I won’t lie, I was nervous,
while legends stood before me,
the same ones I used to work with.
They looked upon me, cautious,
as their eyes said you deserve this,
but my mouth whispered I’m stuck,
and maybe this is not my purpose.
True to my word though, I now own a Quick Stop,
which owns me, and I’ll owe it for the meals
on my table, for the wheels on the highway,
and for the company in the passenger seat,
which hopefully leads to a castle’s driveway.
Imprison the punishers of passion, and
to the dreams that seem like mirages,
know that visions don’t vanish in waiting.
My career is a red herring; my year off,
it came and went, and now I’m back to
working the 6 AM shift, but I’m my own
boss now, and that’s a laughable notion.
They say the best is yet to come, and that
this is just the first step in my own world,
but dreams aren’t meant for your eyes only, or to be
confidential, and self-destruct upon seeing them.
They’re meant to be realized, they’re meant to
be cherished, and they’re meant to be survived on,
and not survived by; not as your last will, and certainly
not as your testament, because it exists because of you,
and not because you tested it, and maybe failed to an extent.
Life is an open road, and I’ve thrown my GPS out the window,
because the accent didn’t suit me, and the directions seemed worthless.
In the last few weeks, I’ve grown tired of my signature,
and have had titles follow my name after a well placed comma:
Owner, Director, Manager, and President;


My text just read, Smile; I haven’t heard your voice, or seen your face in some months.
Your text back said, Needed that today, so I called you, and this is what I found out:

We’re both scared of what the future holds, though I suppose yours is more recent, but
even a year later, you’ve helped me come to terms with where I’ve been, and where I am, and where I’ll go, and if you’ll come with me, either on the campaign trail or being abroad teaching, or selling people houses while studying information technology, but never once forgetting that I’ve always wanted to make those movies. We don’t have to talk for days or weeks, months even, and it’s been almost a year, but when we do, when we finally do, it always goes long, more than sixty minutes. I’ve realized that I missed it, but this time, there’s no subtext; just context, just friendship, and just all the things that I sorely missed like, you laugh at me a lot, whether it be for my driving or that I actually go to the gym, or that we actually have the same stomping grounds, and that we both teared up when they teared it down, and refuse to go back just for fun, and the only time we’d be there is if we were racing, trying to find the fastest route to reconnect among friends who’ve since become much too busy with life, work, homes, and hearts.

Switch gears, and we only talk through email because you don’t have a phone yet, but it’s made me come to terms with the fact that I only belong in your inbox, alongside attached Word documents, and the occasional witty line that you reply to using one word answers in an all lowercase font. You were once the runner up, and sometimes I think you still might be, until I realize how different our backgrounds are, considering I’m a surburban kid not used to skyscrapers, and you’ve moved from sprawling city to city. The truth of the matter is that I wasn’t in your past, and what little I was present, your future will erase that, because I am no longer in college, because I was never the smartest, because I am not booksmart enough about philosophies and mindsets. You deserve someone like-minded, who knows when to open and close his mouthpiece, and not spout scripted dialogue that’s too right-wing/left-wing, but he-won’t-actually-eat-wings. I’ve always been good in moderation, not seen every day, but still be the basis for the butt of all jokes even when making them myself at the expense of others’ nations, even though I’m not a citizen, upstanding or otherwise; I lack globalization.

You were both my toe-to-toe legends, the Ali’s to my Frazier, but the Thrilla in Toronto was a part of another trilogy that didn’t quite deliver on the promises of what I’d hoped it be, but it did give me the two of us, and the two of us, alongside the group later known as the crew of us, so I can’t complain when it gave me everything I wanted that was as close to fame. Every night I drive by the same purple house, but tonight it was bathed in a green light. No significance anymore I’m sure, but it’s good to know the albatross is alive and well. I repeat, the albatross is alive and well, but for the first time in a long time, it remains soaring as I continue sailing away; from it, for it, and forever redefined, as a dictionless, directionless delusional debonair that’ll never marry ’em Webster but keep trying to web search those blog posts, not knowing that I am Jack’s Thought Catalog, and this is his “Smirking Revenge, Complete Lack of Surprise, Broken Heart, and Inflamed Sense of Rejection” (thanks Fight Club for that works cited) all rolled into one because he no longer finds them to be the one; just me, myself, and this paradox lost among this subtle water, enjoying the company of [name’s been dropped].

Fan Mail

My mom says I’m confused about the career paths I won’t choose, and in the last couple of weeks, I’ve been told I’m in the wrong field repeatedly. I no longer have a wardrobe, or outfits committed to a podcast or a sketch show, and I’m finally on the independent scene, but it’s for my own business, not film festivals. I watched a girl fix her hair and put on makeup on the GO bus. She no doubt had someone waiting for her at the last terminal. That would explain the flowers next to her atop the empty seat, and the constant smiles she gave to her screen every time her phone rang. I think that’s when it finally dawned on me; go ahead, cue her last voicemail:

You’re always talking about the future, and what roles we play in each other’s lives, but you don’t know anything. You don’t know where I fit in, or even if I fit in. You only think you do, or think that you want me to, but the truth is, you don’t know anything. You can’t just assume that you want to be with me, or that you could be with me, without so much as talking to me about it. You plan all these elaborate scenarios, and stories, but you don’t know anything beyond your own thoughts.

Who are you to define me? You think you know me so well? Just because we shared a bed, you think that you’re my best girl? You are though, I think that’s what I regret most; that I was given an open chance to turn “the only” into something special. Instead I hit on Hilarys, that’s code for girls who are out of my league, when they’re in love with Trevors (the brothas that actually be on TV), and Uncle Phil keeps throwing me out of the house so, I guess I’m living up to my namesake (finally). I was ripped in half by Megatron, defined an entire musical era in New Orleans, and I was Warner Bros.’ first talkie, and since then, I’ve never stopped talking; go ahead, cue his last text:

I like the art, but I don’t like the artist–that includes you Jas sitting on your high horse, thinking that it’s okay to keep writing nonsense, but never taking the time to ever explain your content–I’m not sure if it’s literal, or even metaphorical, or if this random she you speak of is even real or not. Who do you write for? Who do you talk to? Do the lack of hits ever seem to bother you? You’re surrounded by talent, and you’re the exception to the rule that this site couldn’t go on to exist without you. Do yourself a favor, and get lost from this paradox.

What would you rather see me writing? In three different languages, I’ve exhausted poetry. I want to go back to writing scripts about comic absurdity, but I’ve no longer got the laughs to justify what I once called wit, or a cast of colorful characters that would perform every last skit. I’ll soon be competing with my own territory, while still being lectured about my behavior, wondering if I ever really grew up, or if I’m still the same age as before I moved here, and became the designated driver. It’s like they’ve all forgotten all those parent-teacher conferences, of hearing that “your son is smart, but we can’t handle all of his creativeness,” though I guess it kind of makes some sense, that what worked in middle school won’t fly sitting in boardrooms, where they don’t want to see me stand up for anything other than PowerPoints; go ahead, cue their last email:

I had a great time with you, you’re the funniest dude I ever met, and the only guy I know who could balance work while making Seinfeld references. I didn’t know we had such an impact, I better be in your page of Thanks when you finally get published. I appreciate your knowledge, insight, and comic relief. Going forward, I wish you nothing but the best, and I hope that our paths soon cross again.