tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43479551121813656962011-04-21T19:45:16.884-04:00The Concrete Jungle is a way to describe the living breathing city that is New York. Here you'll find bar reviews, film reviews, music reviews, and god knows what else. Enjoy!Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.comBlogger521100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-85682044652012256422008-12-10T17:00:00.002-05:002008-12-10T17:00:00.651-05:00

A memory.Brothers are meant to wage war on each other. This, as they say, is the nature of the beast. It’s a constant struggle to see who will come out on top, who among the children can win the favor of doting Mommy and silent Daddy. After all, if one did not have to vie for the affections of a loved one, then where’s the purpose in the chase, or the fight? Gone. Utterly out the window.

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-33205186847404012742008-12-10T08:00:00.001-05:002008-12-10T08:00:01.455-05:00

I reach the apartment well past dark. I open the door and the smell of a life wasted immediately hits me, crippling me to my knees and forcing me to crawl into the clinically dressed living room. The light on my answering machine blinks an evil red eye at me, shining against the darkness of the room. I stare at it, waiting in some vain hope that the damn thing might actually go away on its own.

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-51377934129719098132008-12-08T17:00:00.000-05:002008-12-08T17:00:01.232-05:00

Confession: I have no home.In my teenage years I learned very quickly that the term home was relative. It was just a word people flung around to describe a place or a feeling. Sadly, for me, both of these things escaped me. Home contained no warm and fuzzy feeling, if anything; it contained a sense of dread. For many, home should be where they feel the most comfortable, and in Clear Spring, Texas

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-41546560908246750092008-12-08T08:00:00.000-05:002008-12-08T08:00:00.294-05:00

I awaken from the memory somewhere in the Concrete Jungle. The Steel Trees shine a dim light and I know it is time for me to do the unthinkable. I take my cell phone from my pocket and proceed to dial Malcolm. The phone clicks and buzzes, pulsing with a life of its own, until Malcolm’s voice comes across. I don’t say much, matter of fact my voice is barely above audible. I do something I swore I

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-3840748756324302852008-12-05T15:50:00.000-05:002008-12-05T15:50:00.405-05:00

Confession: Ghosts fill my unforgettable past.It’s a summer day and I’m six years old or somewhere near there. I’ve spent the morning playing with Legos and Transformers, trying to keep my mind off the events taking place late this muggy afternoon. Mother comes to the room with her usual look of self satisfaction and reminds me I need to start getting ready. I nod and begin to put the toys away.

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-18510194669909801602008-12-05T15:45:00.000-05:002008-12-05T15:45:00.253-05:00

Life moves at a rapid pace, especially here in the Jungle. One day you’re on top of the world, the king of the castle, guardian of the new domain. A year ago that was me, leading the charge into a new frontier in writing, in relationship, well, in everything. Now, as I stare in the mirror in some dingy bathroom deep in the Great Park, I realize I’m no better then the homeless Ants I shove from

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-84224890746481486832008-12-05T15:30:00.000-05:002008-12-05T15:30:00.937-05:00

“Cold.” It was more a statement then a question, but judging from the voice, there was at least a hint of concern. I vaguely open my bleary eyes to see the echoing passage ways of the Jungle looming beneath me. I try hard, harder then I’ve tried recently, to make sense of my surroundings. My semi-nude body only feels the piercing wind of Jack Frost as I lean over the edge of the Hunter’s

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-49904613475457009012008-11-26T17:00:00.000-05:002008-11-26T17:00:01.215-05:00

In.Out.In.Out.My breath feels like a pulse, racing like a runaway horse on a path of destruction. I try to control the fevered pitch of my breathing, but control has never been something I’ve been very good at. The Great Park, once a sanctuary of sorts, no long feels safe and quaint. She feels alive with the paranoia of a million eyes - eight million to be exact (ant that’s not counting the

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-63641804521916651502008-11-26T08:00:00.000-05:002008-11-26T08:00:00.354-05:00

The comedown still has a tight hold on my brain, heart and soul. So much so that the blistering light plays tricks with my eyes and I could almost swear that Mr. Columbus is frowning down at me. “The world was once considered flat, a vast empty space upon which any ship sailing to the east or west would eventually sail right to the end of the world and disappear into a deep darkness. Of

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-86006421576051253662008-11-25T17:00:00.000-05:002008-11-25T17:00:01.087-05:00

A realization: Life is one big painful and carefully constructed web of lies.The truth inside of this is everyone is in on the lies but me. First it was my parents, then my friends, then the clergy, then the people you knew and the ones you didn’t, then the lies I sold myself, and lastly the lies of my lover. Sadly, life is nothing more than lies sold back and forth. Makes one wonder why even

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-9252207287278006252008-11-25T08:00:00.001-05:002008-11-25T08:00:00.813-05:00

The streets of the Concrete Jungle never seem lonely until you’re walking aimlessly on them. Your sense of direction shot, you throw yourselves to the vicious wolves and hope you make it to somewhere pleasing. The late night crawls from the gutter bars to the confines of my prison cell in the lonely, cold and desperate hours of the early morning can’t compete with the crippling feeling that now

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-16366760464657525442008-11-11T18:00:00.001-05:002008-11-11T18:00:08.137-05:00

I scour my apartment, somewhere in the mess of what I call home is a little slip of paper with a phone number on it. I don’t know why I’m looking for it, it just seems right. For some reason I feel this person should know what I’m going through, maybe they could reach the little voice inside of me and pull him out. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll give me strength. I find the slip lodged among many

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-10336809976905167092008-11-11T08:00:00.000-05:002008-11-11T08:00:00.826-05:00

A confession: Hiroshima was not a bomb, it was death.Few things will stop the world. This is truth. This is reality. The world will move ever on, no matter what we may do. The world simple doesn’t stop. But some things, some things are designed to stop the world the instant they happen. For example, Hiroshima blazing on the day the Allied troops dropped the bomb. Mentioning the death of a family

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-63616990427926614202008-11-10T17:00:00.000-05:002008-11-10T17:00:04.461-05:00

I wake up in a sweat, lying somewhere between my foyer and the living room. The night, the one I don’t remember, has passed and day ravages the room before me. I stalk towards the bathroom, feeling disoriented in the way a newborn must feel. The mirror reveals the truth. My eyes are blazing red, shinning with the moisture of broken stolen moments I’ll never regain. I am a monster.

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-18447861737298845402008-11-10T08:00:00.003-05:002008-11-10T08:00:00.884-05:00

A dream.The Creatures of the Night and the Toxins are having a party in my skull, and no one invited me. I watch in the shadows as the Creatures float over the dance hall floor, hanging effortlessly on frozen breath, and dancing a slow dirge to a tense tune played by The Soldier’s Band. The Creatures appear at once bright and cold, floating against a darken backdrop of clouded memories and

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-29258460306397514972008-10-24T08:00:00.000-04:002008-10-24T08:00:00.644-04:00

I awake with a jolt, standing in the midst of my living room. I shouldn’t be here. I should be wrapped in a seductive corner of my bed, locked behind a wall of my own design until the comedown stops calling, but instead I’m standing naked in the middle of my living room, staring at a blank television screen. “Do you remember Phoenix Griffin,” the silent screen seems to ask. “A hot young actor

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-19073126599810180112008-10-23T17:00:00.000-04:002008-10-23T17:00:01.536-04:00

Allow me, if you will, to paint a bit of a scene for you.There is a Christmas that I cherish. Funny enough, it is not my first or last with Shannon (though both hold almost holy significance for me). Instead, it is one somewhere in the middle, trapped between those most holy ones, and ones of lesser importance. It is funny that one single moment becomes trapped, replaying as a single fragment of

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-66257329232338906882008-10-23T08:00:00.000-04:002008-10-23T08:00:02.423-04:00

Any fool will tell you, there comes a point in the quest for oblivion when a crossroads is reached. It is at this crossroads a hand is stretched out. Now, the wise man amongst the fools will take said hand and let it pull him free of the wretched excess he so foolishly wallows in. This, of course, would result in the quest for oblivion being put on hold, and allowing the wise man to look at his

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-69977283321497121902008-10-22T17:00:00.001-04:002008-10-22T17:00:01.608-04:00

A collision.I stumble back a few inches, letting loose a string of curses that would make my Father blush. I learned it from him after all. I rub my face, checking for blood, and search for the keys to my Mother’s apartment. I’m grateful, as my tripled hand finds the stair rail, she won’t be home yet. It’s still early in the morning and dawn is a ways away. I don’t know if I could explain to her

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-74228691071155136212008-10-22T08:00:00.000-04:002008-10-22T14:39:31.589-04:00

The taxi’s headlights blind me as I narrowly avoid a fatal collision with Screaming Yellow Death of the Jungle. The driver screams some foreign words at me as I flash an extended Jungle hello to the fading taillights. I whirl about, happy in my victory of childishness, and come face to face with the ridged resolve of a street lamp.

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-60747272584922611772008-09-22T17:00:00.001-04:002008-09-22T17:00:00.884-04:00

The Light.It was the first thing I noticed this morning. My father is sound asleep in his chair. I apparently passed out on his couch at one point in the evening. I force myself to sit up and survey the broken home before me. The carpet, caressing my feet, feels like a mother’s embrace. I kneel on the floor and sort through the pictures scattered about. Pictures are memories forever capturing a

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-25444318041074628142008-09-22T08:00:00.001-04:002008-09-22T08:00:01.362-04:00

Sixteen eyes immediately turn to look at me. Reality is laughing at me as the eyes of strangers ask just what the fuck is wrong with me. The stench of vomit creeps into my nostrils, and a wet cold feeling slinks around my body. The train lurches to a stop and the mumbled voice announces I’ve reached 155th Street. The door slides open and I hurl myself, vomit and all, through the open door and

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-25519302791333803442008-09-18T18:00:00.003-04:002008-09-18T18:00:02.620-04:00

“Shut up,” Malcolm threateningly whispers through clenched teeth, ramming his fist into my gut. The heat of pain scorches my vocal chords. “Shut up if you know what’s good for you.” The pain is brutal and I can’t help but think how backwards this is, the eldest son the human punching bag for the younger brother. I try to quell the screams down to soft whimpers, praying its enough not to be

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-12452516490598093492008-09-18T18:00:00.001-04:002008-09-18T18:00:02.189-04:00

I open my eyes and discover I’m standing on the platform for an Outer Bowels bound D. The comedown is beginning, spiraling me between memory and reality. I try to focus on a post just inches from my eyes, whispering to the train whipped air, “Today isn’t going to end pretty.”The muffled voice of the Serpent welcomes me into his warm bosom. The traffic this early bitter morning is sparse, and I

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-59560946323019970962008-09-18T08:00:00.002-04:002008-09-18T08:00:00.949-04:00

A confession: I am a whore.“Where have you been?”“With friends.”“I waited up all night for you.” The shadow hovers in the doorway of our apartment. I, the constant parent to his child, sit on the bed bathed in the harsh low-watt lighting, looking like a cheap whore on display. See, this is how I see myself. I give away my money and self-worth to be worthy of his love and attention. I’m

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-51636509767939733512008-09-17T18:00:00.000-04:002008-09-17T18:00:02.142-04:00

The sunlight burns my skin despite the chilly winter wind. I kiss the Someones good morning and feed them an empty promise of keeping in touch. In this brief moment, both parties know neither of us means a word of it. In honesty, they were artful surgeons, patching and mending the empty holes in my life. Sadly, they were only temporary patches, ones that will explode soon enough.The Upper

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-7524334842803809172008-09-17T08:00:00.001-04:002008-09-17T08:00:00.781-04:00

The bar crawls to the slow drag of the ‘Last Call Waltz’ as I whirl about searching the hungry faces of the Creatures for something familiar. The Spiders are still hungry and remind me that the night, though it’s turning to day, is still very much young. Outside the world is beginning to rise and start a habit based upon routine, but inside, wrapped in the eternal darkness of the nightclub, I’

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-39313351203521035162008-09-16T18:00:00.001-04:002008-09-16T18:00:02.006-04:00

A snapshot flashes before me. “Hey! Hey!” A hand lightly slaps my face. “Wake up, punk!” The hand lands a little harder. Then again. On the third swing I grab the hand and push is away. “So you finally decide to join the living?” “I never left.” At least I don’t remember leaving. The statement confuses me. “Dude, you’ve been staring into space for the last thirty minutes.” “

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-39148995091737968112008-09-16T08:00:00.002-04:002008-09-16T08:00:06.502-04:00

I’m unsure of how I got here (or how many I’ve had) but everything still appears to move with the normal range of life - the blurriness and double images have yet to set in. It’s been said - or did I overhear it? - that when the soul and mind wander the paths of memory, the body will take us to where our subconscious feels safest. For now, safety is equal to a Long Island Ice Tea and a bump or

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-71681818126594672222008-09-15T18:00:00.001-04:002008-09-15T18:00:00.423-04:00

Summer. The summer breeze smells like fresh laundered sheets from childhood, as it drifts slowly across the vastness of the night, dancing a seductive samba with the rain. I stare into the darkness, watching words spill into the night from tongues scared to talk. “So…” “So…” “We’re here.” “Yeah.” In the far distance, another world glitters and gleams like a million lost diamonds. “It’s

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-36460164623334991582008-09-15T08:00:00.000-04:002008-09-15T08:00:00.512-04:00

The Jungle is littered with souls hungry for two things: amenity and fame. I came for the former, seeing how the latter never interested me. Here, amidst eight million strangers, it is easy to drift away from everyone, even yourself. So, on this cold, snowy, frozen Monday night that is why I’m strolling aimlessly down snow-covered streets trying to lose the thoughts that have made residence

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-83078084975848907202008-09-12T18:00:00.000-04:002008-09-12T18:00:01.348-04:00

It took me three years to mend the damage from that single night. Three years of torment and pain. Now, I’m lying on my bed, for what seems like hours, but in reality only forty-five minutes ticked past. The silence of my apartment is tearing at me, almost on the verge of ripping my soul from my body and tossing my carcass among the ruins of the dead. A chuckle escapes from the thin corners of my

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-23873454504322946382008-09-12T06:00:00.000-04:002008-09-12T06:00:00.973-04:00

A scene.It was years ago. I was younger. I’d been out on the town and the Distillers were raging inside of me at full force. The clock on the dashboard read four a.m. as I pulled my truck into the driveway and began the difficult task of mounting the stairs. She was waiting for me, just behind the door, obscured in the darkness. Waiting, like she always waits. A painting of me lounges on her

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-32838560114188535982008-09-11T18:00:00.000-04:002008-09-11T18:00:01.798-04:00

The awkward screaming of a random pop song awakens me from the chill of the bath. I scramble from the icy lake to find my phone and answer it. The other end of the line is buzzing with clicks and pops and fuzz, so loud I can barely hear the other person. The very thought of human connection scares me. It scares me to the point I’m afraid to ask the other person to speak up. “Hello,” I halfway

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-41688925727457343922008-09-11T08:00:00.000-04:002008-09-11T08:00:00.796-04:00

A dream.It is spring, when the birds of youth and love fly freely over head and sing sweet songs to the cooling wind. Shannon and I were lying down upon the Great Lawn in the park, watching the birds whiz by over head. The sun sent out majestic rays of warmth that lingered softly and warmed the bed of grass we laid upon. Shannon curled himself deeper into me, his standard sign of affection, and

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-25370600703320420022008-09-10T18:00:00.000-04:002008-09-10T18:00:08.709-04:00

Everything is silent except for the constant drone of the gas heater warming the place to a comfortable seventy-two degrees. At best, the apartment I once shared with Shannon is a modest affair; keeping with my philosophy that home is simply a place to crash. It’s not that I’m a party animal, though it may appear that way, it’s simply that I believe homes create memories, and memories are not

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-66347609114823922962008-09-10T08:00:00.000-04:002008-09-10T08:00:00.696-04:00

There’s nothing pretty about snow covered streets. Contrary to popular belief, the streets of the Jungle aren’t covered in a beautiful white powder, and they aren’t washed clean. Quite the opposite is true. The streets are covered in a grainy gray slush that only brings out the imperfections of the streets. I walk alone, bundled in my coat against the blistering cold and snow. The Ants on the

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-54502509943847802102008-09-09T18:00:00.000-04:002008-09-09T18:00:01.095-04:00

A remembrance.My grandfather on my mother’s side was a short, rotund man in his fifties who had seen more than I will by his age. My grandfather spent the last few years of his life working at refineries. He started out the typical lackey and clawed his way up to the man in charge. He hounds the people around him in hopes of finding the next great successor to the family empire. Not that it ever

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-78011859282163976252008-09-09T08:00:00.000-04:002008-09-09T08:00:01.145-04:00

“You’re late,” Harriett says without looking up from the contract. I spin a story about the Serpent. It’s the most believable line of bullshit in the Jungle. She nods. “Come. Sit.” Like a dog, I obey.Harriett pushes herself back from her desk and her brow becomes a winkled mass of furrows and ruts. She’s thinking, but of what I’m unsure. “I hate the snow, don’t you?” I nod. If there’s one thing

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-22535706059816171472008-09-08T18:00:00.000-04:002008-09-08T18:00:02.687-04:00

A moment.Shadows dance on the streets of the Jungle as I move past the Giant Trees. Shannon leans against me for support. It’s just another night for us, drunk and horny. His eyes shine in the summer moonlight. I see tiny recreations of the Jungle dancing in his eyes. It’s all so beautiful and all so surreal in the same breath. Looking at Shannon, leaning against me, his breath soft on my ears,

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-20663597490389691422008-09-08T08:00:00.000-04:002008-09-08T08:00:00.455-04:00

I’m staring out the window of a tiny office on the twenty-eighth floor at the snow-covered streets below. From up here I watch with malicious glee as the Ants scatter from the lies of a God I’ve forgotten and see as unforgiving. “Only a cold and ruthless God would want to ruin what may have been a beautiful day,” I say to the receptionist sitting at the desk. “Not that any day in the Jungle is

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-68541655250054809372008-09-05T18:00:00.001-04:002008-09-05T18:00:00.513-04:00

I get off at 42nd street and exchange a friendly wave with the kid from 155th street. I watch as the Serpent disappears into the darkness of the Underground. Shrugging, I turn away from the kid and disappear into the crowd myself. A quick check of my watch and I remember that my workday began almost two hours ago. I quickly search my mind for ideas of why I’m late, though it’s etched across my

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-30725108086836664672008-09-05T08:00:00.000-04:002008-09-05T08:00:01.160-04:00

A recollection.I got the call late one night. He wanted to see me. I haven’t spoken to him in years. The last time the two of us spoke civil words was when I was the best man at his fifth (and what I hoped was final) wedding. Somewhere between the car and the altar I decide to play a trick on my father. I hid the ring from him. He wasn’t pleased, but took it in good humor. My brother, on the

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-19088190523950377612008-09-04T18:00:00.001-04:002008-09-04T18:00:02.364-04:00

The bag lady gets off at the Bryant Park exit. I watch as she totters away with her baggage and disappears into the crowd gathering on the platform. She seems content with her lot. I turn my attention back into the Serpent, searching for something to keep my attention for at least one more stop. I want to stay out of my head. It isn’t safe, it isn’t pleasant, and it isn’t anything I want it to

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-70274111400052004962008-09-04T08:00:00.000-04:002008-09-04T08:00:01.005-04:00

A fragment.It was several years ago today; on a brilliant bright spring day, when I packed my bags, jumped in a car I couldn’t afford and slid off in a silver eagle to discover something… anything. It was well before the Spiders, but during the Distillers (that much I remember). My friends back home understood. My Mother, a saint and sinner in one breath, pushed me. My Father, in his typical

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-59344448504786103622008-09-03T18:00:00.001-04:002008-09-03T18:00:05.337-04:00

I don’t remember crawling into my apartment, much less setting the alarm now squawking next to me. I’m still in my clothes from the night of debauchery, wrapped up in the ocean blue sheets I once shared with Shannon. Sunlight glares through the un-curtained window, as approving as a mother’s reproach, sent to remind me another day is beginning. Through bloodshot eyes, I try to grasp some

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-63884717944294946262008-09-03T08:00:00.000-04:002008-09-03T08:00:00.720-04:00

A memory.It was the first summer after the Great Trees fell and a slight breeze rippled through the verdant trees of Bryant Park. I was sitting at a table, smoking furiously, and listening to the tappity-tap of my laptops keys. In the not to subtle distance sat a young man with what I would call medium length brown hair and eyes made of chocolate pudding. He watched me intently, studying my every

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-66645622907843931332008-09-02T18:00:00.000-04:002008-09-02T18:00:01.888-04:00

I turn and look at the door, the numbers appearing in triplicate, and try to grasp the handle. I manage to pull myself up, but quickly collapse against the door. It’s safe in the hall. Out here, there are no further Demons to haunt you. Besides, I’ve nothing to do until Monday morning at nine a.m. Strangely, this idea calms the Spiders and me.From behind the abyss, I hear the small voice cry out

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-41587649633857653432008-09-02T08:00:00.000-04:002008-09-02T08:00:01.109-04:00

A confession: Our demons are what we ourselves are.Shannon lounged upon the bed, the soft moonlight spilling across his body. I sat in silence, watching his chest slowly rise and fall, engraving the image in my mind. He stirred, twisting the sheets around him, obscuring himself deep into the blueness. I heaved a sigh and sank further down upon the bed, mindlessly glancing at the clock. The clock

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-74250961803248576392008-09-01T18:00:00.000-04:002008-09-01T18:00:01.929-04:00

The streets of the Jungle are now covered with a fresh blanket of linen snow. I’ve never much cared for snow; it always seems like a harbinger of disaster. I remember, once, back in my younger days, an English teacher stressing the importance of weather in literature. She went on and on about how rain, snow and other weather effects were signifiers of change. She believed in her mantra. Hell, she

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-47216267869724212612008-09-01T08:00:00.000-04:002008-09-01T08:00:00.323-04:00

A confession: I am a bleeding vampire. I hold a belief (I know what you’re thinking, how can someone like me hold any sort of beliefs, but please bare with me) about myself. I rarely share this belief, for many find it to far-fetched for words, but it is my belief none the same. See, vampires do exist in the world. They are all around us, but not the blood sucking, stay out of the light of day,

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4347955112181365696.post-51688955699951050242008-08-31T18:00:00.000-04:002008-08-31T18:00:01.610-04:00

Eight million voices are screaming in the Jungle and not a single one belongs to me. They all belong to the million of other Ants in the Jungle who find themselves in positions similar and yet different than mine. I’m drunk, bored, and lonely and completely scared of what it all means. Tonight, like others before it, has rapidly grown from dusk to the foreboding dawn. It’s not that I fear the

Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06166271502986940746noreply@blogger.com0