Raise To Infinity

 Mike, 

            Remember that time on my ninth birthday when you pushed me down the stairs and I broke my arm?  I lied to the doctor about it so you wouldn’t get in trouble.  When you cheated on my mom, I pissed all over the couch we left you when we moved away.  Since you always wore shorts, I sprinkled your coin collection all over the grass in the backyard, so when you mowed the yard the coins would fire back at your legs.  It took me fifteen years to forgive you.  As an adult, I would drive by your house and picture myself walking up to your front door and hugging you.  I thought we could drink a beer and watch a Raiders game, but I always just drove away.

            I took mom to the hospital one day for chest pain.  While they took tests, I sat outside on a bench while, unknowingly at the time, you were in the same hospital dying.  You thought it’d be a good idea to mix a full glass of vodka with methadone.  I went to your funeral, and watched people speak about your life, and how you had found God.  I was terrified to walk up there and speak in a church full of strangers, but I did.  I saw your new wife, and the kids you had.  It reminded me that those could have been my brothers, but you fucked that up.  Your sister told me I was the light in your life, and she asked me to be a pallbearer.  They gave me white gloves to carry you with, and I buried you with them.

Love,

Jonathan

                                                                    OIL!

When I pump my gas,

I’m usually just thinking fuck!

As the dials keep climbing,

I recently starting thinking about

the old oil derricks built upon the hills

surrounding me on the paved highways.

The fountains of stoic fortune,

pumping streams of black silk from

beneath the ground, forming puddles

of greed, filth, death and beauty.

I see these prideful oilmen,

stalking the land, crouching into

positions of power, gaining notoriety

from the ground, packing their corncob

pipes, and spreading wealth and bonds

among communities of prosperity.

Black dirt caked underneath fingernails,

moustaches scented of earth and smoke,

eyes craning over the towers that

stand tall and mark the land of the trodden.

I’ve check-raised Death in a match of wits, 

and I’ve out-gunned and out-classed every back alley dice roller.

I’ve dodged the world’s best train conductors, 

and I’ve left the best philosophers speechless.

I’ve added a new color to the Rubix cube.

The world’s best cannot touch me.

I have avenged the fallen tightrope walkers, 

and I’ve drowned captains in their seasick ships.

Poet laureates have plagiarized my words, 

and I’ve swallowed the streets, paved with your names.

But I’ve never… EVER 

won an argument with my mom.

Firefights eclipsed through broken mouths

to speak the dead words of the guilty. 

The heat lamp flickers

cigarette smoke shadow puppets

evade capture

in the silhouette of dark. 

Seeking sounds of Spanish laughter

the interpreter gets lost in the vowels of illusion. 

Shovels have dug deep

to keep the secrets of a pantomiming god

whose last words were picked apart

by the night watchers. 

Butterflies were not meant to fly

but this is my last night

to catch the red eye.

I’ve recently been engulfed with a looming swarm of anxiety and fear that has twisted the deadbolt shut above me while I’m alone below this trapped door.  I’ve never been so scared of being alone until now.  I can’t even watch my favorite movies without feeling like I’m bleeding to death out of the gunshot wound I’ve been dealt that slowly leaks out.  If I could see my life through the eyes of a fly on the wall, I would do whatever I could to escape and find air.  This Friday morning I will sit in a waiting room with the unspoken words of support from strangers that surround me, while I sit there shaking to hear the news of my mom’s heart surgery results.  I feel sick.  I just want everything to be okay before I move away to college.  I need things to be okay so I can live a normal life. 

I guess I’ve come to that point in my life where I just want more out of it.  For years, when football season would come to an end for my Raiders, I couldn’t wait for the next season to come around because I didn’t follow any other sports.  Well, I’ve come to a decision that this year would be the time for me to change that.

What’s the next step in getting into a sport?  Do I wanna be one of those dudes that you meet that replies to your question of ‘Who’s your team’ with “I don’t really have one, I just like to watch the games” …?  No fucking way.  That’s a pathetic reply and I think it’s such a cop out.  With that decision made came the somewhat tough part.  

Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim:  When I was four-years-old, my Grandpa took me to an Angels game that we had won tickets for and I remember staring into the sky before the game started for about ten minutes.  My Grandpa noticed me looking about the heavens, and asked, “What are you looking at buddy?”  I replied, as serious as I have ever been in my life, with, “I’m waiting for the Angels, Grandpa.”  I really thought that Angels were going to fly into the stadium.  This was before the movie ‘Angels in the Outfield’ had ever come out, so I wasn’t inspired by anything except for the word Angels.  The Angels weren’t going to be flying above my head that day, and it was my first real taste of disappointment.

Oakland A’s:  I have some reasons to like the Oakland A’s.  They share a stadium with my favorite football team, the Raiders.  Do I want the A’s to succeed?  Sure, I’d be happy for them.  However, why I wouldn’t want to be a die-hard A’s fan is simple.  They SHARE A FUCKING STADIUM with MY TEAM.  It has annoyed the hell out of me for years that half of our home turf has a mound of dirt all over it.  It’s ugly, inconvenient for our running backs to cut on, and awkward for our kicker to kick from.  That’s my main problem with the A’s.  If they played across the parking lot, maybe that would be enough for me to commit, but I kind of doubt it.  I have no real ties to the A’s, and for that reason I can’t see myself going the distance with them.  I do, however, wish them the best of luck, and I really like their up and coming player Yoenis Cespedes.  He is a bad ass.

San Diego Padres:  My mom and I went to a San Diego Padres game when I was eleven.  To see the ballgame?  Kind of.  But not really.  We were there because my mom had won tickets to the game and what was going to come after the game.  A live performance of The Doobie Brothers, and this ended up being my first concert. My mom and I showed up to the game early, and had amazing seats close up front, right in between home plate and first base.  Getting there early was a great idea because I got to meet a legend of the game:  Tony Gwynn.  He signed my little baseball bat, and I still have it.  Also, my good friends are die-hard San Diego Padres fans, and I have gone to a few games with them.  Did I want the Padres to win?  Of course I did!  It made me happy to see my friends light up when the Padres crushed the Milwaukee Brewers.  For that, I wish the Padres the best of luck in their endeavors, but I will not be taking part in this organization.  There are a few reasons, but the only one that really matters is that the Padres are the collective brothers of my sworn enemies:  the San Diego Chargers.  NEXT!

Los Angeles Dodgers:  I didn’t get to meet my father until I was eleven years old, but when it finally happened was a day I will never forget.  He showed up to my house for Thanksgiving dinner, which was setup by my Grandma Sonja.  It was the most exciting moment of my life.  I held no anger in my heart that my father had never been a part of my childhood.  I always looked up to him, and knew that someday he would come around.  He means the world to me and I love him.  We share so many common interests that I could talk to him on the phone for hours about any of them.  Unfortunately there was one key ingredient missing.  We didn’t share a love of sports.  He doesn’t really follow the NFL much, so we’ve never really talked sports.  One day, he came and picked me up and thought it would be fun to take me to a baseball game.  We went to see the L.A. Dodgers and it was an experience I’ll never forget.  Four rows up and to the left of us was an older lesbian couple in Dodgers dresses.  They had butch haircuts, and the whole nine yards.  It was classic and hilarious (I hold no hate in my heart for sexual orientation or race).  When the hot dog vender came down our row, one of the ladies raised their hand, and my dad said:  ”The fag wants one!”  I don’t think I’ve ever laughed harder in my entire life.  That day my dad bought me a Dodgers’ baseball with a picture of Hideo Nomo on it and his printed autograph.  I still have it, and it’s always meant a lot to me.  My dad grew up a die-hard Dodgers fan, and the other day I called him and said, “Dad… I want to get into baseball… I know a lot about it, but have never really followed it.  I’m in the process of deciding what team I should root for.  Should I be a Dodgers fan?”  He replied: “DUH!!”  So there it is.  I’m a lifer now.  I will never root for any other team.  I’m already talking shit to the TV screen and I’ve only watched four games.  

Now when football season ends for me, it will be bitter sweet.  I love baseball and am absolutely ecstatic to support the Los Angeles Dodgers.  I already had a New Era Dodgers cap, so I have brought that back to life.  Baseball has been added to the arsenal of things that make my life better.  It’s like the hot cocoa or blanket you need during the winter, it just feels right and brings me a sense of nostalgia that I’ve always been missing.  Good luck to everyone this season.  You’re gonna need it!  #BLEEDBLUE #ThinkBLUE #MerryChristmas! #NINEandONE 

- Special Thanks - To Adam D’Zurilla and Ricardo Marquez for making me realize that I was missing out on one of life’s true treasures.  I sincerely appreciate it.

                The roots of this tree tore themselves from the ground.

                          Creation from the death with a pocket knife.

                                              I was born.

             A paper-mâché fox with the DNA of a boxer that died in the ring.

                                          A true gentleman.

In the interest of time, I will just guzzle this bottle until they find a cure.  

They’re not going to let me go home, and I will put up no fight.  

The only person I can hurt is myself so I smash my forehead against this concrete wall until all I can see is stars.  

I recreate the scene and I see the crowd chanting for me to recite my lines.  

When I begin to speak all I can hear is vowels and my speech is slurred.  

For every word I get wrong, I lose a tooth and blood begins to swirl around my mark.  

They are all laughing except for one.  

The little girl in row four is crying, but I’m the only one that can make out the sound.  

When the play is over, I realize the curtain has not yet risen and I am plagued to repeat the performance.