Song of the day

Stoked on this photo I took of Vinny D.

He lit his cigarette under his coat to hide the gusts of wind off of the Deleware from extinguishing the flame. Shaking and taking the first puff looking out onto the dead souls on the Camden side of the river, thinking to ones self can lead to thoughts of despair and triumph. Fuck that though this was business and for 29 year old, “James Reynolds” just another day spent scheming and doing his best to avoid the daily grind of the modern world which surrounded him. Under the heavy menthol smoke and the occasional tow boat James felt his cellphone vibrate and read the following message. “J.R, 10 MIN, SAME SPOT.” Last drop of the day and James was getting restless, throwing his phone into the brown rough water now churning like a massive catfish was splashing his way out of a crafty fisherman’s net some fifteen miles down the river.

“Ten minutes will be more or less like thirty, fuck.” Thought James. “Grab the bag, drop off the goods at “Ripping Ron’s Autobody Shop”, for Ron to start breaking up the package and getting it ready for shipment throughout the Counties and City from which James resided and in his opinion ran.grab a new cellular telephone, then head back to Ron’s around Midnight to pick up the finished load. Normally James wouldn’t be in this position of danger, but it became something more or less to do out of necessity for curing his current state of boredom. This wasn’t a daily gig down at the Burger King that you get fired from for putting an extra tomato on a Whopper because your manager is a dickhead. Out here James was more than a manager, or a store owner, he was the one in charge of putting out the new franchises, James was king. “Heroin sells itself.” He had always thought and as long as he kept away from the stuff he was good.

James knew Ron was a junkie, but a very trustworthy one. The old saying of never trusting a junkie was part of the rules. Never in his life did James follow the rules. J ames knew that if Ron tried out a bad batch of the stuff than Ron would be the first to let him know if the shipment was rubbish. If Ron wasn’t stoned, or dead then James knew he had been cheated. Most of the time there was never a problem but James knew the risk involved with dealing with outsiders. This shipment was coming down from the Elizabethtown Docks of North Jersey, being driven by his inside Union worker he only knew as “Leo” down on a twenty two footer.

Twenty Two feet seemed to draw too much attention to James for his liking but what was he to do? There was no way he was driving up to North Jersey to pick up the shit himself. Behind him James heard the sloppy break squeal from the near parking lot and fixed his attention from across the river to the near by parking lot. Where in sat his truck, uncomfortable with the silence of the driver not using the proper signal as was discussed. James began to walk towards the truck, not too fast and not too slow James hid among the walking skeletons, tourists, low lives, and whores posing as housewives. Approaching the truck from the side he had seen a patrol car with its light blazing in the distance. The car just kept on driving by, as James hopped into the passenger seat hoping everything was ok. Leo was shaking, “They know man.” He sighed. “Who the fuck knows what?” calmly stated James. It turns out the reason for Leo’s tardiness wasn’t some traffic jam, it wasn’t his Union boss who James had on payroll, it was "The New Jersey State Police", fucking swine Coughed Leo. James knew Leo wouldn’t have been released from U.S custody this quick even if he had struck a deal. Leo had his hand into James’ product and the telltale signs of this were not well hidden. Leo was sloppy, “This White Dragon is unreal.” Leo boasted. James knew he had to go, “Just follow me to the drop off point, and don’t you fucking fall asleep on me!” Shouted James losing his patience with this fucker who had no idea that these last ten minutes would be his last.

Drive him to Ron’s, do a count, and kill this son of a bitch. Killings for James became not a big deal, like taking the trash out on Thursday. He knew that murder was bad for business and that Leo had been stupid enough to had tell his co-workers where he was heading in the truck. “We’ll get him into the back of the vehicle, smash his fucking brains in with a four sided wrench, then have Ron’s little brother, “Joey The Frog” drive the truck and Leo’s corpse down to 64th street where Joey could get rid of any evidence of the day.” But there was no chance to rid the world of Leo. “Get the fuck on the ground!” Was all James heard. Leo had been working with the D.E.A for six months. The dream was dead. Knowing that Leo had known almost everything that went on within his criminal organization James knew he and his partners were proper fucked. But this seemingly typical ending is actually the beginning of a rising star of the drug trade who rose too soon, and too recklessly towards the “American Dream.”

More tales and writings of woe on my part/Holiday Photos

Holiday Photos starting at The Khyber in Philly Halloween era 2010 with Sherry.AKA The best girl ever. And the inspiration behind me getting off my ass and being productive again. I haven't felt this good about life and BMX in years.






Dancing on broken glass as feet bleed out all sin from photos once loved.
I dreamt of you in a red dress.
The kind you dream of after a night of cheap wine and xanax.
Bodies twisted like the scene of an airplane wreckage.
Convulsing to past jukebox hits and left over vodka bought from a wolf in human clothing.
The evening may end, the venom never spoils, but it all fell together, violently on the floor.
Hacked off all my toes for you, we tore off all your nails, kissed you on the lips, your legs they felt of scales.
You’re swallowing me my princess.
In a void of lies and hope.
For I shall never speak.
Of the metallic lust under your sheets beyond the flares of sun.
Rays of light shine on this love, isolated never more, these thoughts of mine are killing me.
These thoughts of me and you, from waiting in a car.
Not yet ready for myself to face you.
Chainsaw me from inside.
My insides bleed from thoughts of your hands, and tonight will be my last.
This love of rustic cemetery skies.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.
This was all for you.
This bullet taste sour.


The rainy storm door rusted shut memories of dreams lost. How many footsteps of strangers have ventured down this road? A thousand or maybe even a million but who is counting, All that matters is the dreams left behind of dead autumn skies and worthless words that once meant the world to deaf ears. The concrete stairs send a draft up my loosened pant leg. The vicodin does little to easy this mental anguish aside from constant confusion. Head in lap, using my broken pencil point to jab little holes into the hands you once loved more than our trips to the ocean. The way the waves seemed to call your name, dead beaches, storm battered dunes, and now the emptiness where my humanity once again lays dormant.
All I ever wanted was your hand in mine never for us to fall so hard toward our self destruction through our love and veins. With each taste of the bottle, with ever pill we are venturing further from the life we once loved. Who knew addiction came in the form of a broken heart? Or even the struggle to keep all you ever wanted from falling into harms way. This is your life, this is our time. Remember the way the skyline spelt your name, or the wind called your name as it blew your hair. The skeletal plans of our happiness are not fallen dreams but our last chance to make amends to ourselves and our own wasted self pity now drifting through this alley and into oblivion. No pity for our actions, no remorse for failure, our lives were beautiful, now soaked with decay.
These visions are blinding, the sun vanquishes this night. The street lights glow and flicker, the moon is now full. The streets reek of exhaust, and my burning for you. Place your fingers, upon my arms, feel the wounds of my personal hell, and hear me cry. One more touch of faith, I swear by this last mistake, I’ll hold you forever. We’ll feel nothing then die. Opiate dreams of numb love, the suffering of loss, head in my hand, my lips on your scars. Nothing shall hurt us, under these city stars. So we’ll throw down some brown water, and swallow our fears. We’ll never be empty, and drown in our tears. This blood on the floor, this bloods not my own. We lay in the darkness your heart is my home eyes open and not alone but with you by my side. We’ll start this day over, reach our own triumphs, and reach for our goals. I’d miss you forever, The stereo grows cold, the static of dead air. My only real friend, just self medication,and the decay of you. We’ll make it together, this silence will pass. Just put down the bottle, we’ll eat up this glass. This bloodlust of sorrow, this empty large smile. I’ll be here forever, lets destroy the sky. So empty and hollow,this day is ours. Here is to the hope of better days and sleepless nights side by side,complete and less empty our tragedy subsides. No more wasted sorrow, no more lonely nights, I’ll be here for you,through the judgment of the gods of our fathers I’ll be here for you.

Im Bringing Back At The End Of The Road/The Delco Blog

Start you out since its snowing with some short stories and other writing pieces I had lying on my computer. Hope you enjoy.

Three years down the road, what’s there to show for the misery of adulthood? Maybe nothing, maybe that god like new soda fountain they installed at your place of business. Quickly installed by your local Pepsi representative. But you can only buy Diet since the gluttons down in reception made a few salty complaints. Proof that they were nothing better than extra skin and a few brain cells. A diet soda will not cancel out your Bacon Cheese Fries with Onion Ring BBQ Pizza. I don’t see the old Pepsi delivery man these days as often or even at all. But I seem to be getting ahead of myself.

It hit me one night in a cold sweat, four sleepless evenings and a hellish sore in my back. God I pray for death, but it never comes along. Maybe it’s for the best, my dog needs a friend. The same way you re-watch your favorite Premium Cable channels on your DVR when the addiction of television and the glare of empty space defeats your greatest hopes and dreams of a future worth living. A friend in technology is a friend greater than the outside world.

Each night staring into the vacant visions of monitors wanting to let it all go and fucking scream my head off. Then one day the feeling ceased to tickle the back of my tongue. A day where everything seemed to just make sense looking into another humans eyes hand in hand, eyes locked, the fact that I happen to be running on benzos and cheap beer mean nothing right now as our fears are lifted towards the sky of our fading dreams and broken hearts..

“Wake up kid! “ Not a Psilocybin flashback but a reality caused by the non hatred of ones self without tying a rope to your neck and your dick in your hand. You are no legend, you are a human fucking being the last time I cut myself shaving. I used to never think to touch a razor aside to give myself a reminder of how much I used to love my self and my great life decisions. When the site of blood got as boring as a snuff film. The drugs just don’t tap that special part of the brain that blocks out any faint hope of everything being ok, because its not. Nor will it ever be.

The time spent over the years, eyes open, heart on sleeve, massive drinking and one hell of a sleeping problem over the years have made me tired and beat up feeling. Each day ceases to bring forth any joy without the thought of your angelic face decayed in an interesting manner. Your voice rings through my telephone, or my ears. What’s really the difference anymore? The point is that you will never live up to the kings of times past. You are your own pawn in whatever game of life you choose to follow down. My loss was my feelings of pain towards one self and the self destruction of openly made punishment towards ones self. Leave me alone and I’ll die by your side in a bed of nails and semen stains of love past. I let you in and you tore me apart. These things do happen, opposite of what this existence should be, or should have ever became. My first grade teacher was right when he gripped me up for using the wrong handed scissors and calling me a wasted gift of his lords cock. Maybe I should’ve taken his advice or shoved those scissors through his fucking face cavity and deep into my wrist calling for my self pity. How could this happen? Fuck my name, what have we become under the fog filled evenings and rotting picnic benches where we carved our names for the world to see. Last I saw the tables were a playground for middle aged moms to bring their children to. A safe haven that happens to have swallowed all we ever cared for in a mass sea of plastic sea creatures,and piss stained slides.
Maybe this will all pass? Maybe I'll have a draino shot with Jameson? Or maybe I'll stop typing this and walk away? Maybe close these eyes and sink into the normalcy of my self made prision of my life.


Amazing show, and episode.