TooSawn Trigger

the truth shall set you free. free from what? punishment? persecution? denial? hate? human interaction? if proof was bread my ribs would be showing. say all a man has is his word, naked as he can be to the world stripped from public validity and material possessions. would tear apart this entire waste of space if it meant your life, brother. would easily trade my life to keep yours. more potential lays behind that smirk than my raised brow. i tear sinew, burn flesh to closed eyes with a tight lip. acquisations and assumed betrayals cut worse than anything else. yours is one of few alloys that can pierce this skin that is darker even than the surface. A grey beneath the ivory beneath the bronze. i write nothing you do not already know, brother. i am not your undoing though you could be mine. if you need me ill be tearing down walls, or breaking knuckles whichever happens first. FUCK MONEY AND RESPONSIBILTY AND CARS AND BILLS AND AUTHORITY AND LIES AND MISCONSTRUITIES.

WE MAKE FIRE. THEY ALL DANCE IN OUR BLAZE.
IT IS SO AND LET IT BE ON AND ON AND ON AGAIN.

toosawn-trigger:

The past three days have been fierce mild but tomorrow will begin the scorching of my skin. Consider the oven set to pre-heat, now all we have to do is wait and not that long either. I have only begun to sweat, my nights of shivering in blankets alone gone. These now are the days that cause seizures, that bring weak men to tears, bored men to idleness. Just who the hell do you think I am? And just how much do you think I care? I might not know exactly who I am but a wise man told me recently, “Just keep trying shit until something sticks.”　

The past three days have been fierce mild but tomorrow will begin the scorching of my skin. Consider the oven set to pre-heat, now all we have to do is wait and not that long either. I have only begun to sweat, my nights of shivering in blankets alone gone. These now are the days that cause seizures, that bring weak men to tears, bored men to idleness. Just who the hell do you think I am? And just how much do you think I care? I might not know exactly who I am but a wise man told me recently, “Just keep trying shit until something sticks.”　

The amount of stand-up I listen to and watch is getting beyond ridiculous. I could create a web diagram citing who does the same bits or jokes. I could sit down and write down at least fifteen minutes of my favorite jokes from this infinite metaphorical trunk of quips pooling in my head. I might as well have a bachelors degree in comedy. I realized how ridiculous that is when I saw stand-up comedy at a bar a few nights ago somewhat sober. I had to keep myself from walking up to acts after they came off and give them notes on their act; Me, someone who has never stood in front of a brick wall with a microphone in his hand in his life. I had to remember: who the fuck am I?

Then I asked myself, can I see myself doing that? Hell no. What kind of person needs that much attention that they need to…oh right, what is the difference between stand-up and spoken word? Laughter? But what is the reaction I really look for in my spoken word? Nothing as audible as laughter. Thoughts rarely really make a noise, I just want to make my points and I never really expect anything from the audience. Honestly, I don’t give a flying fuck. I do what I want and fuck everything else. It is a great feeling to have turned that energy worrying about reactions to more creation. I know I have a lot of terrible work, some of which has found its way on here, but I know I have great work too. One day the latter will be larger than the former and that is what keeps me going along.

truly learning what it means to ache

bones, muscle, and sinew so stiff

such a challenge to move or change

position
yet it yearns to, I long for it to hold
within

effort, strength, poise, grace
…potential

Then all at once making all the difference of a saint
its stretched, used, moved, and I forget

once again

what ache means. I have it back instantaneously
realizing it was never lost to fucking begin with

so darling this is why I stare at my idle arms
and call myself a deeply foolish boy when my

mind takes a gasp of air 

Just
please
allow me to keep making her smile

she is warmth
i remember cold
she is the beginning
she is the end
the wilted light

she is whats right 

toosawn-trigger:

 You have got much to learn

will you ask for atonement?

or will you just let it burn?

No matter how hard you try

Everywhere you might turn

your hearts going to stop

will this feeling pass?

dropping like the setting sun?

This I promise

it will rise tomorrow

there is nowhere you can run

will you take my hand?

I know it weighs a ton

will you take my hand

down to the trotting river?

toosawn-trigger:

walking the streets at night

tears slide down my cheek

puzzling to say the least

as it is I feel quite alright

no idea where im goin

barely remember where I been

someone calls to me

I turn but

can’t see whom

Risk of sounding conceited be damned: the thought of releasing an album to a record company so they can sprinkle it into a hype machine spanning through social media makes me feel very queasy. Fuck your assumptions that mine or anyone else’s musical taste can be convoluted into a flurry of computer code and out of that shits a list of artist’s to be suggested to the listener. To some degree I think that is a great thing and might even work most of the time but when it is wrong it is so fucking far off it turns me homicidal. I imagine in my head sneaking up behind some computer code head tapping away at his keyboard from the shadows and squeezing his adam’s apple back to his throat until he stops flailing before I simply drop his heavy skull to crack his keyboard in half. Or the ads I get over social media for some shit band of asshats pretending originality and a waging some sort of battle against society through music or whatever they want you to think of them; whilst seeming so formulaic, so fake. Even more so the plausible idea that the music we make might one day be contributing to a company that exudes these types of “artists” makes me want to throw up. I will never claim that our band sounds different from everything you have ever heard but we make it for the pure joy we get out of it and all the dead musicians that came before us that put so many ideas in our heads every single day about what to play/write next. A love letter to remind them all that they are not forgotten. For me, that idea is what puts a smile to my face when I play. Any recognition we might get besides their invisible smiles could never measure up to that.

she calls it endearing
when I read in bed
while she falls asleep
from migraines
with jets whispering
through the window ajar
and dimmed sunshined
heat
yet our only light 

We are doing our own thing
but still near one each other
proximity is strange when 
not disturbing one another

call it endearing or cute
I cite it as an accidental
(ly discovered) metaphor
of what me and you
are, what we mean
can be or are already
does it matter which?
if we remember being kids
when time seemed
to last longer
as if there was more of it

Do you remember?

toosawn-trigger:

Dirty Bicycling kids ride by and I forget its already December again.

Yes, wearing handkerchiefs like cowboys

Sleeveless shirts like surfers

cut off shorts like poor children

and dreadlocks like Rastafarians

Reminds me of old bicycle gang rides back home

We used to block off intersections

scream at cars

circle around the city until the cops came

we disperse

I myself never got caught

my walk to the bus stop is my run down the stairs.

her opening her door is tearing away at the wrapping.

the click of my sticks is the first playtime with new toys.