What is A real Life

I have no clue. My friend Brenna says there is no such thing. Word.
*Dictating...

Brenna is the smartest person I have ever met in my life. She is fabulous. She makes the Dhali Lahma look like a smo. Word. She's pretty happy with that description. Perhaps...

Meanwhile,
Your southern born saint, your drumpster-dive of a hero, me, is in dire straights, and I don't mean that crap-ass excuse for a band. I am arguing with the empty glass of whisky as to whether or not Jean Paul Sarte makes any fucking sense. Your call, really. I got ten dollars and nothing to buy, cause I just got the book I been wantin' for awhile. I'll give you a hint... its Hemingway. Yay. By the way, do you like goulash? Isn't that an ugly name for a food? I think so too.

I am not drunk, which gives me no excuse for this bullshit of an entry. Oh man, I suck.

-C.A. Dominick

Praire Fire That Wanders About

I'll not stir,
But leave this night forever alone.
Lovers to come will find me cursed;
Shadowed by a sorrow of my past.
Is it because
I did not meet your eyes with mine?
Is it because
I did not ask you what was wrong?
Or better still
That I ne'r took your hand
When it lay waiting in vain?
Whatever the matter, I will dismiss.
The resonance
Of this significance is meaningless.
Well I'll not stir,
But softly fall asleep again;
Dream a dream,
I dream so many dreams it seems.
You were sad,
And I could not make you happy,
And so I let you go.
I'd rather not
Use up the rest of what we've got,
But stay in doors tonight
And carefully complain to these four walls
That feel more like a tomb of thoughts.
Do you stir?
And filter all this through your mind?
My last impression is the best I've got,
And it is yours when I leave this place.
I have shone this light a thousand nights,
And yet it is eternal darkness.
I'll not stir,
But leave this night forever alone.

-C.A.Dominick

When The Catfish Is In Bloom

On the bank of a muddy river
Life is folding over in wonder
And freeing what is needed
Of such forever flowing freedom
And my hand into the pool
And my thoughts all gone askew
Since my heart’s been renewed,
Renewed by you.
How now
Can all this come to form?
Since I left home so long ago
I’ve felt my heart been reproachful
Saddened, refused and torn
But now the sun breaks through the clouds
And once again my heart's aroused
By something more
Than ever I had known before.
All by you, and true and still
The wind is whispering upon the hill
Where I am standing, sure and still
Against the troubles of my past
Where once the boy was not this man
Who you now know,
Who hopes to grow with you beside;
And he’ll not hide from you nor I.
Moonlight drenches me in folds
For lands and loves that I have known
And time is first born in the mind
As love is first born in the heart
But no fair distance and no length of time
Has lifted me hence from this design
That calls me from the wood-banks
And hounds me in my dreams,
Taking me in droves
And tearing loneliness at the seams
Revealing something of a garment
Fluid, fought, won, and worthy
So that in the final memory
When I seem to be alone
In an echo over the mountain
I hear you say to me, “Come Home.”

And so I'm forever trying to find you, you who is my home...

Strawberry Vodka Critique's Another Sunday

I can still smell the strawberry vodka and sprite on my desk from last night. It turned into Sunday again. I hate Sundays. I really don't know why... just a feeling, I guess. It was cool and cloudy and I woke up late and nothing felt right. Not much does, but here and there are a few things worth feeling. Strawberry vodka, a blonde, and some dancing. That's alright to me.

I'm thinking about running away again. I think I might be joining the Americorps and going somewhere probably a good distance from this place again. My first bet is on Portland, but I wouldn't mind Maine or Washington. Hell, even Alaska would be alright by me. Just to get away, and with some purpose at that, would be a nice thing. I've got some hefty decision making to be doing here in the next year or so. I have to put up stakes somewhere soon and not run away so quickly. It's tough sometimes to decide the who's and where's of most importance.

Blah blah blah, enough of that shit.

Yes, yes, I am dry and empty today. That I think is my contributing factor to my hate for Sundays. Never a clear thought. Well, the weather's changing again with another year nearly done, yet again without resolve.

-youknowwhodammit.

Reflections While In Transit

Well, it's 11:50pm again; "another day, another dollar" as they say. I talked to a marine today; one whom I knew from years ago when I was in high school. I often wonder if I should have gone off such as he and so many other of my fellow young friends did. I guess at the time I didn't feel the necessary escapism it would be to have joined. Now... it is certainly a candidacy for debate. Of course, I would suffer endless arrows of judgement from my peers and siblings. This and that about the government and its unecessary involvement and spouts of Bush and his power plays with politics and the likes. People continually fail to understand that a man or woman doesn't join the collective fight for those reasons, hardly ever. They do it for personal reasons; their own. Some for the discipline and sense of purpose, some for the money either for educational or convenience purposes, some simply for something to do in a world that to them is seemingly mediocre and insufficient. I myself would participate for the experience itself. How else am I to truly understand a conflict or incident if I am not actively involved and able to physically see? That is my logic though. It is not very often that I take someone's word for anything. Some would say that that is a stubborn atitude but in truth it is just a matter of choosing not to. If i see fit the counsel of my fellow man or woman than I shall adhere to it and not question my own promptings. I choose my own promptings. At any rate, I am not saying that I am going to join a branch of the armed forces and send myself elsewhere for a matter of years. I am just speaking theoretically about a particular situation that has been repeatedly brought to my attention.

I really don't know what I will do. I think if there is any constant state in which my mind has been behaving as of lately it would have to be a small but everpresent sense of helplessness for the future in which I am involved. That, to me, seems like such a silly way to be thinking, but I cannot help it sometimes. There is a statement for you; "I cannot help feeling helpless."

I know in time the things I am seeking with clarify themselves; that I will sooner or later find what it is I am after and follow with the confidence of decision to pursue it without reprimend.

Being home, as I am, seems to be a starting point; a place where I can gain insight into who I am and what I want to do. I have nothing overly distracting to me here, so I am continually faced with evaluating the me that is my being in existence. Sooner or later things will surface. For now I study, and work, and write and breathe and smoke a few hundred more cigarettes. I often wish I could just forget that I was ever a smoker to begin with. I would wake up and breathe the air and not think about craving those awful little things.

Well, enough banter. I'm tired and this is all just purposelessness.

-C.A. Dominick

September: I Am Lost To You These Days

September is here; it has been for a while now i guess. This month, now just another month, was once a sort of embodiment of all my longings, harbored feelings, sadness, joy, pain and passion. This year it seems all that has been erased or eroded away from me, my heart, my head. I guess I don't really understand. If growing up means leaving behind all those feelings, feelings that were real and affecting, then I don't wish another day should pass. Often I recall what it is that was going on in my life at that once sought for time. I see that I was young, full of energy, innocence, and lack of responsibility or at least the awareness of it and its toll. Whatever was going on it was more potent than it is now; or perhaps I've fallen asleep to life's wayward ways. When you are a child, perfection need not be achieved, for children and childhood itself is perfection. Adults are a mess of complexities and insecurities. It is clear now that the subject I am encircling is Innocence. For purposes of explanation I will share with you a poem I wrote, of this very month, years ago.

*It is a lengthier piece but it sheds light on what I was like three or four years ago as opposed to now. I'm sure after reading my blog once or twice you have a relatively good idea of where my head is at these days.

"I feel the fall bring with it a wake in me I know I’ve known before.
The simple song of sweet September; somber, reflective, desperate for a need to be needed.
The distance between my arms and my lovers stays astray because I cannot give myself.
Seasons change like moods, and leaves fall quiet, but why? And whoever for?
Were to all be expected such rejoice from all this captive silence?
Not I, surely; I live lonely in its swelter, through its peak, and of its purpose.
Can I reside the future?
Can I take the stars that I so chose to claim whence I was a child?
So and some do long this whisper, though they all very well know they idle,
Brisk or slow amongst the solemn streets they go about, and inside shout for something more.
You will say that things will change and I will say how brilliant!
Amaze me, amaze me evermore with such words of wisdom!
Go on, tell me that death is inevitable, that the pain we all feel is never fun,
Fill my head full of your common sense jargon.
Blank is the page and clear is the canvas we see before,
Jests aside I wish no more,
For you are bade to paint and pen across all the emptiness you see.
You will fill the reasons for your pain, and tears and aching; revel in its joyous occasions,
Ones that you made real.
Chilling against my cheek is the air that lingers about in places;
Change the mood and see unfold of old the times and custom we create,
A lonely wall that speaks to you some of the longest and loneliest nights and seasons;
Starless, scapeless, hopeless and dreamless souls that scrape their hardened hands against
The cold and callous stone.
Will you plead your sadness too?
Consider the stream to which you find in you confides an essence of the past you know you cannot change.
Will it always be so saddened and distressful and subsided and forgotten, like an answer you wish you didn't find,
Stuck in mind like all the others that lead to your swimming in the streams of loneliness?
Just to harden out all the facts, do you remember the green of life anymore?
Have you forgotten all the lovely walks and every bit of splendorous color your eyes cultivate?
Please don't remain so settled in such despair, Sweet September.
For out of us to know that you live in hearts forever, apart of the season so much of us know most well.
My love for life was made in you, and I live on for reasons such as that."

Alright, alright, so even then I was a bit of a grim motherfucker, but at there were hints of hopeful moments. I don't know of whom some of the poem was directed; my best guess is myself. I don't write like that anymore either; not just the tone but the style. Everything is shorter or more fictional. I think at once I had a good glimpse of myself as to who I was and where I was going but that has since been lost to me. Perhaps it left with all of my changes, both physical and mental. All the things I've done over the past few years, good and bad. Reflection and hindsight lead me to believe that there was a sense of purity and purpose before and that that is all gone now. I don't want to believe it but I am having so much trouble trying to find it in the life I now live. I keep thinking, "somewhere else, that'll do it." Somehow that can't be the total solution, though I'm sure it is in part. Another part of me thinks it is that it has been so long since I have felt love for someone; and not fucked it up or been too scared to actually embrace my feelings. The more I go the further from myself I seem to get. This transition has been the hardest yet and whats worse is that I do not know where it will end and who I will have become. Me, of course, but the physical body is nothing to the reflection of the inner soul.

September, if it has maintained anything of its presence in me, is a month containing reflection and rememberance.

-C.A. Dominick

Prose Exposed No. 3 (A Copy)

"and here, among the quite quiet slumber of the evening, here he turns to the gray, gray skies henceforth and listens. What is said to him is precisely this: 'Behold, for we now become as silhouettes upon a dream-starved earth, so cropped with falsified innocence, ere we are aware that our passions lie besieged upon some midnight clear, and far ahead in future raptures we reluctantly obtained when not our hearts could understand.' 'Dramatically inclined, he ventures to the corner to find her standing on the curb, alone and quite frightened by the distant lights ahead.' 'What is there to be so frightened by,' he asks, as she slowly, and with much struggle, turns to face him. "I am waiting for a feeling, and a feeling to end this feeling that I'm feeling," she replies. "Can I help you?" he asks, and she whispers softly into his ear, while taking slightly his hand by the fingers, "but you already have," and then she kisses him softly on the lips. A noise resounds from behind and he quickly turns to investigate, letting go of her hand for but a moment. When her turn back round to find her face again, it was empty space where once a dream had stood in the form of a beautiful face. If on a corner you see him standing, head tilting side to side, you see the very boy, in search of the very girl, the traffic glance romance that lives forever on dim-lit streets in dim-lit towns on dim-lit nights as these. The sky will tell you so, if you really want to know."

-C.A. Dominick

Second Hand Merchandise

You know, I don't know anyone that says this personally, but I'm sure there is some old geezer out there; someone's grandfather that tells them all the time how everyday is a new adventure. Well ladies and gents, here's my grand and all encompassing adventure of the day.

Actually I think I might have built it up just a little too much with that last sentence, so prepare for disappointment.
Anyways, I went to a local thrift/vintage goods store today. The mission was to rid myself of some vinyl that I no longer found desireable, plus I needed some spare cash to feed my excessive habits of drinking coffee, buying books, music, and journals, and lets not forget my closest friend of all, the mighty cigarette. So, I took in what was probably around twenty records or so, some good, some shitty, some so-so. After a look at the bundle the guy says to me, "I don't know, 18 bucks?" I say, "sure." Some would call that hasty, but I guess I didn't really care. I did begin to think about how nothing these days retains any value, except of course for Honda's. Those damn Japanese know how to make a car, God bless em. Well, I browsed the store for a bit, found a book about Physics, bought it for $5, and headed for a coffee and to search for A Moveable Feast by one of my pesonal favorites, Ernest Hemingway. I didn't find the book, but I did find the coffee, and a pretty lady to make it for me. Normally when I go to this place for the hot stuff I like to sit on their small patio area and read and smoke cigarettes and write and admire the beauties and so forth, but alas, dinner beckoned me elsewhere. My sweet momma, she gave me a call and told me to come to the folks house for dinner. What? I'm not turning it down, its good, free, and better than what I've got at home; some pizza rolls and frosted mini wheats. Anyways, the kicker of the day was on the drive to my parents' house for dinner. I began to think again about how my records collected me so little money and how nothing really holds value and all that. Then I had a funny thought.

..."What if I offered to sell myself to the store?"

I began to play it out in the car.
I walk in, walk to the counter and see the man to which i just an hour ago sold my records to, and say, "excuse me sir.' 'I have a sort of an odd question for you." To which he would say, "ok?" "Well, I was thinking earlier after I sold you my records how nothing really retains much value these days, but I started wondering... Well, I'll put it this way: you guys buy and sell records, cds, books, movies, clothes, furniture, etc. right?" "Well, yeah, yes we do." "Ok, well, I was wondering, how much would you pay for a person?" The clerk, a little confused and condescending would say, "excuse me? You mean like, a person, like a human, right?" "Right." "Yeah, is this a joke, or..." "No, no. I'm seriously asking you, how much would you give for a person?" "Umm, well, I don't think we can do that, so..." "Well, what I mean is, you know, buying and selling people is, is well, sort of been going on for a while, you know.' 'I mean, it kind of built the foundation for our country and our system of government, and you know the Egyptians did it and stuff.' 'Why not now?" "Because its against the law!' 'And anyways, even if I were to buy you, who would get the money, you?" "Well, yeah, I guess." "What are you going to do with it?' 'Spend it here at the store?" "Maybe, I guess." "No. I mean, you would have to stay here, with the rest of the merchandise, and you know, we'd have to feed you and bathe you and, uhh, it just seems like more trouble than its worth." "Hey, I'm just lookin' for a dollar amount here, I didn't say it would be the right price or anything like that." The clerk would give me the hard glance of frustration and anger over the ridiculousness of the conversation and say, "Well, look, man, I think you're completely nuts." It would go on like this for several minutes, until finally, I would convince the clerk to buy me.

So there I am, at the second-hand store, along with all the other merchandise. I would wear a T-shirt that says both front and back, "For Sale: See Clerk For Information Regarding This Merchandise." Every once and a while people would laugh and ask the clerk about me, thinking that I was just another employee, and the clerk would say to them, "no, he's really for sale.' 'Would you like to buy him?" "How much?" "I think we could part with him for $650." "No way!' 'I wouldn't pay twenty bucks for that guy!"

Twenty dollars. Assholes.

Anyways, one day months later some poor jerk would come in with his girlfriend and inquire about me. And they will ask, "how much?" And the clerk will answer them, and it will be my lucky day since they just won big on a scratcher ticket and have money to blow. Then I'll be carted away, finally. The staff will be a mixture of crying young madens whose fondness came about from my doubtless, sublte charm and good taste in headwear, as well as books, and others who were just plain annoyed with my very existence, both out of my taking up their space and them being jealous that they didn't think of it first. I'll go home with the happy couple, lucky winners, and spend the rest of my days taking care of their thirteen cats and four dogs, a parakeet named "Banana" and a gerbil named "Sherlock." I wash their cars on Sundays. I clean the house and do their laundry and every once in a while we watch That 70's Show together, and their favorite character is Fez, whereas mine is always Donna. Once a month they let me go and visit my family, and in the evenings after the dishes I get to read, but only approved literature. They don't want me to taint my slave like brain.

It's kind of a far-fetched tale, but hey, it could happen. I mean, just because my United States of America blood is backed with a bill of rights and The Constitution doesn't mean I'm obligated towards its evident principles. By selling my self to the company store, I voluntarily denounce my right to freedom and the "American Way" and voila!

Maybe I was a crack baby or something; I'll ask my dad tomorrow. He always gives the story to me straight.

Goodnight you cheeky bastards, you devils, you.

-C.A. Dominick

Boo-tay, Ya'll

Yeah, I said it. I went pub crawling tonight- not drunk. Bummer, right? I have had three drinks, all of which cost way too much. let's see, first I went to The Creamery, where some awful man was covering everything terribly. He told me he was soon to have some songs by Greenday and Nickelback; very big deal. Then we went to Champs, where it was not so happening. The bartenders are idiots there. Finally, we end up at the local dance club, the most happenin spot in Joplin, good old Club 502. This is one of those "shake your ass" kind of clubs. Yipee. Well, I ran into my old guitarists' older sister, and you know what? We fuckin danced. Yup, the Chucker shook his boo-tay for the lady on the dance floor. It was really fun. Well, at any rate, at least I did something instead of chumping out like alot of poor suckers at those places. Man, I used to work in that atmosphere, and let me tell you, if you're not engaged then you're not gettin' anything. I guess it helps to be the charming son of a bitch that I am, but still, you gotta play the game, fools.

Fuck all that. I have no idea what I'm talking about.

In the end, (where it actually counts) I am here, alone, with some rather depressing music playing in the backround and no resolution; no resolve. I am left to go to sleep and dream about nothingness until tomorrow where the only thing on my agenda is to pick up my laundry and dodge another bullet of lonliness. Well, fuck that too, I guess.

I'm going to read a book on existentialism tomorrow, that's what I'll do.

This is the most pointless entry I have had in a long time.

P.S. Is it wrong that I think my old guitarist's older sister is attractive? I don't think so. Man...

I've overstayed my welcome again,

-C.A. Dominick

Bukowski vs. Everybody Else

I'm sitting here quiet
Three books in
And its all very real
Very interesting
Entertainment all the same.
After three books-
Three consuming efforts
Towards the man
The myth
The lengend
The drunk
And the womanizer
Nothing stays.
Bukowski
Isn't like everybody else,
I'm certain.
And now everybody else
Wants to be like Bukowski.

Blood rushes to the brain.
My head is dizzy
From the prize fight
Between Bukowski and the classics.
The old farts are taking a beating;
A sign of the times.
Still
This isn't a fight,
It's a wallop.
Everytime
I try and remember
A lasting line
From this new legend
Emptiness
And hard words are all I feel.
But...
Cummings
Millay
Whitman
Blake
Frost
Sexton
Keats
Dylan
All limping
Like aged prize fighters
Wind back and strike
And knock him on his ass
With every last line
I ever read.

Bukowski can have this decade
Because nothing gold can stay.

C.A. Dominick

Perspective, Perspective, Perspective.

Sitting around in my cluttered room now; the night is nearly over for me. I look about the room, not seeing much, since the only light comes from my screen and a small reading lamp in front of me on the desk. The desk is cluttered too, it seems. Old receipts, an alarm clock, Rod McKuen and Anne Sexton, my keys, a zippo light(my roommates, I recently lost mine) and various other dawdling of crap.

I turn off the Reigning Sound and turn on Belle and Sebastian; yes it is one of those nights.

I was supposed to meet a friend after band practice this evening. Yes, thats right, I play in a band. Didn't I tell you? Anyways, its nothing very interesting. I never feel inspired when the lyricist writes the lyrics after the melody has been made. Songs should be concepts. Everything else is like that. When a car manufacturer comes out with a new car they always call it a "concept." That's just what these songs are: concepts. With the exception of the most recent tune we've established, all these songs are full of lyrical nonsense. Too fucking abstract. Too fucking general, impersonal, fictional. Then again, what the hell do I know? I, the meager drummer and quiet, indifferent one of the group. I guess I don't put stock in much of anything these days. Not the women, not the music, not even the writers. Fuck. I know. I should drink more orange juice and go for a jog in the evening. I should change my perspective. Well, suck them titties. Maybe thats just what I'll do. But as it stands I am nearly broke, without a steady job, no motorcycle, no cigarette money, and the taste of lousy coffee in my mouth with a head full of bullshit coffee talk. What's a girl to do? Get vertically challenged.

-C.A. Dominick

When You're Only Twenty-Two It's Not Attractive To Complain About Your Sore Back...

But today the damn thing is killing me. No Joke.

Well, I got the staples removed from my head yesterday; the first time in days since I could run my hand through my hair and not feel metal and a sting that produces an instant headache. For those of you who have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, I'll give you a recap: Two mondays ago I awoke to find my motorcycle stolen from my very own house. Big. Fucking. Deal. It was a blow of which I shall never fully recover. My trip of SIX WEEKS has been condemned to death by the actions of the mysterious thief who is now in posession of a very lovely bike with my name all over it. Anyways, the staples come in the next day. I was working on a construction site and moving an eight foot ladder which happened to have a hammer at the top, waiting to fall on my head. Well, it did. That thing hurt too! My father asked me if I was bleeding, I said, "I don't know," and then down my face the blood began trickling. Five staples later and I can't walk through a metal detector without a strip search. But all that is over now, thank God, or whatever it is we're suppose to thank. I have to wait for my stupid insurance agency to buckle down and get me a new bike, but its in the works and i guess I'm over the loss of the trip now for the most part.

I must confess, dear readers, this type of entry (talking about facts of my life and such) is exausting to me. I don't really find my life all that interesting so I guess I can't really fathom how anyone else should either.

Basically, I just want to feel forever like I'm about to burst into millions of particles the rest of my days. By that I mean, well, you know, that feeling... That "first kiss" rollercoaster feeling inside, filled with excitement and anxiety and sleepless needing satisfaction and shear wonder unfolded over eyes forever. I'm convinced its possible. It would take both a change of perspective and a very busy-body to make it so. To never stop. Whats to say that we can't act out all of our intuitions; our desires? I mean, for the most part anyways. More practical people will always argue against it, but thats only because people never want to give up anything; only accumulate more. If I had to give up all my furniture, music, and most else that is of any value to do something I really, really wanted to do, then I suppose I just would. In all honesty I would love to only posess at any given time the clothes on my back, my bag with a few gems of books and journals, and as a distant secondary maybe a mode of transportation (motorcycle). I would go from place to place and experience adventure after adventure. That would be a life for you. But... we always think it and never do it. It would be hard to do, especially with all these comforts of home. I have my front porch with the bugs and the low-light and the cigarettes for my ashtrays and the night air and a good book for a decent drink. Nice, huh? Well, when you're forever in motion drinks slow you down, cigarettes are bad for you, books are too hard to read, the night air is always changing and bugs whack you in the face. But.... the scenery is surreal. From mountain to ocean to river to lake you are there, in the physical, and nothing and no one can tell you what you are feeling, seeing, smelling, touching, and tasting except you. Fuck. Sign me up. I'd love a friend along for the ride, but I understand its hardly ever possible. We DO have to grow up sooner or later. Thats the damn facts. Unless, of course, money comes through such irresponsible behaviors, in which case, keep going. Well, I have this hobby I like to perform now and again. I like writing. Its nice to throw the words on the paper and fuck with them however I want to. Maybe i could go out in the world and write? Maybe I will.

-C.A. Dominick

Drunk.

Plainly put, I am tanked, or I should say, Tanked Out. I have been drinking for hours, touring the bars of Joplin for actually the first time since I moved back. Lets see... first there was the "dead, trendy, money, indie, or no fuck bar," then there was the "lesbians anonymous" bar, then there was the "hipster, college elitest dick bar." Figures. Leave it to Joplin to turn me away from the bars for good. You know, sometimes I really don't know why I am still here. Apart from my bike being stolen and such, I think I perhaps should have never come back. It might have been easier on my and everyone if I had just stayed put.

*I do realize that as of the last, say, eight entries or so I have been a depressive asshole; I want to apologize for that. I don't want to be and I'm not going to be anymore; at least i will try not to be. Cynics never win, its in the goddamn rulebook or something.

C.A. Dominick

Thought Recovery And Coping With The Psychological Misgivings of A Moon Found Falling On My Eyelids This Early Morning, Or Is It Evening?

Deep in the heart I frolick with laughter drenched in hues of blue and yellow. Red, red is just too drawn and distant tonight. I am calling from the distance and the echoes of my valved voice wander through the hills and the valleys, and hopefully, find you sleeping soundly.

But, then again, it is not fair fortune whose all too timely measure bereaves me of this heart-song sung in the late night hour. Perhaps its just a calling future whose only wayward message is to be done in the ways of foolishness and melancholy.

I am such as water does when it digs the deep ground and lay silent for decades.

When the music starts, I start with it, and never before; as do I end when the song has been sung.

*I do not know where all this came from; interpret as you wish, but I do believe my bed is calling.

C.A.Dominick

Ha. Ha. Ha.

I have a copyright, and I think that that is funny. Look:

Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony DominickCopyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick
Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick
Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick
Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick
Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick

Do you see?

Tonight I went for coffee and a few smokes. I got some coffee, and some smokes, and I smoked my coffee and I drank my cigarettes with as much vigor as a twenty-two year old boy should. I read some words. For a bit, I read some words by Vonnegut. Then, for another bit I read some words by Bukowski. Poor Bukowski is dying and taking it harder than I thought he would and Vonnegut is just talking some crazy shit about stupid religious terms and meanings and the end of the world and all that jazz. They do entertain me though, and how.

Pretty girls with pretty eyes...

Listen honey, I like your smile the most, and all that big decision talk bothers me, how about we just get drunk at the park and let the night have its way with us.

Anyways...

I've got sleep hounding at the damned door. Don't you hate that? Christ, I do. It's always saying two things: "Charlie, you're too stubborn for your own good, get your ass to bed or regret the next day altogether," or "hey, one more cigarette?"

I always say yes.

Always.

I used to tell someone that love is first born in the heart. Any thoughts? How can that even make sense, right? The heart is a muscle. It is the most habitable thing on the planet. Why do we give it so much credit? Maybe, if the heart were a feeling thing, we would always want to be on its good side or it could just up and stop and we would all just drop dead. Fuck. Well, thats just stupid. I would rather have my heart just stop than my brain shut off and I become a vegetable of a man.

*Note To All Readers:
If the author suddenly has a brain shut-down and becomes a vegetable of a man you are instructed (those whom the author knows personally, of course, unless you're very bored or something) to pull the plugs; stop the heart. Let his miserable, blank, emotionless ass be put to the good, hard, long sleep and all you have to do afterwards is recite passage 6 from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman. Do that, and you will have made his life worthwhile.


Go to bed, you animals.

C.A. Dominick

Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick (one more time, for good measure and all)

No More Muse At The Bottom of The Carton Tonight

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Now aren't keyboards silly things?

I think I like my pen better.

Quick Thought

Romance for romances' sake is empty and useless. I have been a practitioner for far too long, I think. I'm going to wait until I can't stand it.

Stay with the one you're with, let love run its course.

Every Town Is A Small Town Somehow

Trying to gain my bearings in my silly little world, I decided to go and buy some lightbulbs to feel useful again, and yes, in some way even productive. My productions have been half-hearted and lacking these days. If you really want to feel productive go to the grocery store; its amazing how much satifaction you can get out of buying yourself some cereal and milk, some meat and a nice batch of apples; even the bread for the morning with the coffee. Grocery stores are the key to sanity. I guess I'm just chock full of miserable straights in the streets that are my home. When here, I am a mess and that is that. Needs and wants, I guess. What do I need? What do I want? Peace, quiet, and some small way to expel this energy built up inside of me. Its kicking and screaming like a newborn babe whose milk is satisfaction not obtained and I am looking for that satisfying state the permeate this suffered brain. I want a range life, if I could settle down. I want to read and write all of my days, and play music I create, and only me, unless I find three or four other folks who see the way I see. I want to run from the cops and chase shooting stars for money and for happiness. I want to be bold and unhindered by silly sophmoric, romantic girls who take my time and snap it against my skin like a large rubberband that only stings and lingers for days. No more women even though I've not had so many. No more charlatans and no more pretencious drunks who know whats what and I don't know shit even though the shit I DO know I never offer them anyways. No more of that. Just whisky and some words and a little moonlight and a little holiday on the Mississippi River just like Samuel Clemens and I love how he admired that river so much. I guess its my drive, or something. Maybe I create this separation and this killing of the attachments in people that I surround and that surround me. I think perhaps I am too kind to say, "fuck off" defiantly enough for them to get the picture. Who knows. Maybe I just need good drugs and alot of sleep away from my father and my life for a few weeks. Maybe I need to be a criminal or eat more bananas or go to the picture show with a hand to hold. Maybe I need to operate machinery or take deep breaths in the checkout line or emancipate and proclamate the immediate state of my affairs. My I need a better lifestyle, some new shoes and whiter teeth in one month. Maybe I should read the Times or The Wall Street Journal and look into high yield investments and take my cash money to the carribean for a nice rum drink and a little ocean breeze to calm me into comatose comfort. Whatever it is, its just a big mish-mash of misconception. I'm going to go buy some lightbulbs and even a coffee or a cigarette and some more dull and meaningless conversation. Cynicism didn't consume me until I came here; now you know how I must leave.

Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick

All The Time

In a town,
In a place,
All the time,
All the time.
Here I sit,
Full of shit,
All the time,
All the time.
And the cars
Slowly go
To and fro,
There they go.
And I wait,
And I don't,
Now it's time
Now I know.
All the time,
All the time.
Life can be...
Well nevermind.
I'm just so sick
Of life sometimes.
Makes me tired,
Makes me jealous.
All the time,
All the time.
Hammered emotions
Beat my brain
All the time,
All the time.
Human relations
Are getting to me
All the time,
All the time.
Lights go dim,
Dreams are grim,
But sometimes...
The golden row
Of sunlight flows
throught the tangles
And I know
That things are nice
Sometimes.
I guess I just wish
For it
All the time,
All the time.

C.
A.
Domin
ick


Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick

Absurdity

Absurdity
In the games we've played;
Honey,
Aren't you tired
Of this charade?
Wouldn't you rather
Just run away?
Or should I
Just go away?

Sometimes...
I could grab you
And find my lips
parallel and parted;
Just as quickly
As it comes
It fades.

You run away,
Or you want both.
Well that won't do,
I'm stuck on you
And that won't do.
So take the fall
Or make the choice
Pick up your phone,
Let me hear your voice
Inciting,
Inviting,
Uniting,
Or dividing
You and I.

C.A. Dominick

Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick

Sophisticated Creatures

The lights of Grenoble
Are calling me up tonight.
"Stay awake, stay up late!"
They say, and so I pour a drink,
Turn on the think-tank
In the beak of my brain
And tip the tea-pot of thoughts over;
Pouring out the stuff of ages
In fractions all the same
As generations prior.
Words- they leak out like
The little drops of oil
from my '83 Dodge Pickup.
And soon, but not terribly,
The engine will run dry;
My words will find themselves
Empty in the vessels of my heart-
Burned, beaten and black
Like the starless night
Between dawn and daylight.
It's not so bad, really.
Spears of starlight press down,
Touching my eyes, glistening and falling;
The ebb and flow of a nighttime ocean
Above instead of below.
If I dress myself appropriately-
If I dress for success
I guess I will avail,
But the redundance of this life
Is something stinking;
Filthy and flandering mouths
Open wide and abide their contortions,
Passing themselves off as
Sophisticated creatures,
The idiots.


C.A. Dominick


Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick