Justin Razor and the World

Reprieve From The March Life is busy, and as a consequence so are we. At this moment, I'm sipping my eponymous tea from my mason jar at Surfer's Coffee. It's my last day off before trudging back to the slave grind. In reality, the job isn't that bad, but it doesn't stimulate me. I lack the natural aptitude required to excel amongst my peers in this field, and as such have willfully resigned myself to a perpetual mediocrity. In several books on the US Navy SEALs, the authors speak admiringly of the highly exalted Gray Man. He is the Sailor physically and technically savvy enough to perform admirably but adequately, whilst possessing the required restraint to blend in effortlessly with the rest of the group. The key, they cautioned, was to act with enough finesse to remain invisible, yet simultaneously with enough skill to meet the standard. This seems to be the goal of my life lately, to contribute sufficiently enough to the group to

The Present Of The Present Being transparent, truly honest and upfront with oneself, takes tremendous bravery. We've all got skeletons, rattling and dusty, occupying our already maxed out closets. You dont need further clutter complicating an already chaotic internal life. Sit with a pen and pad, and begin to compose some free verse. Whether your own vocabulary is as vast as uncharted space or limited, constraining you like a prisoner under lockdown, is irrelevant These are sentences that will never see the light of day, and are often meant to be burned, pulped, or shredded. Pour your heart out, unabridged and uninhibited. Unburden yourself of your troubles. A breakup, abuse of all flavors, guilt over past misdeeds, imagined or verified. Nothing is off limits. Don't aim for a specific word count, as this is self led healing, not a term paper or essay meant for compensation. Scrawl, scribble and scribe, for this isnt calligraphy, it's blun

Blessings From Bordeaux Sometimes I stare at this page and have no idea what to put. The words spewing forth from my forced fingers are veritable vomit, the writing equivalent of going through the motions. I liken it to a 5 A.M. workout. There are certain mornings where no matter how hard you will it, your body simply refuses to rouse, and you are its prisoner, your infalliable, indomitable spirit imprisoned by by meager flesh and hollow, rattling bone. Yet, by some divine miracle, you manage to heft your wretched carcass from its comforting coffin. You have work to do, you realize, and your eternal rest is several decades away. You must punch the clock. Your dawn training can take many forms, dependent entirely on passion and personal proclivities. Perhaps you'll chase the sun as it rises with you, shaken from a dormant slumber by its age old duties. The weight pile may sing to you, and you eagerly anticipate the sting of ancient rust and cold

Scattered Thoughts And Musings Cradling you in my arms was akin to holding my heart within the confines of my chest. With each steady, rhythmic beat, both yours and mine, combined and syncopated, I relaxed, our breathing gradually and comfortably falling into a graceful stride. Swans sailing softly over the surface of a serene pond, two doves joined majestically in flight, bonded by a twin route unseen but felt, not instructed but instinctual. Your hair plumed and billowed out florally, artfully unkempt and uncommonly beautiful.Controlled chaos, the staining of glass with the nectar of the Earth. Silently, I beheld your skin, smooth and unsullied, the twin product of judicious application of lotion post-shower and Nature's flawless design. If my own is roughened, callused and worn, then yours is inviting, delicate and luxurious, unmolested by the devastation of life. Your body is a vast savannah, filled with wondrous landscapes and packed with miraculous te

The Desert Dry air in a normally humid climate is not conducive to a strong immune system. The shock is sudden and violent on an unseen level, I'm sure. I never thought I'd suffer from stifling congestion and repetitious fits of coughing while stationed in Hawaii, but I was proven wrong recently. As I pen this, my throat, though healed and no longer reacting in an incendiary manner when forced to swallow, is as arid and barren as the Mojave. My chest is harboring a veritable barricade of mucus, and each pill I pop, in hues of rose red, ocean blue and grass green, chip away at bricks of the stubborn, phlegmatic stowaways. My nose is on the brink of suicide, and breathing in coats each gust of air with a Welcome Aboard package of sandpaper and gravel. In short, I'm fucked. Yesterday I spent half the evening limping around wincing, my side cramped by an invisible knife, present and piercing, jostling with each aching step. Save for a few meandering s

Come Whatever May Coming back to the page, blank and grimacing, after a layoff can be daunting. I'm sitting here with a mason jar filled with my eponymous tea, dreading the approach of my night shift. The world has, for the briefest of moments, forgotten my existence, and I'm eager to remain anonymous. Why are there so few hours in our days? I know that the answer is that, since the very nature of life is fleeting and instantaneous, we must infuse our moments with passion, vigor and relentless progress. But right now I'm too stubborn, and yes, weak, to accept what I'd long ago regarded as carved in stone. The sun is beginning to set, ushering in the beginning of a rambunctious evening. There are shots to take, conversations to make, and relationships, both established and burgeoning, to embrace. Books beg to be devoured, and gymnastics beckon to me, eager to be practiced, owned and embodied. I instead, will spend my night in shackles, ensl