Justin Razor and the World

Six And Four Today marks 6 years since I began my enlistment, and coincidentally, had I not extended, I would be free today. As a younger man, when the home and world I knew were unmolested by the ravages of change and the life I left behind was still relatively intact, if you had offered me a path out of the military, I would've seized it feverishly and greedily, determined to free myself from what I perceived as stifling bondage. Now, staring down the barrel of 27, I fear gaining that complete autonomy back. I feel institutionalized in a backwards, ironic way, more like a convict on the precipice of parole than a Sailor a short time from mustering out of service. I've gained skills and credentials that render me employable nearly anywhere, and have cultivated a healthy collection of contacts that span not only several states, but countries on either side of the world's oceans. I've gained 40 pounds of muscle since I initially left home, and saved a l

https://www.instagram.com/p/BjCacWplX6FygVNS5qOdcWnQRGLOPC3DlvI18o0/ We exist in a world where it seems every skill, talent or gift, no matter how esoteric or seemingly inapplicable, can, through the bittersweet, pyrrhic blessing of social media, be monetized, commodified and capitalized upon. I harbor no unrealistic goals, because realism has become hyperreal. I live a simple life, one that appears to have placed me at odds with the world's status quo. Good, fuck them. Take happiness where you can grasp and steal it, whether it's by drinking overpowering, ironically cheap beer with great friends, screaming obscenities at the top of your lungs for the shock value, or doing feats of strength on public benches. In my case, everything is words and handstands. The rest is irrelevant. Forever flawed. Forever rebellious.

Politics What came between us/ Is a shame to me cause/ I've been waiting eager/ To reclaim deceit from/ The jaws of the angry beat of/ The drum of distance, a hasty evil/ Crazy people/ Stole you, amazing freedom/ Through the shady peephole/ Of education, or at least its deranged beliefs from/ Idiots that cradle egos/ Maybe these thrown/ Pieces of shade can clean up/ This aberration/ We have in place in/ Of our past and save it/ From clashing greatly/ With what has been changed in/ Our lives, like paths we've taken/ And lashes breaking/ Our skin, blasting patience/ Out of us, in a fashion sacred/ To us once, the affadavit/ Is signed, and passion tainted/ Our plastic hatred/ Habits breaking/ Will save the tragic blatant/ Opportunities we have, I've practiced daily/ To capture basic/ Similarities/ Between the blistered enemies/ We've become, twist the clarity/ To a different glare and see/ We're still a pair to be/ Recko

Nostalgia And Ambivalence My days are mercurial, either slightly off-kilter or abnormally enjoyable. Today, after the conclusion of my morning workout, I noted a hollow yearning, a hunger whining from my stomach that wasn't physical in nature. A friend of mine posted on Facebook that he has grown tired of military life, mostly because he just witnessed his Grandfather's burial and following service from a cellphone video sent by his Mother. It's an unfortunately common experience that tethers us all together, to varying degrees of grief and impact. I lost an Aunt on deployment, and, after encountering all of the expected feelings one would associate with such a devastating occurrence, I simply resigned myself to solitude, literally and otherwise. Quickly, I sought out any semblance of privacy and seclusion I could scrounge together on a mammoth warship and sequestered myself within it. I allowed the enormity of the situation to wash over me, bathing

Decade Today marks an entire decade since I met and courted my first love. She would introduce me to the storybook romance all kids dreamed of, an episode so brief in its timespan and so intense in its emotional ferocity that it could be considered aside a booming star which, unbeknownst to it, had one foot hanging over an awaiting grave. At the time of the breakup, I was horrifically crippled and emotionally destitute. I would skip my shifts at whatever menial job I haunted to skulk through the mall, bemoaning the loss of my "true love". I recorded grandiose epics detailing how I would win her back, scrawling melodramatic lyrics across miles of paper, reams and bindings devolving into tattered remnants of their former selves. While employed at Chipotle for 3 weeks, I encountered her with her family. The culmination of months of anguish and agony exploded in front of me, as I barely registered on her Richter scale. Shattered, I ran to the bathroom we

Happy Mother's Day Mom All Black is our classic motif, garbing us both, peacoat hugging you as tightly as I ever have, as we strolled up the street to the bookstore. Though we're descended from Latin bloodlines, to me you've always seemed vaguely Parisian, aristocratic and certain of your place in the world. The phrase, "an iron fist in a velvet glove", has always rung true and resonated deeply with me, for I could relate to it. To this day, when anger grips me and a morbid rose clouds my vision, your reason, love and grace drape over me, reminding me that I am more than a ronin. We'd enter the cafe, and the tea would already await, scented with lavender, spiced with lemons and enhanced by mint. Ice cubes jostled selfishly for space, causing the glass to sweat and the taste to spread. "Dear, go get your books." And I'd sprint, a singular focus planted in my mind like a homing beacon, rushing, as I always am, through the tas

On The Eve Of Her Celebration I'm trembling and tremoring with trepidation as I dig deep into my own self-abridged psychosis to recant these stories on paper, digital or otherwise. On the eve of Mother's Day, I solemnly mark another stolid line on my mental chalkboard. One more annual occasion that I have been absent for, though this stings worse than any passing birthday, wedding, or anniversary that may have escaped me, save for her's, of course. Searching for strength inspiration, a chronic addiction that has followed me since my Dad first introduced me to Bodybuilding and it's uniquely esoteric culture, I happened upon a random article on the object of the day's fitness inferences, Bruno Sammartino. Recently inspired by Jamie Lewis' exquisite article on him, a redux of a profile he penned a few years prior, I eagerly and greedily vacuumed up everything I could on the man. It's often in the pursuit of knowledge relevant only to us th

Periodic Table Some mornings, ever since mid-2015, I awaken shuddering, driven mad by some ephemeral, sourceless anxiety. Haphazard and random, these aren't full-fledged attacks, but light skirmishes. They're easily dispatched by reading, writing, or training, yet their echoes linger annoyingly, loitering deep in the caves and caverns of my peripheral vision. I've quelled my anger and vanquished my demons, driving them back into the craggy stone of my vast mental maze, wings brushing at jagged rock and twisted steel, before slaughtering them indiscriminately and fervently. Give those voices no compassion or quarter, cede no ground, for anything that plagues you so maliciously is a roadblock, a ponderous encumberance preventing you from becoming everything that God intended. As I record these vicious, cathartic thoughts, I can sense the current shifting, the distant hum of unease fading into the ether, the irrational, baseless nervousness that greeted me at d

Beacon Of Light In The Darkness For too long I've harbored the one-sided shadows of former relationships. Torturous, rapid bombardments of perceived slights and ridiculous thought crimes. I've stifled my own opinions on everything from politics to religion, the two classic hot button issues, paragons of ostracization and dogmatic pollution. The ghosts of the past are insidious and seductive, causing me to view them through rose-colored glasses for a formerly indeterminate amount of time. Yet now, in the absence of that old, familiar love, the grip of nostalgic fantasy has been loosened as my naivete is strangled by harsh reality. Gasping for breath, it attacks me with a battalion of its best memories, a company of incomparable moments, countless divisions of dreams rendered dead by inaction and hatred. In the end, we all die alone. In those final, fleeting hours, we'll be surrounded by a devoted, compassionate family if were lucky, holding and pumping our a