don't know how. Perhaps I'm always obsessed with the ideals of what is felt and not their actions. Perhaps, (and this could be the scariest of them all) I am secretly wanting of my lonely state of affairs. You see, its very easy to accept your lonliness when the person you imagine being your counterpart is so intense and unrealistic taht a lifetime wouldn't do it to find her. Well. FUck. That. I don't know why I don't. Maybe that is just the way it is. Some people have hang-ups that need be dealt with when you care for them. Maybe this is mine. Who fucking knows? This was the wrong question to ask. I am sorry if you are one who didn't mean to open such a disasterous masterpiece. I'm sure you didn't think it would be this controversial. If you did, then fuck you. I don't mean that about all things, just this one little time. If we are friends then we'll still be friends but for just that question you now know how I respond.

I know that I write this, and that things like this are to be expected. I never planned on this being anything more than a place for me to vent with myself, and perhaps for a couple others, close people to me, to see and read things that are of my mind. I did not expect people I have never known to see this, and worse, keep reading it. If you understand the tone this blog can display and remain silent it is probably for the better. If you go asking cut-throat, loaded questions like that you better damn well know what you are asking.

I'm not angry; if anyone is responsible for the way I am it is me. Still, if there is one thing I know it is that people are going to fuck up now and again, and things are going to fail. If I have fucked up with you, I. AM. SORRY.

I don't want sympathy, I just want peace.

You ask me why I don't act the way i feel, well how the hell is that? How am I to act? As far as I can remember I have never, never acted otherwise than how I felt. Including this summer. You know who you are if its you. As little as I've said about it all, you've said just as little. How, repeat HOW was I supposed to act? Answer me that, and you've found a more resolute man before you.

I apologize for the rant. This could all just be unecessary drama I have created, and if it infact is, then disregard as if this were all some stupid editorial you read in the crumby paper this morning.

Its fucking Friday night, and I have no one to see and nothing to do. How pathetic is that? Fuck. This. Town.

-C.A.

The Everlasting Gobstopper of Conversations

Amy says:
Come play Zoolander!
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
huh?
Amy says:
You helmet picture, you have a Zoolander face.
Amy says:
you=your
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
ahhhh, i like that.
Amy says:
yes, very nice.
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
Zoolander=good time
Amy says:
oh yes. We could have a walk off.
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
old school rules?
Amy says:
hehehe...
Amy says:
how are you this evening?
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
flashing bits and pieces of optimism...
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
its a change
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
from the latter
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
er, previous
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
yeah
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
thats it
Amy says:
that's good to hear. I know what it's like to be all moody and...stuff.
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
well, bad moods are better than no moods
Amy says:
Yes, and to experience both is to appreciate both. which I'm sure I've said before.
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
new post, if you're into that sort of thing...
Amy says:
Yeah, I am sometimes. I have a Charlie habit.
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
careful, it will disappoint, maybe...
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
ooh, you better break that, its worse than smoking
Amy says:
I thought you said you were feeling better?
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
i am. can't you tell?
Amy says:
Charlie pants.
Amy says:
It started out slightly optimistic, then ended a little on the self deprecating side. Not that it wasn't well written though.
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
well, well-writtenness is of no concern, but thanks. Basically, its me catching myself being a drama queen with myself and realizing shits not so blegh. I am in a dry spot momentarily. I need some excitement
Man my motorcycle looks cool says:
some out of the ordinaryness
Amy says:
It just so happens, I heard you were going on some nutso six week motorcycle trip. My guess is it will be pretty eventful.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
yeah, thats all heresay. people think I'm some kind of wildman-bastard or something; weird hih?
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
huh?
Amy says:
hang on..
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
roger
Amy says:
you know, I'm a bastard. totally for reals.
Amy says:
And a red headed stepchild too.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
yeah... but its never very satisfying calling a girl a bastard
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
ahh, now THAT is more like it
Amy says:
Yes, definitely. More fitting.
Amy says:
I am having writer's block the last few days. Nothing new to put in my blogola.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
don't force it.
Amy says:
Oh, and there was this weird guy on myspace who I have exchanged a couple of messages with...well, I noticed he was subscribed to my blog...and then...
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
ebb and flow, seniorita
Amy says:
I gave him my other blog address.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
ahh, so you are now exposed!
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
uh oh...
Amy says:
Well, I have always thought he was a little off. And he said that he was from Austin, TX. BUT his ISP says Georgia.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
hmm....
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
the liar!
Amy says:
I don't really care. But he is lyyying!
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
shall me stone him?
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
*we
Amy says:
oh yes, absolutely.
Amy says:
I've had quite a bit of Sauvignon Blanc this evening.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
he will be made a martyr to all liars, and an example of what happens
Amy says:
Shitty sauvignon blanc...if I knew who brought it to my party, I would stone them.

Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
i think i will have some of the lovely cocktail; i have been without, and life is nearly unbearable
Amy says:
hmmm, what sort of cocktail?
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
ANYTHING!
Amy says:
I would share my SSB if you were closer.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
a-l-c-o-h-o-l-i-c
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
ahh, I think I'll go for the booze
Amy says:
I don't think you are.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
no, but we all have goals, right?
Amy says:
this is true. you know, I was never much of a drinker until the last year or two. And just wine.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
oh man, if we lived near each other we would be the most entertained drunks ever; its probably good we're far away
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
our sober friends would unfriend us
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
we would be the rage of all pubbery and winery and whiskery and drinkery
Amy says:
you are so right. I feel like we would probably sit for hours outside, smoking..being goofy and deep. Then passing out.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
we would be as deep as the glass in our hands, and may it be a DEEP glass, to thirst the conscience of alcoholic madness
Amy says:
Sacramento has some wonderful pubs. We could hit them all...I might already - but with you by my side, we'd be a force to be reckoned with! or what ever they say. haha...
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
produced, of course, by our conjoined efforts to race this world unsober
Amy says:
Seems like a noble goal to me.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
...i think the only adventure truly left in the world
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
men used to explore new land, used to wage war in the name of God; used to discover new animal and plant life and document ancient history; now... man must drink to his end, and see what cane be done inbetween
Amy says:
you should put that in your blog. It's quite quotable.
Amy says:
unless it's a quote and the SSB has gone to my brain.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
I will put this entire cockamamy conversation on my blog. Amy, you are being broadcast via Charlie's blog, how do you feel?
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
it is my words, my dear.
Amy says:
That feels fabulous. I may even feel a little tingle in my toes.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
tingle away, darling; tingle away...
Amy says:
Live, from Charlie's blog, a very delightful and un-angsty conversation between Charlie and an old lady from California. (Who looks lovely for her age.)
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
i am smiling, and i don't know why. It could be the booze, it could be you, or the entirety of this episode; i don't care, a smile's a smile to me
Amy says:
I'm laughing. I'll one up you. ha!
Amy says:
ok, I'm not an old lady. Don't put that in your blog. That sounds horrendous.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
old lady, sure, right, and the pope shits in his hat
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
i just saved it
Amy says:
ok, just call me what my sister calls me - hot tits. ha!
Amy says:
grrreat.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
you're a gem, and a foxy young minx. better?
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
i like sweet-tits better myself
Amy says:
Yes, I certainly like the sound of that.
Amy says:
Yeah, sweet tits. Very nice...
Amy says:
I'm going to make her rename me. It's only fair. Besides, sisters shouldn't reference other sisters tits.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
It's like sweetarts said fast. Kind of life how "peanuts" sounds like penis. Say it aloud fast right now...
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
funny, eh?
Amy says:
Please don't say sweet tarts...I have...an addiction.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
would you like some salty peanuts?
Amy says:
As for the penis peanuts...you can talk about those all you want!
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
ahh, sorry.
Amy says:
hehe...
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
alright, Planters or Frito Lay?
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
or... Beernuts?
Amy says:
A little a both. or all thrree
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
... forgot how wonderful whisky can be...
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
choose
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
one...
Amy says:
Hmmm, I choose....planters.
Amy says:
No wait, Frito Lay!
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
is that your final answer?
Amy says:
Yes, I suppose.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
boom!
Amy says:
that was very anti climactic.
Amy says:
hehehe...
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
I couldn't think of how to spell out the "wrong-buzzer" buzz
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhnt>
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
i suppose.
Amy says:
I was wrong? How could I be wrong?
Amy says:
I'm never wrong!
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
dreadfully scary sound it is
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
choices... you know.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
PLANTERS!!!!
Amy says:
Damn it! I am so LAME right now!
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
FRITO-LAY IS DEVIL!

Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
NO!
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
JUST YOUR TASTE IN NUTS!!!

Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
thats all, really.
Amy says:
uh oh, my SSB is gone. I have to go get a refill. brb
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
i will smoke... plz hold the line.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
...
Amy says:
unfair. I'm trying to not smoke.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
bullshit. smoke, its necessary for alcoholics to smoke, i've been reading up on it...
Amy says:
I can't. I have goonies like asthma.
Amy says:
I have to suck on an inhaler. It's my nerd stick.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
poppy-cock.
Amy says:
you are a wicked bad influence young man.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
don't admit that out loud, this is public, remember?
Amy says:
all of this too? damn.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
I know, the devil runs through me like the whisky
Amy says:
Now I'm going to become some sort of freaky agarophobic housebound old lady.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
the whole shi-bang, sweet........ness.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
don' do it
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
it won't be as fun
Amy says:
this is a pretty firey little statement here, "I know, the devil runs through me like the whisky"
Amy says:
fiery?
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
yeah
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
or, firey?
Amy says:
no, fiery
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
hell, I dunno
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
ahh
Amy says:
or fierce.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
so much for me writing...
Amy says:
i like fierce.
Amy says:
I didn't say you were fired.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
are you the boss? I though Charles was in Charge>
Amy says:
I just checked and fiery means, "Feverishly hot and flushed"
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
whoa
Amy says:
there were some other definitions too, but that was the only one I read.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
badaboom
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
now i smoke?
Amy says:
ok, fine. Easily excited or emotionally volatile; tempestuous: a fiery temper.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
can you contain yourself for twoandahalf minutes or so?
Amy says:
yiis
Amy says:
I'll just write a blog.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
the n I sh all re-turn
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
see, now that was only 1 and one half Billie Holiday songs worth of smoke.
Amy says:
Well, it was enough time for me to read through that entire conversation of ours.
Amy says:
And you know what? It was STILL funny.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
how is it progresssing?
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
yesssss
Amy says:
It seems to be going well. How was your cigarette you limey bastard?
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
fucking goddamned glorious.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
oh, it was worth it, you red headed stepchild bastard.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
...no satisfactions for the latter
Amy says:
yeah, could probably just be red headed step child.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
word
Amy says:
your tongue just sort of trips over bastard.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
yeah, i think "bastard" is overrated
Amy says:
I say it a lot. That and jerk. Occasionally mother fucker.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
ooh, motherfucker is good
Amy says:
yes, especially when it's all one word like that.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
whaddabout fucktard>
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
indeed
Amy says:
See, I'd rather just go straight for retard
Amy says:
jack ass is good.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
yeah
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
but its kind of snide
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
i guess thats the idea though
Amy says:
I might be a little snide. Occasionally. It's accidental.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
i like low brow profanities myself
Amy says:
ha! That's why I like you...classy Charlie.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
classy as a two-dollar hooker on a wednesday night in a mercury cougar
Amy says:
Ihad a whole thing types..it was pure hilarity. then I deleted it.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
why!?!?!
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
shit.
Amy says:
actually, this time it was accidental.
Amy says:
I am lameness. A fucktard, if you will.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
nah, you just need more booze. guzzle that shit until it drips down the chin and you find yourself licking it up with tongue and finger
Amy says:
That is so not classy.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
well, we are in the comfort of our own homes; classy need not apply
Amy says:
That's how you eat fruit in the jungle, NOT how you sip SSB.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
pshhaw.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
if its cheap, does it matter?
Amy says:
I don't think it's cheap. It's just shitty!
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
ah
Amy says:
craptastic badness I tell you. I did spill a little earlier though, and yes, I did lick it off my hand.
Amy says:
I think that's better for whiskey though.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
see, i think wine is a licking liquid. whisky will get you every way, even through the pores
Amy says:
Ok, well, I could respond to that many different ways. My mind is permanently affixed...to the gutter.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
well, we're all dirty little shits most of the time, we just apply modesty for the masses
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
thats my take.
Amy says:
That's what half of my poetry is about charlieness.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
thas why I luv ya babe
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
http://dominickontherun.blogspot.com/2006/06/if-forecast-calls-for-more-of-this-ill.html
Amy says:
aw, pure sweetness from Missouri. I feel touched...by whiskey guzzlin', big hearted, motorycle ridin', hotness poet.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
just reading it right now, for some reason
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
quit flattering me, its working.
Amy says:
I like that it's working. It's is goodness. ok, reading now.
Amy says:
You are so lucky to have what you have with your da.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
ahh, its tough sometimes.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
we're close, but i think he wants me to be here, and content.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
I am opposed, to say the least.
Amy says:
So when you go back and read things you wrote...how do you feel?
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
i wonder why i am such a shit now
Amy says:
that was just two months ago. But it seems like a lot longer.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
fucking Bukowski did it, I tell yua
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
alot happens in two months
Amy says:
You are so not a shit Charlie. If you were a shit, I would not be talking to you. I have had my fill of shits. Trust me.
Amy says:
Now I need to catch up on my Bukowski. Or maybe not.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
start with Come On In!
Amy says:
Not that much can happen in two months. If you were a woman, you could just blame it on PMS.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
its his last published book of poems, post-mortem.
Amy says:
but seriously Charlie...
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
thats where you get off easy, eh?
Amy says:
you are this deep man. And you're filled with so much...you have this uncanny ability to convey your feelings, (weirdo), and do it in a touching way. You definitely have some major emotions going on, but you know what's up deep inside. You're just finding yourself. And not in that young man sort of way...but in a more philisophical way.
Amy says:
blah blah blah...there, have an essay from me.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
its nice. i don't converse with the types around here; they are a drastic bore.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
actually they are just too young, and don't have the patience to talk about such things
Amy says:
I don't converse with anyone like this. Even people my age. It's just rare, plain and simple. I appreciate it Charlie.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
as do I. It's a shame, the way people never hardly connect, isn't it?
Amy says:
Yes, it really is.
Amy says:
I can't wait for a day when we get to talk and laugh in person. When I don't have to hush my voice so I don't wake the neighbors...oh, and there will be some alcohol involved.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
of course, booze is the third party that is never unwelcome
Amy says:
I swear I'm not a total boozer.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
i am. its okay. most people only casually consume,
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
its time to do a signoff
Amy says:
okaaay.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
give me your best last words
Amy says:
no. I am too retarded right now. See that? Last words. "I am too retarded."
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
well, it will do, all the same.
Amy says:
you give me last words.
Amy says:
You're better with them anyway. Charlie Star.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
To all naysayers, to all harborers of ridiculous notions about the consumption of calories, and to all those opposed to the outright efforts of the Pilated Woodpecker and its natural tendencies towards discreet and private life, I say down with your aim!
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
Let the beast of time make mockeries of you.
Amy says:
oh no...
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
As for Amy, let her sails set forth into the slow and steady winds of wild and careless days
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
and a little smoking and boozing is in order, if only to preserve the state of humorous satisfaction for the world before
Amy says:
fantastic Charlie. I'm applauding!
Amy says:
You are SO not retarded!
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
well, i could be, after a few more years of drinks like this. All the same, you are wonderful. ThankYOU.
Amy says:
no, thank YOU Charlie. You are loveliness in its purest form.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
By the way, did you know I'm allergic to rose bushes?
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
I found out tonight.
Amy says:
I didn't know that. I am allergic to all sorts of things...so I know what it feels like. But roses?
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
funny, eh?
Amy says:
Roses are sort of the most overrated flower there is. This just means that someday, I will have to give you a big bouquet of tropical blooms. That won't make you itch.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
simple little daisies will do.
Amy says:
Well, we can start with daisies I guess.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
then its settled.
Amy says:
Yes, it's settled. You have to sleep.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
sleep screams for me over the murur of my nearly empty drink. I must conclude.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
*murmur
Amy says:
ok sweets. I should go to bed too. Dr appt in the morning. Fun!
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
indeed. Till tomorrow's events then.
Amy says:
Yes. Sleep well...I'll be dreaming of fireflies most likely.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
i will. I want to have a lucid dream, so I'll be shooting for that.
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
you too
Amy says:
good luck with that...night night
Ricky Ticky Charlie says:
goodnight.

On Youth

My stubborn, silly youth...
Busy-bodied, savvy brained;
Fleeting feet against the grain,
This youth of mine
Is a tiresome race.
My troubles, such troubles,
Silly, silly troubles-
So shallow they are.
I imagine
At the bend of some years
These troubles of mine
Will be laughter
In the waking thought
That the ultimate trouble
Is death,
And how I'm found chasing
The last bits and fractions
Of Life.
Well, I am caught here in youth.
Twenty-two is not so bad...
Though I've got love on the brain-
Time takes care of all things.
I should be more productive
And go out and buy an apple
To chew on for awhile
And save my teeth the trouble
Of all that carbonated garbage
And all the whisky and the smoke
To preserve my life impending,
But thats youth for you, I guess.
Today is today,
And tomorrow is nowhere,
Not here,
Not tonight;
No, not now.
A cigarette in fifteen minutes
Is all I can fathom.

maybe a drink in fifteen,
Maybe sleep in thirty.
Maybe I should read a little more,
Or learn to write;
Yes, that seems fitting.

Depressed, Cynical Asshole Syndrome

Everybody thinks I'm a depressing cynical asshole.

It's actually really funny. If you knew me in person, for even a small, personal period of time, you would know the otherwise so much so that to see some of the things I write you would say, "Charlie? No..." Yes. It's true. Aren't we all? Probably, a little,
tiny,
eentsie, weentsie,
little,
baby bit.
Dare I write something up-tempo tonight?
nahhhh.

Why? Oh, no reason. I guess I just feel like being a shit here lately.

Alright, here's an example of my drive for my current temperment.

Lets assume by "girl" I am talking about nearly every girl that I have attempted (interpret that however you like). I'm going to rant for a bit, get a coffee,
Adjust yourself,...
Are yoiu comfortable?
Good.

So I fell in love with this "girl" once, (still with me? Sorry, sarcasm is just one of my forte's) and it ended in shambles.
The End.

...what? You wanted more? A longer story? Well what the hell is wrong with the one I just told you? Oh fine, you want me to be gabby. Why didn't you say so?

...Anyways, so I fell in love with this "girl" and everything went to shit. I can't recall why really, it just did. I mean, I started talking to her all the time, we made plans to hang out and do fun stuff like go to parks and shop at thrift stores and drink coffee and smoke cigarettes, (she didn't always smoke, but I sure did) and even watch a movie or two, but always at her or my place. Those goddamned movie theaters are enough to make you crazy. So, what I mean is, things started out good, and sometimes even great. We'd play the "get-to-know-ya" games and pretty soon I would know their whole story, and I guess they'd know mine. When it gets like this with someone you get to thinking, "hey, its goin' good. I wonder when it'll get a little better." By that, dear friends, I mean... well, you know, kissing and stuff. Late night talks, kissing, spooning, sleeping, and yes, readers, maybe even one day however far down that little road even sex. I must clarify, I really don't care about the sex thing so much. I mean, I am a guy, and yes I like sex, and naked women on a certain level are way better than clothed women. Point is, sex is never my point when it comes to women whom I am romantically inclined. I digress. So, we get to that point, and then... "poof." It all just crumbles before my eyes. What started out as the greatest love story of all time transforms into a girl with her new "one step-away from homosexual sensitive buddy/ guyfriend." It's like the same time the trigger in my head says, "oh shit, she's not going for it," the trigger in her head said, "he's a really fun, nice guy to be around." No kiss, no love, no shit. So I threw the dice out there and hit craps. I know that wasn't an entertaining story, and you should have stuck to the first one. It would have saved you time and I would have been in bed by now. You see, this is the kind of shit that comes out of me when I'm sober. I am much more graceful when I'm drunk.

Of course, I could site specifics to no end, but who the hell cares? They are all off with the people they "want" to be with, meanwhile I sit here as the "friend when my boyfriend isn't around" guy. Ladies, do me a favor: if you fall into this bracket, kindly detach yourselves from me in the ways of your good guy friend that is almost good enough but doesn't quite cut it. I don't need anymore "falied attempts" hanging around; I don't need anymore "girlfriends" who I just want to kiss and say intimate things to without pissing somebody off and with them wanting it from me.

There are exceptions to every rule, mind you. Not all the women in my life fall into this category, but I tell you, alot of them do.

They say, "too much conversing with a woman tends to dull a man's wit." By they I mean OF MONTREAL, so take that as you wish.

-C.A. Dominick

Locally Divided, and Nothing Ever Changes...

Talking with an old friend about the scene here in town and how it used tobe and what it used tomean and why it was great before and how its justshit now and I'm so tired of the word like everyone is tired of the word "scene" like its somekind of curse word and the curse is indifference I think. If there was ever onething that was something to be proud about before it was that we could just sit and make music and people, all people, just people and music would make it a good night to be alive and awake and the night felt better and booze felt better and sex and drama felt better and arguments were worthy but now we all just argue over the fact that we all feel the same and that nobody is better than anybody else just like society full of opinionless people who feel nothing ever and never tell you if they do keeping it bottled up like that is bad for the colon or the soul or probably both if you think about it. I'm fully aware of the lack of punctuation in this and these words I'm regurgitating on this page and I don't care because you are responsible in part for my disruption and you know it and you still don't care and so i think you are an asshole for just that, locally speaking. Why don't you care I wonder? Why don't you go out and buy a new pair of shoes or something and feel better about yourself while the whole thing around you is rotting and you step all over it with your new shoes that shine so bright with that flashy money you make selling yourself and everyone else out like you've been doing for awhile. I tried to escape all this mess and I failed because here I am back in this hell of a place and you say "its good to have you back" because misery loves company and you know that better than anything else these days. I may be an old fucker in this place filled with young, stupid kids who don't participate and only care about getting fucked and having a good time but at least I know why people wanted to get fucked and have a good time and it had nothing to do with just that because it was about something bigger than yourself it was about the whole place and the whole group and the whole i-dea that if we kept it going we could ALL, every last one of us go out and get fucked and have a good time. We all went our separate ways i guess and now that it has been wrecked and kicked and it sits there dead as can be we look at it real hard and some say whats that? and some say what happened? and some say thats the way it is. and really for those of you who still ask why it is because you made it happen. If this pisses you off then thats good because I haven't seen anyone mad for a good reason in a long time and if this makes you not like me than fucking fine because I don't care about people who don't want a say in something more than talking themselves up anymore. Most of you have nothing to do with this and so take no notice of what i say. If you know what I'm talking about than you damn well know how you feel and that is what you should go off of and not the majority because everytime i look around lately it seems the majority doesn't know shit about anything.

Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick

POEMS: The Chronicles of Failing In Love ( 7 poems)

You would do well to read this when you've more time; it is a very, very long blog entry.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I could write to you, of a love so true,
But my dearest darling, it just won’t do.
For a love-laden poem, as sweet as would be
Has no fair recollections of any real feeling from me.
No amount of professions, no amount of poured passion
Would dare resume my confessions of love’s follow, you see.
To tell of love is shear poison, that of which the heart is breeched.
Were I to taint our love with poetry, an end would follow,
And just as surely be reached.
So I could write of you, of a love so very true,
But if you let it be so, then you must let this heart go.
For in my waking do I hear
The softest verses when you’re near.
And they are dear as spring itself,
But sprung in haste there’s nothing left.
So here I stand in silent bliss, resounding woes when you’re remiss.
I dare not write of your kiss nor eyes nor constant control of my reveries.
To be writing of such things would be the end of dreams for me.
I could write of a love so true,
Dare I say we live our love instead?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

1
It’s true you see me like a wave;
Both in and out, I often change,
Enfold and hold you for a moment
Then resume my soft returning
To the place I found before.

2
I come to you expecting so much;
Forgive that I’m a young and restless one.
But hoping all these little notions
That you might read my inward motions;
I should have guessed you could not do so.

3
Perhaps there’s something still anew,
When our lips perch; our fingers touch.
Still softly I retreat my steps,
And hope you will not hold me down.
I come and go; I hope you know I’m still around.

4
Too young for love, and yet I
Fight and scream to know it must be
A place where I won’t always ask why
I have to lead you on then run and flee
As if my heart would carry on somewhere else without me.

5
Change is first born in the heart
To strengthen willingness to siege
The things to make us run and start
Our life upon a moment when we
Are coming into bloom amidst the
Darkness and the gloom of our distress.

6
For waves of gold an amber grain
That move more like an angel’s wrist,
I stand and see a figure feign
That wanders o’er the saddened mist
Of God’s own brow, raised from the clouds
To let the sun finally come out again.

7
I’m dreaming and I’m wishing
That I won’t be so unsatisfied
With the lips that I should be kissing more
By every minute passing through the sighs
And soft embraces; here I’m facing
All my fears inside your tears of recognition
For my words, like ammunition
To your unguarded tower of despair.

8
Sometimes we’re near the cupid transfer and
Sometimes it seems you just don’t care.
It could be me, it could be me, maybe.
But you move like breeze over the sand
In me and I see that it hardly moves me at all.

How ever will the hover of love go passing us by?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

To the better place of the head
I should have known that we
Would be the one and only fortune gone.
You decided to be the one that I could call
On when I was not so misfortunate;
Why would I deny you?
So… Here I stand, alone by the stars so bright.
Tonight love lay down by our side,
I caught you on an evening flight
To heaven’s arms of our regard;
An endless prism of our inciting system of living hearts.
You may know me by now; you may know me not at all.
Of this much, too, I can recall our never feeling selfish hence;
The question comes in colors, notions, simple motions of affection.
These suggestions leave me be like something in the air you wear;
A breeze still stuck against your breast when breezes mean to do
Such things like care about you the way I do.
Dancing in and out of me like piano keys, you dance inside my head awhile;
You smile and laugh and touch at me like children to the flowerbeds.
You take my eyes and make them jump the sections of your lovely profile;
I confess I’m stuck on you like gum on the bottom of my shoe.
Dashing is the blaze of endless torches that are your eyes.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Upon a wind-swept evening outside
Did I wish you from nowhere.
I stared into the blankness of the rhythm;
Found blank because it was not mine,
Found blank because I did not know you.
You who are a figured dream I cannot shake,
And O, how I dare not to.
Come ease my heart to sleep this night.
Make warmth between the vast and
Endless change I am to find with me.
I dream you from the wind,
And hope you’ll carry wayward to my window.
Tapping lightly in the night,
And I will know just where I should go;
Outside the door and find you there
Before my eyes inciting visions of disbelief,
For is my love now here before me?
And I will crawl into the wind with you again.
We’ll float away, into the night.
We’ll ride that deep blue inlet of the unknown plains;
Prisms fit and only fit for hearts that race the sun
And yearn to run so free and clear.
Upon a wind-swept evening outsideTonight,
How very much so did I wish that you were near.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"There’s a rose that I find diffident to bloom;
Coming close but yet I remain reticent.
For scars of war have no bounds to scars of lovers’ thorns.
I will not let leave of my eyes from this enigmatic light.
If fails too soon my reservation, let me be not hindered
In the affairs of profession for my woeful reproach;
I’ll let that one good rap of fate give and smother;
Performing the duties of some interpretation, letting
Known to our likening hearts the true affairs of our demeanor."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I know it’s not so easy.
I know my eyes don’t let it show.
I don’t think you’re supposed to know me.
It might be better if you’d let me go.

But if in the night you need some comfort,
You can use me if it makes you feel better,
Sleep longer; dream easier.
I know that it’s not right.
I wish I could be use to someone.
God knows how I’d make it workout,
If ever I knew there were a chance that I could change.

I know I’m hard on you sometimes.
Dissolving hearts are hard to hold.
You can use me if you like,
Just don’t hold on to me so close.
The winter’s coming when warmth is needed.
I’ll spend it all cold, when you’ll wish I’d come over.
I cannot give you what you want and wish and need.

I know it’s not so easy,
I know my eyes don’t let you know.
I don’t think you should want to know me.
It might be better if you let me go.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Too lonely for a friend,
Too lazy for a lover.
Each night I comprehend,
Of how there is no other.
And all the other lovers know
That all my love was never there.
Though hard I tried to make it so,
The truth be told, I never cared.
For lips I hold were flung in haste,
And now they're cold, a bitter taste.
I have not kissed but lovers’ lips.
I have not ventured worthier trips.
I know not where love lies.
For looking and its place,
A heart that looks alone.
For eyes without that face,
An absence not condoned.
These eyes are simply staring on,
For sky and sea and something more.
The windows to a soul undone;
True reason seasons nothing more.
For looks were cast but never found,
And so these feet were never bound,
To that small space she keeps of ground,
A life of never-ending love that she surrounds.
Perhaps, and nothing more will be unsaid.
Perhaps, and none, these dreams, were to be wed.
I wanted more but looked for less,
I loved the dream, but not the rest.
To wake up is the why,
So softly do I fall inside/tonight,
For every moment I let die.

THE END.

Old Hat

"We're old hat, Charles, so this is basically our party."

Those fatal... 10 words, and I am left with the evening now expired. Thankyou, Mr. Childs. Ah, c'mon, I joke, I kid. Seriously, we talked about this. "You can never go back, Tyler. Never go back."

I will spare you the details... at least for the moment, as I already have a headache and I fear recollection will only further the pain.

Thinking...

Well, my good friend and I talked about a pilgrimage. Is anyone up for one of those these days? Yeah, I didn't think so. I think that's what I'm calling whatever it is I'm doing. I don't just mean the motorcycle trip either; I mean my entire actions of the year prior and my entire actions of the year becoming, (which are still unknown to me, of course.) Sure, I guess you could say that calling it a pilgrimage is just some glorified term for having no goals and no future plans of any down-to-earth value, but then again you could go and fuck yourself too, and God gave us free will so pick and choose chirren. Seriously, I have no clue whats been going on lately. I just want a familiarity that forgets me. I just want to see, and be not heard, nor seen, nor disrupted, but reason and absorb and forget and remember. Like being in a city you know, but with no one to be with and no place to be at. I want, I want, I want to stop wanting so much. Then again, the absence of want is the absence, in a sense, of the thirst for life's offerings. I do not want that, I suppose. Give me the authority and I will tell you how it is for the rest of your days; meanwhile, I can barely tie my own goddamn shoes. Do I know why the caged bird sings? Well, yes; it fucking wants out. Out of the cage. I think my cage is this big, fancy, modern day that I keep seeing outside. I think its these big, fancy cars, and silly clothes, and ridiculous television shows and wants and needs and expectations and limits and excess and finance and deficit and consumerism and industrialism and activism and of course, my fucking cynicism. The Almighty, if he ever even existed, would have a fucking field day these days. We are all one big science experiment. I am a free radical. Where the fuck is my solvent cage? I have ranted and raved on and on and now it seems silly since sleep, the only solidarity in my life, is calling.

Honestly, I don't mean to sound so damned sad or dissatisfied all the time. You get three types of entries on this blog. You get the poet (sporatic displacement) you get the philosopher (a rarity these days) and you get the cynic, whose impulsive outbursts have yet again reared their ugly heads on your eyes this evening.

The song I've got playing really isn't all that befitting (don't even know if thats a word) but its a good one so I guess I don't care.

"I love the cigarettes and I love the booze and I love the women and I love this miserable life that envelopes me so."

C.A. Dominick

A Winter Heart In The Summer Air

I keep thinking in my mind of how I wish it was winter. It's not that I don't like summer; I rather enjoy it and always have. Something changed in me last winter that reopened my eyes. Perhaps it was simply for being the first winter away. Perhaps it was that I was so alone sometimes in the late hours of the cold, clear, unforgiving land. Many nights I had lay awake and listened to music fitting, my eyes above me in the ceiling imagining something. It was good for the soul to be in the poverties I endured last winter. They were such as I had never known before, and never to such extremes. So I have lent to you, my readers, two poems composed in that winter. Enjoy them.



Its snowing now, what can you do?
The band plays softly into me now,
I’m aware of all the things that make us change.

I do declare a holiday, from all the mess we make of us,
We come along and make a fuss;
Now but one distant dense weight to confess of us,
Believe me its not easy...
Never was, never will be.
Time is that of which we’ve no control.

I have no idea if there’s a God.
I’m so small in this big bright world,
Just think if I was some baby bird not yet bound.

So what am I suppose to look for?
Snow falls and winter slows me down so much.
I feel her touch, and when its there its only there;
When she’s gone I know I’ll miss it very much.
I know she’s not simple...
I forget things, I suppress it.
I hope that I don’t let her down.

Let me tell you, I am weary.
I can’t see the days ahead so easy.
I wish I knew whom I would hurt so I could say I’m sorry now.

It’s not like I want things to be hard;
Drifting in and out of open arms.
Letting love take hold a little then letting go.
Believe me, I don’t want to...
I can’t help it, it hurts me too.
Don’t think that I don’t feel you when you’re there.

I sit here and hide so much of this;
Through my work, drifts, dreams, and kiss.
I’m afraid to say what I feel and think you’ll all just run away.

Still I’ll go on sad and lonesome;
If its what I’ll have to do.
Streets and cities stretch before me with open arms.
I could cry for all that coming...
Its so sad to know you’re running
Like me running from the future that I make my own.

Its snowing now, what can I do?
The band plays sadly into me now,
I’m afraid of all the things that make us change.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Winter setting, cold and clear.
Into the great gray skies I disappear.
Longing for the big change,
Longing for that big love to take me away.
Or something to rest my head and heart;
They are in need so much to rest.

O hopeless woeful ways of winter,
Forever folding over my wonder;
Wherefore is my purpose made?

My head falls downward as I ponder…
The thickness of the air makes everything unclear.
Some change is due in this wreck of a life,
Some sort of reckoning need take avow;
Yet still here and now do I find
That I do not find myself anymore resolved.

O hopeless woeful ways of winter,
Forever folding over my wonder;
Wherefore is my purpose made?

Will the face of spring, like a red robin sing
All of my aches and ail away?
To this day I await, and so carefully concentrate,
And yet the clarity I seek is repeatedly unseen.
I go before the fires and I seek a new perspective.
To change my life among these things
Is but my only solid directive.

O hopeless woeful ways of winter,
Forever folding over my wonder;
Wherefore is my purpose made?

To this and these great longings do I guess;
That of myself, and of my workings,
I’ve yet to give my very best.
Since I’ve left out on my own
I’ve come to realize how very far
Away into the years it will be
Until I finally feel at home.
The sadness dissipates my virtues,
And brings me down some depths unwanted,
And yet what mysteries are still to come
Forever press me on and on,
Even if my heart gives in and all my breath is gone.

O hopeful woeful ways of winter,
Forever folding over my wonder;
Wherefore is my purpose made?

---------------------------------------------------------------------
I'll admit, I have been a bit distant on this blog since I have moved back. I had a ritual back home. I would get off of work, and the whole town would be sleeping, and everything was empty and I felt like the streets were wet with rain only because I was walking them, or the snow was crunching beneath my feet only because they fell upon it. Then I would go into my little coffee shop, with my midnight key, and sit down, tired and drained, and all this wonderful stuff would come pouring out of me. I would feel it, too. Now its different. I don't feel it now. I feel numb and unchanged. I feel everything I did before only now with the consciousness to know its upon me. When I was living here before I knew no better. Now it seems different. A change is soon totake place, I'm sure, but it is hard to wait. I feel as if I am always waiting.

It's quite funny, really. I actually lay in my bed at night, and if I think for a minute, I imagine that I am back in that terrible house I lived inside when I was up north, and that terrible room, and the coldness and the smallness and my clothes strung about and my mind everywhere but sleep. I hear the cars go by, and i feel the cool behind my head where the pillow blocked the winter window. I feel the sleep coming. I feel, too, the flutter of sickness in my heart when I recollect that time. I remember smoking cigarettes to stall my sleeping. I remember begging my heavy heart and my heavy mind to shut theirselves away so I could sleep forever. Sleep, at one time, was my only comfort. To not be awake and facing my life. To dream, and the dreams were vivid, and the mind was thankful.

It is quite silly that that is what I want to recall when I lay my head down at night. I remember that one year away and the town that sired it better than the years I have spent growing and rooting myself in my current place. Perhaps one day, and even sooner than later, I will return. I'm sure it will never be the same as it was, though. No, probably not ever.

-C.A. Dominick

A Conversation With A Glass of Gin...

I was sitting at my desk, minding my own damned business, and my glass of gin just had to ask what I was writing. It went as follows:

GIN: "what are you writing?"
ME: "who said wha...?"
GIN: "I asked you what you were writing. Me, down here, in your glass."
ME: "oh you." I take a big drink. "You taste like shit, why?"
GIN: "because you used flat tonic, you fucking moron. Are you going to answer me?"
ME: "sure, fine; yes, yes. I'm writing a poem. What's it to you?"
GIN: "Just curious, is all.' 'You should use a different word there..."

*Can you belive it, the fucking glass of gin had the nerve to tell me how to write?

ME: "what the hell do you know about writing?"
GIN: "I am Gin, you know."
ME: "oh, right." I took another drink.
GIN: "So what are you writing about?"
ME: "Misery, or something, I guess."
GIN: "Sounds boring as hell.' 'You don't get out much, do you?"

*All from a fucking glass of gin, could you believe it?

ME: "Gofuckyourself." I finish it off.


...I'm not drinking gin anymore.


for more of my conversations with alcoholic beverages, send requests to: dominickonthetrun@hotmail.com

-C.A.

Remember...

We're not in Urbis anymore.

No Idea Where This Came From...

I am an audio-lamplight walkabout forest fire.
I am a carbonated catastrophe
of scotch and cigarettes
and general displacement
from the meaning of existence.
You know what it means to exist?
It means to hug the toilet,
Instead of some pretty thing;
Some source of comfort traded
For some source of pain.
An empty alley,
A gutter filled with broken glass
Blood, and whisky spew
Forever pouring into your head.

Well I bite the lip that needs me.
I bite it well, and good and hard,
Leaving an impression of posession;
A reference to sex,
A glorious orgasm of the fucking
Mind.

It's so fucking easy
To say fuck in a poem
Since you know it will be shit
When you read it.

It's so fucking typical
To sit and pretend
That words come down like
The stupid rain;
Tonight its a shit storm.

We'll Never Sleep, But God Knows We'll Try...

It's nearly 12:30 and of course I can't get a fucking wink. Thinking... hmm, do I do that much? Nahhh. Thinking about all those little twinklings that cause the thinking in the brain that is my own. "Of what, Charlie?" you might ask. Well, I'm thinking about my leaving come three weeks from today. I'm thinking about music and if I believe I can even still hack it anymore. I'm thinking somedays I love what I write and somedays its shit with sugar on top. Go figure, right? I would just have to turn into a goddamn cynic by now. Really, though, I never know what to do. I have realized one thing for certain: people who have blogs that constantly bitch about themselves are the most annoying fuckers on the planet. Guess what I've been doing all along...? Yup, you got it; bitching. Pissing and moaning my time away with the keyboard and its lovely tapping sound, far into the latenight. Well, fuck it. Lets talk about other stuff.

Stuff........

Shit.

Like what? I guess I'm an expert at complaining and nothing else.

How about a blow for blow of my daily activities? Alright. Sometime in the am, (varying from 6am to 10am) I wake up, throw on grubby clothes, and proceed to whatever house I am supposed to be destroying or building on. When I get there I am usually alone, all day long, and since I have the attention span of a gnat end up spending more time changing the cd's than doing actual work. Nevertheless, I get my eight or so hours in, and go home. After a shower I like to take the bike out and give it a good exercise. This weekend it will be Springfield. I'm going to see a friend and have some booze. Hopefully I've get blitzed and remember only the earlier part of the day. That's my favorite way to wake up. Seriously though, its good to see my friends in Springfield. Its not very often and they are good folks. Plus, they are completely devoid of the usual drama that can and does ensue on a regular basis around here. Fucking stupid drama. I should know better by now. I'm 22 and still just as sucked in as I was when I was 17. That's Joplin for you.

Do you ever read your horoscope? I do all the fucking time. it always has some bullshit in it about love and meeting soulmates and spicy romances, and all that other crap. What a load. I haven't had sex in a year. A whole fucking year and some change, but according to my horoscope I should be waiste deep in naked women and passionate romantic ecstacy. Still... I have to read the goddamn thing or my day is shot. Now, is that not the most ridiculous thing, or what?

Here's a few quick quirks: I used to sell crackpipes. Yes, you heard me, crackpipes. Alright, so we didn't actually call them crackpipes; their actual title was "incense burners." Yeah, whatever. It was really funny too, because you have to speak in a sort of code. So I fucked with a guy one time. He was like, "can I see that one down there?" And I said, "sure." Then he looked at it from different angles, mumbling here and there, and he said, "looks like it'd be a pretty good piece," and in turn I said, "a pretty good piece for what?" He stood there, blank looking, and said, "well, you know, for, uh, for you know, uh, what you use it for..." Fucking idiots. I hated that about working there. It wasn't so bad, except for selling drug paraphenallia(sp?). You would have these old, nicely dressed men come in, looking like they could be someone's nice old grandpa or something, and then they would come up to the counter and drop three transvestite movies in front of me. Fetishes, I tell you. There are some weird motherfuckers out there. Truthfully, I only have one little fetish. I like big boobs. Call me crazy, but more than a handful is fun to me. Sure, that may make me sound like some jock prick or something, but whatever. Everyone has their particulars. It's not like I'll only date girls with big breasts, or something. On the contrary, I have yet to date a girl whose breasts are bigger than a c-cup. It's not what I look for in a woman either. I think of it as a nice, added bonus to an already wonderful lady, theoretically speaking, of course. Jesus, i sound like I'm covering my bases or something. Maybe I'm afraid a lady I know and may like is reading this. Maybe I'm just being stupid; yeah, that's probably it.

I keep looking at my clock and the minutes keep rolling by. Even if I lay down right now, I still won't fall asleep for another 30 min. or so. It sucks. I think it stems back to my strip-club days. I wouldn't even get off work until 2-2:30am. After that, depending on the night, I would stay up even later to have coffee with friends at Perkins to unwind. Then I wouldn't go to bed sometimes until the sun was up. Yeesh. It's not as severe nowadays, but the late night always lingers in my mind; my bones. Something about the night, you know? Like things are gonna happen. I think more does happen. Lonliness sets in at night. Sex happens (most of the time) at night. Phone calls, drinking, movies, dinner, drives, music, friends, and so on and so forth. The fuckin' night, man. Well, I've had no phonecalls. Sex is a definate no, (and we all know why.) No movies, no music, my friends are all sleeping, I skipped dinner (since I'm on that "be poor and don't eat" diet) I drove my bike home, but the kind of drives I like are accompanied by music and my car is out of commission. I do have lots, and lots, and lots of booze though. I guess I know what I'll be doing in the next five minutes...

Cheers,
-C