July 30

The day her heart stopped was the day she learned she became too old to model. To model what? Her body, her shapes and curves all of those gym-perfected, personal trainer-fashioned leading lines that lead designers into greedy temptation. After all of the time spent counting calories, tweezing hairs, clean shave, fixing up the hair just right, whitening teeth, making herself the best product she can offer, her birthday came and went as did her dreams. Spent years dressing up in the nicest clothes in stores, feigning interest and pretending affluence, taking the hungrily to dressing rooms and dreaming of what it could be to wear those shape defining clothes every day for the glory. Men in crowds would gather and salivate to the temptress in red dresses and nothing ever sounded so provocative to her. Suddenly when there was a lull, a question of fashionable styles, the teeth that fell out and the hair follicles faded. That momentum, bodily perfection, ran dry and shrot. Everything began to deteriorate horribly. Implants popped and drooped down to where they should not be. Everything in her eyes tha made her up to be the most beautiful princess in the world fell apart and she cries until make up stains the ground beneath her feet like a trail of breadcrumbs to the bakery.

July 29

A dangerous excitement like encountering a rattlesnake, poised, in the path. Your move, he hisses. The torch is lit in the center of the stadium but the stadium is built of flimsy and flammable material, the whole damn construction ablaze, as a matter of fact statement regarding the ignorant placement of such a supposedly impressive mantelpiece. There are no chestnuts roasting. Nothing roasting at all besides our skin cells in the baking sun. There are oceanside controversies. The extreme prices for roadside parking and the violent, unimpressed, traffic. never allowing any warmth for an outsider. we can be outsiders together, finding new friends, remaining as outsiders, but without a secure job I am loaf, socially outcast, vulnerable to plagues and obsessive creative outpour. Vulnerable to become great at the things I've tried to become great at. In time maybe. Never forget where you are though, soldier. This is war and all around are life and death moments worth capturing. Experience the scent of those wonderful cinnamon flowers, work out acting skills and accents, convince the lady with huge fingernails of place of origin. Picked up this accent from english television. Save those emotional goodbyes for later and we can talk about what it is to fall so heavily in love and in hope for the unknown the financial freedom, however temporary, to make the best things in life happen. No longer pushing dreams back beyond pay checks and the price of a soul is way too low these days. "I hope I never see you again." meant in a good way like they hope I never end up getting that shit job again.

Soothsayer, fall around me with your words and visions. Will there be colors in lights our names inside? Sunsets will make more sense. On beaches past tense. Rigid. Rigged. Tell me the secret thread of time is something tangible that I can throttle or kiss. That softening fabric, disintegrates at the very brief thought of it. Nothing ties it all together. but maybe there is an enchanted perspective to this sacred life. god, stay out of this talk. this is meant to be about men from men with no ghosts haunting outer recesses. we are here and we are now. i wish to know how to contemplate my reality in the best way. never adapting a mass opinion. i wish to formulate my own. been doing fine. pick your teeth with toothpick chewing tobacco and marijuana seeds the face of the american dream screaming in horror most nights from foreign nightmare the war torn hero and the mattress that served as a resting place for his father before him. middle-aged, well aware, too aware, that if some accident does not befall him, he will die in that very bed.

July 28

Regardless, there is no sound in space. On earth we fall into cadences and feel trapped, me personally, living in a creative fantasy where nothing is tangible in the least. It is abstract and when I try to describe a painting as a garden I am asked if it is a top-view and then I shut my mouth, regretful instantly of what I'd said so loud and stupid. I see abstractions and I bother to study these things and go into depths of them, letting the pen, the brush, the fingers speak for themselves. It starts with one color, one idea and then the rest of the story spills itself out like a confessional. Today I chose blues purples and subtle turquoise. The story desires to reach climax and resolution but I'll let the ideas fester and my brain fills up with the liquid run-off from the last of the paint tube. Someday those blue and purple characters will continue frolicking through their respective mysterious lives until a nurtured death. Someday those colors will write away into a piece of fiction that narrates a universal feeling of isolation in crowds. Take a paint brush in one hand and a type writer in the other, combining the old school elements to bring about a positive change on this fine day of resilient rest. My face flushed red when the niacin rushed to it. My hands started shaking and the new canvas suddenly has a great multitude of colors and shades and shapes on it. From a place of meditation, the galaxy in between consciousness and subconsciousness, automatic. Move from one to the other like adjacent rooms in a house with no doors. The breezeway and the river bodies float down. Does it make sense, anything I say anymore?

I painted today. It felt good. It still feels good. I also thought up fresh ideas for song or story. A lonely Saturday night can help a depressed man realize his worth. All he is up against are the demons inside his own head. Thy scream and chatter ceaseless of awful things and negative consequences. Have I become agoraphobic? Suddenly that question rings out like artillery fire. I am afraid of people. Or awkward connection and of feeling cold blood beneath warm skin. Scented like apple cinnamon and with a maroon t-shirt on. You are a supermodel citizen. Dorothy. Wendy. Scarlet. The evil car. The diamond store secret shopper, always in there, as an expert in noticing the beauty in small things, the rigorous work ethic required to grind your soul down into fine powder and snort it. Inhaling those demons like the old friends who say they need cocaine in order not to black out after drinking, no matter how heavy or light. We have a tank not a light weight and his drunk ass will break everything in your apartment.

See me happy in this isolation. Like living off the land in the woods high in a cabin or the canopy connecting treehouses and rope swings and ziplines between for supplies transferring or for fun but that shit all overgrows and no one person can ever manage it all, especially considering that the upkeep will result in neglect again eventually. Let that jungle take over. Move the tent slightly daily and keep plowing ahead.

Have you been in the wilderness lately?

Where is your adventurous spirit?

Play it safe and get good at things. I am training for my life rather than living my life. This is okay. This is to optimize my life once it arrives. My eyes will be wide open. Body physically fit, oiled, shaven clean of blemish or anything unshapely. I will regard everything with curiosity and witty charm. There will be a cacophony of sound to enjoy and to love. We move like swinging chandeliers.

july 27

"Are you okay?" asks the curious co-worker, as I stagger in, late, with a belated look of incredulity, "You look like shit."
Standardized white t-shirt stained in all places, I am sweating buckets in the stale heat, headed to the refrigerator aisle or the freezer in the back for a quiet place to reassess the situation and to get my head on straight. Limping, with blood in my eyes, "Fuck off." I drag my body across the glossy floor, spreading dirt and blood about the neatly arranged aisles as regular customers gasp in horrified voices. Dropping glass bottles off of shelves and pointing at my torn up body, the terrible gashes on the most fleshy parts of my body, all in lines of three or four. Claws, sometimes the thumb too. A bear? A sabretooth from the ancient hills? Worse? Imaginations ran amok and I smiled at the thought of the idiotic concern about my well being. I was attacked. I was in a car accident. I was attacked by a car. They desired, for a reason I feel I'll never understand, to run me off of the road by violent means. I came to consciousness near the dumpster out back. They carved 'vengeance' into the calf of my right leg, thankfully, in this case, prosthetic. No other case would I be thankful for that other unfortunate attack to my health. I am often mistaken as someone else and nearly murdered for what awful things they've done. My god, this time, after they explained why I was brought to the edge of death after all of my pleas of the innocent, sounding like pleas of the guilty, I gave up trying... I nearly felt like I deserved this beating, this dragging off from the woods, the blood in my eyes and the sleeves of my shirt. It is so damn hot. Apparently, this guy, Mikey, ran off with a gang members sister and beat her ass up... I am his doppelganger. So they beat me up. "Touch her again," they said, "and you're fucking dead, Mik." So I really hope this fucking Mikey does nothing again to hurt her. She is too stupid to realize I am not him apparently, having spotted me pushing carts outside the store...

The unreasonable people in a man's life as he tries to exist simply, trying to figure it all out. He constantly is mistaken for someone else.

Call me a general white man. The stereotypical bone structure and all similar attributes. Hitler's golden-blonde army. I am not hateful. I am quiet. I wish to exist in semi-privacy with a beautiful women, intelligent, worth speaking to. My standards of intelligence in a women are extremely high. Beauty standards, much, much less as I do not have the physical self-esteem necessary to follow me where my appetite wants to go. Mikey probably goes to those dark places. Same with the Sven. The drug lord's son. Later I was held captive and beaten for answers I didn't have. I made up answers and names and some of the pieces clicked. Apparently caught in the middle of some gangland drug war where all classic cars are brought brand new off of show rooms. They all want to kill someone who looks me but isn't me. I begin to believe that I have an evil twin brother who set out to ruin my life because my parents cast him out into adoption and a life of crime. He is someone I've never known to exist.

july 26

and when it grips you
no choice must obey demands
that ransom note swallows hope
and we are nocturnal
night-breeders
intellectual
mind-feeders
your spine feels it

shudder!

shake or vibrate deeply, tremble convulsively, typically as a result of fear or repugnance... (of a person's breathing) be unsteady, esp. as a result of emotional disturbance

I shudder to think
move back to your street
seek invincibility
from the horrific scene
stay tuned, elude, you're glued to your seat

develop cataracts in that faded recliner
soaking up nonsense, that cable provider
what if everything you thought you knew was wrong
that your enemies were accurate all along?
national security and paranoia sweeping
our concern for safety is intoxicating
an opiate for the illiterate
attending lectures about human spirit
of some sort of philosophical shit
give me my bong, fast food and tv
give me wartime reports, give me causalties
I am the reason we are lagging behind our true ambitious nature
I am the conformist plague beneath the sweeping vultures


------

realize isolation, entirely self-appointed. I am alone here, they are all together out there banding against with steadfast ignorance and blank perseverance. throwing down people and trash cans in my pursuit of something grand. In isolation chamber, the black abyss for two weeks in shawshank, give me padded walls, and something funny to look at, a mirror. study the face and the describing characteristics of the human body. watch movies and avoid people because they terrify... given more free time won't I just continue to loaf around without socializing? shaking off the cobwebs the game is to avoid sex the first night perhaps. drink and enjoy and kill the sun. we are returning to some more familiar place. we used to understand. maybe we no longer do and it will be a horrible, sad, week. but i doubt that highly. we will be great. my fear is my freedom from a work force and the inability to converse normally with anyone interesting.. help me stranger... 

july 25

directing the art like traffic, separating the sane from the insane the spectacular from the mundane and we are given random colors and shades, spectres of existence, inconsiderate, thoughtless. but we are aware and thinking logically in streams, down lazy wandering rivers and upwards through intense valleys, barely able to stand, guaranteed to fall down the stairs in a clusterfuck, no answers given until the end of that blessed meeting. are there any words that can describe this infinite regression? the hard to avoid distractions from a daily load of work, all of the available options to kill those lights, the flickering ideas above tops of heads, granted we are at a huge advantage anyway, we have the studio equipment available and the time rented, all planets align and we are calling out those names of enemies and granting wishes to the elderly, the crippled, the hopeless individuals who let dreams die or had them slain in front of their eyes. We are riding the crest of something new and refreshing and non-violent.

july 24

brain dead, spent time in hollywood, actors about and no celebrity presence realized, but then I realized who we were and what was going on, the subtle and conspiratorial designs of our presence. buying expensive ass shirts with no obligation other than to wear the hell out of them, and now I owe to wear something strange in the hair for full working effect, but my back is dead and my brain feels close, we watched coheed and jammed beyond our wildest comprehension, working on small parts of good new songs, cutting out a fraction of the chours to incubus the shit out of it. I am leaning back against the covers wondering if I left my book somewhere spectatcular.

---

falling in love over again, stumbling over myself in torrents but somehow we get by high just fine and everything else falls away in segments, sections and jam sessions, but all is well on this western front, but not quiet. we are loud and in charge of every moment

july 23

paralysis is the excuse or rather something entirely different. consider that rogue wave being ridden, where will I take myself, will I coast or will I drown underneath this highway? play until fingers bleed building up scattered cardio. stomach in knots, painful recognition. alone in the world, heartless and cold. treated like a child in flirtatious manner, calling the shots and the beautiful models that wander and disappear, popping like roman candles in the night, or fire balloons in the moonlight. Win over their hearts. Is there a way to be considered? Listen to me now? Consuming a salad in the desert heat will I ever visit those ancient places again. Am I trapped in this box. Working out rudiments from percussive instruments to a stringed, low-end, music box. Reading about martians and drinking coffee despite my pitted stomach. Where did that love go? Am I happy or am I just aware of progress... no painting no photography. let's edit some shit and throw it together.

july 22

tossing pennies, hard-earned, down the wishing well, waiting to hear a splash and pausing, ear lurching over the void, to fulfill this sound. maybe they are always splashing at a constant rate or the source is too far down. edgy clothing and ridiculous pricing. if we want to look like vampires, we are heading to the right place. down that euthanasia roller coaster that kills all passengers, cleanly, every ride due to prolonged cerebral hypoxia which is a lack of oxygen to the brain... 1,600 foot drop to reach 220 miles per hour which is damn close to the cars terminal velocity. (the curvature of a circular curve is equal to the reciprocal of the radius). "Subsequent inversions would serve as insurance against unintentional survival of particularly robust passengers."

july 21

letting the body recharge but the mind never rests, going off on tangents through the night and into morning, about bugs burrowing into (burroughs-ing) into the skin underneath layers of tendons and severing arteries crawling and eating their way into the heart where internal bleeding and heart-death cause body death and the mind floats up into the atmosphere, further polluting it with a confused and the unanswerable question 'why?' I think I was afraid of returning to the silence, the hole in the wall that rats climb through, the passive listener and all of the people laugh as I sweat beneath the comforter with no reason aside from a desire to keep the waking nightmare visions out of my immediate acknowledgement. As they happen in dreams, no matter how twisted, I generally stay in them and keep living and breathing because nothing can hurt me, though I wish it to be true that I can roll over and hold someone in case of my mind becoming engulfed in flames higher than skyscrapers and hotter than melting skin. There are rules of formalities in between the easy success and the profound failures. Follow some of the rules otherwise no one will sleep with you again. It is not just a feeling of hopelessness, but it is combined with a fear of sleep. There are many paranoid people with these cycles of love and hate filtering through their finger tips. "That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard." Well, fuck you. Weird is good. Weird is great. I hate you if you do not accept weird. You are what is wrong with the world, judging so quickly and so harshly and so much below the belt. 'My friends will never fuck you because I am telling them off because you want to be a writer.' It is not about that. I want to spread my social butterfly wings and fill in the blank spaces in my life with something beautiful. Maybe a new hobby, becoming a craftsman. But all of these concerns destroy me prior to sleep. Prior to my day? I can't complain. This serves as a catalyst of positive change. I take note of situations where my actions were not as grand as I'd hoped. Not as well-executed, meaning the idea was there (for a response, a question, an action or activity) but the timing was off or the circumstances did not yet allow for it. Always keep timing in mind or else everything will always fall apart.


------

'this is the pursuit of perfection' on the screen of the tv at a random glance at the gym near the target a converted warehouse always parking far away for the warm up walk through the sun because all parking spots closer have no shade, shade being incredibly desirable after a rigorous work out for a safe drive home. today, rambling through the day, worrying the boss and tearing apart relations with the store, I realize I probably can never show my face there again to avoid embarrassment, once the word got out, I am a cowardly quitter before the benefits paid off, but whatever. I have no shame. They will have to cut their losses and move forward. ($1,000). Given the chance to work in a studio as an intern. Was that a lie? Or is it the fact that this job is killing me, diluting the reason for which I came down here. The pursuit of perfection. The pursuit of art and music. Of colors and sonic notes that bring tears to the soul and we open up weeping at the tragedy of a finished composition. The flame was incredible in the making but now only smoldering ashes and we feel drained of essential life fluid and ready to sleep forever. 'There you have it world' we want to say, then sink into oblivion or the television and the couch set up.

I am proud I cut tobacco and television out of my diet.

----

then I contradict again. but we are all full of those. contradictions. say one thing and do another. it is what we are founded upon. lies and unruly madness. walking back down that same picturesque street for another night of great food and productive conversation about the future history of our status. we are entirely combined out hearts beating at the same tempo despite obsequious vomiting and an attitude of forgetfulness, we are the same person under the veil. all of us entirely conjoined at the hip. to the bullets shot at the moon we are rockets taking off under closed stars. seeing and witnessing constellations. star-deaths and other attack cues asunder. there are no rules to this and there never were. we are simply trying to visually become much more appealing than a standard sweating man-band. the type that rocks harder and more honestly than we ever can. they feel ever note to their very core. we are not a pop band. pop band with a twist a solid twist which sets us beautifully apart and we need to act beautifully apart. rather than conform to the same standards. put us in the correct clothing. (sounds of flushing toilets) we are the spirit of the radio and nothing can ever stop our forward movement. don't look down at the horrific underbelly of the beast. because we are on top of it. the image becoming necessary everywhere we ever play. a white t-shirt could never suffice at this level. underplay the image and underplay the skill. the metronome inside of me. we are forever questioning truthful intent when we close out hearts and call each other names. call me beautiful and you will zapped from yonder, a thunderclap. nothing ever is as easy as intended. but we will dress to impress the screaming girls until all else fails. but the music is the same and the grand intentions of every word we use will remain true to blood. blood coursing through the veins and spilling out into the questionable antics, but nothing ever regresses to that level of dumb beast until a certain threshold is crossed. but that threshold is never crossed until adequate, more than adequate, work is discovered, explored, then extinguished. the rules of the game becoming guidelines to the esoteric. become a part of the sexually enforced world, shoving coconuts and other vegetables into clothes and claiming the blanks to be filled are our own. calling the shots on a 15 shot called night. we lined them up and filled inconsiderable nights with our screams of joy (rather than fear).

---

incite a random 40 minute phone call detail the plot of existence in the late hours of the night and the early hours of the morning, calling the shots from a couple of thousand miles away, considering the sources and the inevitable end to all of this considerable damage... 'i'm a writer and I write every day" a true collaborative effort but I imagine myself as the jester the unincredible advantage, and listen to someone crawl to the bathroom again, yelling into the telephone, descriptions of tv when I watch whatever scenes unfold of snakes being beheaded in a masculine duel of creature, they still exist in the jungle feeling threatened as all should, of human presence. venom dripping from the severed head's fangs and the headless coiled body still strikes aimlessly and pointlessly in a final death reflex, allowing us a reminder that all things enjoy living and wish to continue living despite all odds. if you step on my turf and I feel like you might threaten my life or the life of those I love around me, I will coil up and strike as well with full intentions of irrevocable damage... hurting those who wish to hurt me in a natural defense mechanism but I mustn't recoil at the simple invasions of space and immediacy, the world is not meant, currently, for vacant and solo lives, entirely alone built inside the forest of elms, there is hardly any room for this type of nomad anymore. where would thoreau live now given the opportunity to play music in a band in hollywood? Play shows and invest in hair cut tactics.... Those lone rangers are dead with the invention of the rail road. The beatnik culture that media destroyed has lost its charm and its whimsy. because so many bums get murdered for nothing other than cruel reasons every day. every life there lost is a quarter of an hour turn clockwise in kerouac's grave. jimi would understand my reasoning behind music existing in such an organic state. some natural and feeling and with full heart involvement. the type of rhythms that coincide with circadian. feeling lost in the amusement park, no longer feeling amused. waiting in line to wait in line and call yourself an incredible genetic creature. we are sometimes forced below our potential and placed into categories and lines, the things that higher-up suits decide to further cage us. we are trapped in this skin alone. with the capabilities of each of our brains, entirely incidental, and indifferent to the other. Let's find the height of our existence together. let's change the world and let everyone realize the beauty of our hearts before our skin. we are stuck, also, with our hearts. The content of which is filled with all of the days before an identity is decided. at that point do we consider which parts of the past to communicate and from there we contrive truthfully a current identity. something that combines the past tastefully with all desires of the present. something amorphous and dependent on events surrounding present action. we are creatures of fate but we also decide this fate at a young age based on decisions on how to create and recreate a pleasant personality. personally I struggle to find a version of myself that I can consider correct and entirely accurate. I always feel as though I've made myself out to be much worse than I can potentially be. but there are words that hurt everyone in the heart but no minds can pick these up at any other moment. this is to say that the window is open for such hurt when, in front of mirrors, alone, the words, the negative self-talk, can be dismissed... the others cut like knives.... I struggle with myself. They say this is what it is to have a job and I say I can never work that job like you can. I can make myself invisible but I can also be very present and helpful although I lie through my teeth. There are worlds of regret I wish to disassemble and fraction off as excess architecture for my simple and sustainable abode. I don't need the extra fortification. I'd rather outside information to enter straight through the front gate as opposed to have to pass through rigorous mental inspection, only allowing the right information to be passed guaranteed no funny business, but much like underpaid bouncers, frustrated and kicking out people who would, unbeknownst to the bouncer, be the greatest company, creating a wonderfully vivid atmosphere for all others in attendance... soften these tough guys, and allow the walls to fall a little bit, those dark figures, the shades of evil imagination should never be allowed in but all of the lunatic ideas that would not physically hurt another should be placed into current action, regardless of temporal thought regarding physicality. the view of the body from the morgue. we are not dead we are just sleeping and preparing for life.

---

at 12:25 realizing an amount of words written, seventy or so more to cross a threshold I haven't crossed in awhile, the amount of writing that can only happen in dim lighting and after a number, high, of drinks and lessons given and received. pause to recite my rights and fold my hands over to the police. you caught me officer I am helpless but I have caused ultimate destruction of you and your police force while playing the first few, violent, versions of GTA. I will not deny my involvement in the popular culture of my time although I wish I truthfully could, deny this huge facade of puppets writing puppet songs and dying in the limelight.... 

july 20

nearly tears in the back room of the obligatory burger joint, everyone speaking of milkshakes prior to show as motivation for playing a good one. I don't know why I'm stricken with such awful, everywhere, sadness, lethargy. a person falling off of the stage and into a pit of depression. something terrible about the ignored audience and the screams sustained but never kept apart. add those throaty yells into the teeth of the microphone, the world will pull apart and open its ears, let yourself be heard and scream until blood comes out, the drums incredible loud, ear plugs on stage impossible all of the sound screwed up, bass is too loud through the mixer, turn a few knobs down so it doesn't peak, we drank orange rinds and dreamed about swimming pools but no one was down, an addiction and a fear of lethargy due to sun stroke and the dry skin of water, all of this nuances and the girlfriends waiting at home. 'you denied' screaming bloody murder at the expense of bus-ways and stabbings in the streets when drunks fight and kill. 'we are sound cannon. for all of you listening, either passively or aggressively.' but mostly playing pool and kicking out the young kid. the ridiculous nature of such events in a sketchy area. we are so so sorry. we lied about staying and about mingling. I am a damaged creature after that. after sweating and running around. what's wrong? I am high on stage. Aware and alert. shifting scenes quickly in instants. try things. go for it. do it all. feel it all. scream. stage dive. yell. fucking hurt everything. let it bleed until it dies. maybe, draining, you will feel better. more at peace. no longer worried about it. that cosmic sadness for no reason at all. crushing my back. so fucking quiet and horrible. the repetition. the sadness. was it at all worth it. do i feel out of place?

July 19

Thanks Mars Volta for letting us come out and play...


Music festival in the desert. Driving back, pulled over and giving a hard time. Breathalyzer. "I'm not trying to be rude at all." That feeling of helplessness when they find what they looked for and destroy our well being. We were just kids having fun. No danger to the road whatsoever. The friend in the passenger seat is too high to know what's oing on and stays mostly quietly. Poorly timed jokes every now and then. We paved our own road.

The unfinished tree-fort. The zipline and the abandoned swimming pool. The snow angel. The neighbor's dog. The belltower (of the university). The pocket knife. The DUI. The Car accident. The hookah table. The snare drum. The chirstmas tree. The grand piano.

---

nearly died in the heat. The stereo pauses and skips again and again on new cds. The heat of this room when I leave is destroying my electronics. The blonde wants nothing to do with me. I imagined receiving head on a cliffside somewhere. Something ridiculous and intangible because of the generational gap and our busy busy schedules. My god. (stereo just stopped all together).

---

My mind is squirming in this undying heat, like a fever running through all points in my entire body, science fact and the skin won't grow back together right in places where the nerves are singed shut. Everything works in slow, fascinated, movements. I cannot piece together a concern for this french man anymore. I don't care to let it crash again and hear him hire people to make his art for him.

Follow those leading lines to poison vines

we are all an assortment of wrong and right angles, acute observations from the underground space museum. write down those stylistic syringes. keeping notebooks of words and phrases, beloved. killing the legs of the beast to watch it crawl back into bed with a bottle of rye. killing brain cells much quicker by simply smashing the bottle on her head. knocking herself into a coma, a sort of paralysis.

Wake up just in time for the meteorite
lava flowing hot across the countryside
inhaling directly from a smoke stack
tearing off the plastic from a fresh pack
water rising above the pier
last days spent buying beer
freshly 21
so much fun

All I can think about to write about is the soreness in my legs. I feel like horrible things have happened inside of them and I limp to communicate this. They are not used to the grind of 9 to 5.

I watched to drink Red Stripe on the beach with an umbrella, a pretty girl tanning sharing the same towel/blanket over the hot sand, and a book to read. Waves crashing and nap-taking in the crazy moment.

July 18

Find myself in a blueberry kick, melting into the sunsets with the others and their cell phone cameras, in full captivity, in plain sight, we all stop what we are doing in the midst of the utter beauty. Layers of a cake, painted on in every-instant-vastly-shifting colors, the blue sky as backlight for the effervescent oranges and yellows, all of the contrasting between warm and cool, feeling the touch of it from here on earth as we stop and envy the sky, pull off the highway and photoshop the glorious rainbow, never have I ever seen one so vivid. Now drink. Feel puny and pitiful in the chasm. We are all floating along inside ourselves anyway. Who will ever know what we each individually had to say for this. (as I type my dinner burns).

----

I fell into the sunset and burned my wings. Dangerous to spread them all the way open with so little space and such abundant heat. Pushing carts, risking job briefly by taking out phone for photographs, of incredible sky colors. Nothing nocturnal. Night birds just taking fly and getting behind the wheel of a motor vehicle.

Make me a coffee with extra love. (life is just the ticking of...) Something intense and sensual. An all body and mind aromatic experience, the spa treatment, and the red or blue carpet, everyone high and getting higher, the smoke thick in the air as well as become good friends in a friendly atmosphere, shoot up heroin in the back rooms, but first ask questions, how many band greats did coke in this very bathroom... don't call me an anchor if I say we should maintain full creative control... no fears in that department quite yet... incubus jams...

Grind up me some coffee beans. Make my day. Go ahead. This is not as difficult as we all make it to be. The co-worker dating dilemma. Who the fuck wants to date. Difficulty quitting is from the sudden severance of 98% of social ties I have. Currently laying in bed, scratching acne on my neck, listen to the rapid crickets through the wall I lean against. Pillows, four of them, ridiculously, propped up against the wall below the window. There are no signs of life outside of my own in this room. In my apartment. This is comforting as it is discomforting. Art supplies out. Mix some dark colors and go for it. Big drawing boards. When will I find the time for all of the amazing things I wish to do? Is there ever time enough to dance with the stars? I want to cultivate and grow and become great at all things to be great at. 

July 17

Find a new way to say the same things. Living in this scenery amidst complex syncopations and other various tricks. All up sleeves in supernatural heat. Too stupid and tired to be of much if any use. All of the phots evidence against the latter. So tired and stoned and alone. there are silent sleeping bodies around but nothing serious or life-affirming. heat is tired in the dying hallway. fall through the ceiling and counteract our new feelings of woe and woe be gone, daffodil syringe, call it surrender and a paradise beyond the pop music garbage, the beats that are programmed from start to finish... we are all human

july 16

And here's me again, day-drunk, headed to the amusement park...


-------


Playing catch with his son, a grove of mandarin oranges of leather smell of baseball gloves. The train derails itself near that field of dreams, charring the countryside with chaos and confusion. Or it impacts a train coming the opposite way. When destinations cross.


-------

Experience the after effects of fatty foods when the mind starts to sweat and the body reels in pain and throbbing head. It is a food coma. It is the feeling of falling lazily down a set of soft stairs bouncing off the walls, no pain inflicted. I need to write. But never force the words... Today? A morning of work and contemplation of job termination. Submit an application for Sam Ash tomorrow. See where that goes. After work ate two sandwiches and sat back randomly looking through pictures to determine possible album art. Spoke with every family member today. Even talked to myself briefly in the parking lot. 'Hey thanks a lot for your help Nate. Let me introduce you to my daughter.' Screaming and horror through the walls. A dog barking lunatic, screaming girls and the ridiculous accusations. I heard terrible whining earlier and knew the crickets are stomped by people like this. I do not know if I like her much. I am judged too harshly because I judge too harsh. The world is not an easy place to exist in freely.. Then went to the gym and pounded weights listening to circa survive and making eye contact with random other members. Hey man, are you using this. No go ahead dude. Okay thanks. Or with the women on the treadmills and stationary bikes. (There is a whole world outside. It is not stationary). Return back home in a great mood, sing songs and rewrite a part of something new. SOmething in 7/8 with interesting lyrics. Acoustic and incredible. Challenge myself as a musician with it. Write the lyrics and let them ring out.

The song should be about getting stoned and reading beautiful prose.

that's one idea.

the other about constant movement between cities and the jet lag feeling... standing still for too long makes me nervous a tree will fall and crush me.

the mountain ranges and the pretty faces hidden up in big clothes

or about how money is a corruptible power influencing the modern world into chaos

write about a deserted island... we are alone and we can have anything

alcoholic college kids

I was an anxious mess

the horror from the back room
leading me from their miss fortune
of having been introduced personally
to their most wild and reckless dreams

this is me being young they say
I'll never grow up one day
but the tide will swallow their cries
in complete and utter silence
the messages in sand erased
no more guiding lights or saving grace

we are all in this together
entirely alone
we are in the center of a hurricane
nauseous with each rolling wave
the calm before the storm
you have been warned
make savage testiment
to the passage of time
we are here
we are forever here
our bodies are fragments
of a pulsating spirit
there is no way to kill us all
the world slips away this fall

college kids taking notice
of the new trends
updating their habits
to new dead ends

July 15

If I quit what would I fill my days with? A brand new job? A writing gig? Cigars and violence? There is too much advice to ask for and sometimes I'll just have to figure it all out on my own. But to drive into Hollywood to pay a huge fee to join a union that I will never see the benefits of due to my part time hours and lack of longevity in the company...? Does it make sense? Why does it pull at my heart to contemplate this. Will I feel like a failure? Like I've given up? I want to write and read more. Become better, stronger. (Working at the mall would be awful.) I want to fly. Sing with more power, chain myself to the bass and play until my fingers bleed, at this point that would take all day. What do I do?

July 14

Loud haunting mutts, speaking in their protective tongues against the monsters outside, all around, hiding in every possible crevice with knives and shanks to murder unfortunate passersby. It is so fucking hot in this box of an apartment, desiring to purchase the necessary accessories to abuse illegal narcotics. All of that substance abuse hangs heavy under his eyes and he blinks much too slow now. Missing all of the scenery. All of the beautiful world.


----

In a flash bulb, I nearly lost my mind, almost gave up complete control and spiraled into an alcoholic rage, breaking the most valuable things first, burning holes with matches into papier-mâché toll bridges, there are no trolls, only invasive motorists giving the finger to every traffic camera regardless of speed limit signs obliged, the type of motorist who turns sharp right suddenly in a straight tunnel, killing innocents, and innocence, with a wild jerk of the wheel. He always ends up alright. Instead of destroying the walls I've spent precious time building up, killing off the best parts of me, the parts that prove commitment to perfect ideals, the sections and fragments burned off in vicious flame, the outer part of the atmosphere and solar flares at fault, once catapulted into that hemisphere, out beyond where I thought I was, then again, where the hell am I? but before I could delve into dark recesses, hiding inside myself, total inversion and the spirit dies... I took a walk, then broke into a run, then kept running beyond where I told myself I'd originally stop, spitting on the rich streets of Calabasas giving a shit about sidewalk cleaning fees and pre-work-out stretches, the ones that loosen up the fibers and ribbons inside my legs that keep me balanced, but now these are taut, hard-wired, incredibly straightened and ready to snap and curl back up my leg. I watched cars drive by, everybody with a destination but me. It always seems like everyone else believes they have a purpose, for the evening at least, but I splashed in puddles passing my workplace refuge from the good life. The days I work are the worst days of the week. I am here for music and not self-torture. I don't care to expand my social connections here quite. But my schedule and my peace of mind call for change. I will face the mockery head on claiming that my purpose is not to sweat over chump change in the blaring heat at roaring noon, but rather to cultivate a growing talent. I need to become great at things, not bagging fucking groceries. I'd rather stock shelves in a library. In fact that's what I'll do in the mean time. Or learn how to fly-fish then give fly fishing tours through the northern woods. Or write and publish on online journals. Give me up to the sky! I want it all! But I want no fucking union fees to get me there.

July 13

Treating your ears to something fantastic and magical, expectations for awesome rock-star drug usage. The conversations speaking louder than words. Reading up billboards on the buildings, wondering why I'm feeling so deflated. I'm entirely myself on stage. There is nothing contrived about what I am doing and something special can be recognized in that. Training montage in our respective caves, one black, one sun-bathed, one amid other ruins, but once realizing the pay gig mantra ends up leaving all devoid of fascination, really they search for the next star at the front of the set, the vocal talent or the singer-songwriter with obvious disappointment in self, but there is decent money involved to pack up into that life. If I could I would. Quit union work for a job in two bands. Not losing a commitment rather transferring it and creating more wonderful music like something jazz on the side to expand horizons. Would I be turned out as a turn coat, out with the bats in the belfry? no it is rather a deeper realization of becoming a better human machine controlling and feeling the beauty of rhythmic sounds all planned and organized into neat little rows, but always music has been my life, that is probably why I stand apart, there are compartmentalized boxes in my brain that only cycle through different melodies in my head, I'm sure this happens, I've caught it in the air sometimes when there is a sudden desire to whistle or to tap a quick rhythm on something, try to show the new difficulties. I could have gotten a whole lot better a whole lot quicker but for some reason I never practice enough, I played like exercise and all hard and fast and heavy until my hands cut open and bled until the walls shook pictures down, the expenses required to make music happen, the desire for a drum set, the worst thing a parent to hear, but knock one wall down, another builds itself somewhere, separating a bay of that garage, that small compartment, full of blasphemy and crazy-panic, filled with all of the emotions of the color wheel, from red to black... there is something new-spirited and dressed up like a model, check her out, holding hands under the table, but yeah good things will come from this with the beauty of a blonde at the arms, drink out of that beer cup, that nervousness fades, a little shy in the presence of others, close the door at least a little bit, but it is not a paranoia, it is so unimportant considering the worse things I've done and will do in front of these people under assorted intoxication, we are not immune to horrible visions... straw sneakily drain the drink, walking around in heels, you look great, incredible sweaty, tearing off the shirt and becoming a socially awkward mongoose, but there is something incredible there, magnetic in the ability to tell time and direction, but when it is entirely necessary it will happen. My good friend acting as a conscience I never really had before in such large christian doses. Something strange in that admittance. Will you hold my hand? take my hand? there is part of him missing when he can't say these things about these songs. but watch out it will all be incredibly okay

July 12

Someone just visited from the North and felt as thought they had brought the rain back down with them. Bad timing and bad luck, accidentally crushing a lucky cricket in the door way, eating spaghetti leftovers from a clean freak land lord, taken grateful, though I am not sleeping on the job, I might briefly close my eyes. Getting paid to blink and learn how to clean everything prior to lights out. We will walk under ladders while we whisper our prayers under our breaths, solemn oaths of secrecy, where no one breaks through until full reinvention... black cats hanging from trees and we all dress up like our favorite supervillian, that edgy feeling standing on the precipice of the void, before falling, screaming in ecstasy as the wind rushes past, this has no ending and there is no evidence of a slip as eventually this movement becomes an external reality. Raise children while falling into the black void and we all combine moments to achieve an excellence, though they will never know the outside... Bet on a wish made at 11:11 and see the bank accounts multiply as houses rise up where property was consumed. Magicians smoking pot in a traveling circus tent. There are monkeys stealing car keys and inevitably the owners become frustrated at the wrecks they return to in the parking lot. Monkeys can't drive. They can only steal. Wear a rabbits foot, cricket-murderer, you are bad luck written on dry wall. There is no escaping the graffiti inside your bones. Of marrow and the blood coursing through. Strangest constructions this early evening hour prior to lift off. The video becomes viral and all the world suddenly cares about us and about how we are prepared to destroy everything in our path that has intentions of slowing us down. No police barricade could kill the momentum.

expressionless in a dark exhausted sense
belonging to the rhythm of
the world
a soft, unraveling cadence
once in a tight blue white swirl
light streaming from above
the unforgiving sun

there will always be kids pushing carts
in the boiling heat
brightest reflections off shining surfaces
worrying about developing cataracts
or skin cancer and
becoming burned before the big show
skin looking red and fleshy
on their own two feet

independence day
shoot away

a model who asks for me to reach
another bottle of dark wine
baked, with you in mind
not your lesson to teach
practice what you preach
sit back and learn
how it is done around here
(smooth criminal)
smoking resin on probation
in your parents basement
there are colors we haven't seen
shade of human spirit
muted and in hues green
like moss growing south on a tree

the first day of summer
what a huge bummer

strange irony in the conflict
between two magnetic pulls
the magenta from the mahogany
wood splintering down the center
count the rings
ship smoke on the horizon
sail boat out of long pipe exhale
you will feel your whole body contort
to fit into the tight spaces between molecules
of the air
but to be fair
it is rude to stare
at any vast emptiness
between obvious
safehouses
for a
friend in distress

the frustration
and helplessness
felt
watching a friend
get swallowed by the earth
and financial freedom is true freedom
everything else is budgeted
we are slaves
to the system
devote the entire life-span
to the advancement of
new ideas
waiting until this all becomes
a huge money-making venture
but will it, this adventure?
creating a promising future
out of rubble from failure

 your favorite color mixed with mine
green eyes
umbrella smile
considering you as witness
to these devices
of mankind
not kind man
he will steal from you given the chance
freezing time your pockets would be emptied
girlfriend taken
everything you worked for will be taken away for free
so unimportant
now is, more than ever, time to accept youth and appreciate the extreme supportive family for all of their best advice. everything is a considerable donation. or an emotional investment. I would never want to thrive at the personal risk of anything, but there are those who would be a martyr for me but I would do that to them as well. Without any questions at all. They are approaching strange old age while letting me know they fully support my ridiculous life.

fourth of july
the biggest lie


As John Steinbeck famously said, the problem with poor Americans is that “they don’t believe they’re poor, but rather temporarily embarrassed millionaires.”

July 10

Idea of music video shot in courtroom. A bad one. The lyrics are about a ghost. Have the singer running around an abandoned shipyard looking for something that does not exist. Like shutter island. Write away those unblessed spirits because they will come back haunting given the chance. (always been about second verses. well they still don't make sense to me, choir boy). but these words are mean I'd never want them to be read without a preface. I woke up after minimal sleep with an old song stuck in myhead and then I sat thinking about the content of it. Jesus. Such blind faith. It operates so strongly over the globe because of words pounded into heads when young. How does it work for them? Does it give them that extra edge in the competition? Or is it a mind game?

Tell me your secrets, without shame and confess to me everything you've done that you've regretted. Perverted scenes of ultimate despair in the living room.


------

Bad attitude like a poison
spreading over top of water
in rainbow colors
penzoil
something curled up black dying
but it will be okay tomorrow
it has to
....

headache and mind ache
everything ached
sounds, lovely ones on a number day, pulverized my ears
sunlight hurt my eyes
I feel the cataracts forming
as I broke y et another pair of sunglasses
two hours of work down the drain
what am I working for? pride?

pride is stupid, naive.

hide yourself in internet ambiguities
finding surplus to the day-long cook-outs
the night does not bring in cool air
we are sweating and eating
simultaneous with our calorie intake
my diet is awful
eating leftovers days beyond
extinction

it's actually not as bad as it seems
but a fucking kitchen would be nice
considering the changing weather
and the expense of living
my god
the room 100 degrees
20 degree cycles
set it to 80
and get a new haircut
looking like a dried up apricot of a person
we play on the bill in between myriad cover bands
only cover bands play places like this
dirty bar
wash out your car
become successful undresser
band meeting about haircuts
we need to kill the extras
the extra chefs

I played metal drums and got a solid response
I sweat through it all
in advanced syncopation
water through me
like filtering out gold coins from a river wash
the best place to become a fossil
how many years old does a skeleton have to be?
to be an archeological find

I was low energy.
Expectations are resentments waiting to happen.
I bit the bullet.
Talked on the phone.
Was made guilty.

Turned into a shitbag in front of everyones eyes.
felt like radiohead and the great gatsby maybe some spelling fixes for other shitty writing but my talents are not talents if never used or addressed there is nothing to it but my individual thought, but how does he have the time they ask and I have no idea how to afford lessons and what the fuck fuck fuck... cry on the couch listen to the sounds of silence of the boring and quiet repetition. we are such fucking circles!

July 9

Fill up days with random acts of progress like pennies in a jar. The idea of a mounting fortune is more important that the potentially awful things that are done with it. I've always hated when people spend time getting good at something for bad reasons.  For ill intent. Another case of past tense confirmation, that fallacy of thought when you say 'oh I always knew he was gay.' Post-hoc fallacy maybe. spending time with cats on rooftops, intimately thinking about jumping, leaping into the stars and all of that empty space, but not the way to go, not after dinner table discussions while we sat silent, digesting, with nothing to say, staring at the floor, we all react different to the same stimulus, no matter how many times trained in the event, in the unlikely event of monetary success, throw it in the air, dump it into the streets from the top of the highest most corrupted skyscraper, but real talents means shit because everyone is fucking talented, it's all about the right attitude, the right atmosphere, but where are those golden gods of architectural legend? the ones that design and build monuments for each other for the sake of comraderie, spelling mistake I give a damn.. they drink and whistle at women at the same bars at regular people from their breaks at back break jobs in coal mines try to smoke a quick cigarette before rejoining the mass of black dust and the darkness surrounding and confiscating air from the lungs as if breathing through a straw was enough on a death bed, there are elements of radiation to deal with in these dark places as well... the brooding musicians on stage at this bar, playing as they do with a sputtering spark of past tense prime but an ugly reminder with every reflective surface or drunken request from the mob that they are in the limelight, to be judged and held in contempt at risk of losing a girls phone number because she wants to fuck the rhythm section those cool jazz cats always understanding when to lay down fat grooves for all females in the vicinity, the proximity intoxicating as the whole mass of the fuckers, the mad fuckers from the big city, the miners and blue collar mail room workers with their repetitions and their ritualistic drinking binges with old high school friends who also work mundane jobs because kids happened and mortgages happened and because the big city kids are young they are dominant, the rest of the crew gather to get nostalgic from the time period these people are actually, presently, living in... Look at a child and try to remember. You will cry to think that far back and to understand that life is beautiful they are the beating heart of the world and everything they can do is always perfect. fucking perfect.

July 8

A weekend of extremes in unhealthy personal discourse and working constraints. Walked a marathon and watched numerous episodes of addiction television shows and ate addicting chocolate cnady bars. Allowing the rare indulgence for one reason or another. I know I'm better off without the incredible calorie intake. My stomach already feels bloated. Back sore. It's too hot to write. I'm full.

--------

Smoke a joint listen to Supertramp and pretend to think like you knew what the wold was like before rock n roll. There was jazz and hipster clubs in back alleys. Wishing we were all there. Writing about it. It strong syllables. We were in the groove in the moment back there. We are the mad ones. Crazy and poetic in our retellings. We try to coexist but no harm no foul.

July 7th

Fueling the fire by burning out cigarettes into the ground letting the air smoke them. Just light and watch the wind whirl around to keep the edge cherried. Walking down the silent cozy neighborhood, there is no need to be afraid when looking around at these well-lit houses in between drunk drivers of saturday headed back to their quiet street after a loud night. (you seem like someone who would love Andrew Bird). Letting contemplating of the sobbing stars take over legitimate excuses. Nearly cry watching satellites circle the stars and the helicopter follows the highway back and forth to capture accidents on vintage audio. That actual fuel necessary to keep production rolling. Alcohol and nicotine. Rat poison and guillotine. We cut off each others heads to find out what is contained in our own. Bitter remorse at the lack of familial connection, therefore connecting with deeper rooted cousins. Smoking joints and complaining about headaches and other influential elements that cause a new-goner to forgo normalcy. But we all forget where we came from in order to understand where we are because no anchors hold this vessel down, the water is too deep and the anchors suddenly become so much lighter with the more tropical waters. Still cold yet warm enough to keep tides moving and bottomless. The anchors, the multitude and strings attached to heavy items, pulling from deep below the surface. But they no longer catch on the ocean floor. There is no floor. There is no bottom level. Despite all of the typical shame I predicted I do not regret the execution of my idea. I knew the adventure would hold old contemplation. I would watch the stars and inhale deep on that foreign feeling of weightlessness. I am no longer an anchor. I am no longer anchored. We left our moorage and never paid mortgage on that watery grave. Deep below the pier where we lit off fireworks in the middle of the fall. To the amusement of the coastguard dodging roman candles from hooded vigilantes on the shore. We ran in ritualistic circles around blazing fires, with marshmallows blackened on the end of sharpened sticks, widdled down with care from local branches... the chocolate melts when encountering the black-white roasting bulb of magma... the expanding white blob of sugar that identifies with... scheduling conflicts... witness a gang beating with baseball bats under the bridge at a friendly fire. we shared the hookah hose with cute girls passing lip to lip but I avoided the mess to keep my clarity and my wits about me... now though.... wouldn't I enjoy sharing that smoke with another human?

July 6th

Black light for sore eyes, hot tea for sore throat and one dose of full rest inspired by a small container of liquid. Hungry and insatiable, jumping the gun before a common transaction, we are hungry of the world desire to eat her crust. Into the teeth of the world. The edgy and humorous ordeal of a little person on set with the musicians. Deliberately intersecting with the lyrics. No one does that and therefore it would be very interesting and cool. Clever, yielding the facts, the organization of the lyrics and the full deepest intentions of the lyrics with crooning accuracy. Proceeding with verbal contingents. Discussing semantics on park benches carving expressive ideas into the dried wood. Old carvings of dead relationships became back drop to the luxurious view. The kid is grateful suddenly for the presence of intelligent parental figures. The influential back drops of both like baked clay hand prints, the miscellaneous decor of arts and crafts. We had a small blue table where I would dream up buildings and colorful architecture with full pieces with excellent precision. Constantly mapping out blueprints in my head and then executing with the physical solution of the idea. It all goes as planned or in the same general direction of what is ideal. We will work together to solve all future discrepancies. But for now, with hideous reasoning, a small kid is disallowed access to bank account. Funds drained behind his back but in huge debt with financial support. The family-run business manufacturing various kites for beach enjoyment. Of all colors with different thickness of string, different bright streamers begging for the envy of birds. Enjoy the color of your true feathers, your receding hairline and a fund without boundaries. Waiting for this all to burst open. The artery of the anxious world. We all feel that excitement and the pressure to succeed and to make this the best possible, outrageous, rage, glorious introduction into the outside world. Of music. Of stardom. Group sex in locker rooms behind strip malls, inside strip bars, key club members owning the majority of the stocks. We are all in this together, believer.

"a healthy lack for self-preservation"

July 5th

"I feel like the best songs are the ones that feel like the artist really had no choice but to write the song - it needed to be out of them. Obviously nobody wants to write ’filler’, and for me that means finding the right subject matter and treating each song as delicately as the next. If it bores you, don't write it. If you’re making a song to simply fill a hole in what you think is expected of you as an album-maker - don't write it. I wait until something feels important and I work on it with everything in me. Sometimes you can't think about time." aesop rock

It's important for me to lock myself up, and emerge with something in my hands saying 'I made this'.

----

taking the philosophy of another, apply it to your own life, write books like rap lyrics but hear it delivered right and in the correct tempo (tempe typo) sell it together beats and books. Novelists in the studio flowing over the Shakespearean Proust. The uptempo settings prior to the climax then a resolved and downtempo bitrate. Something to bob your head to as you head. Something with definite (yet hidden rhythm) something that is not evidence or forced like some poetry may seem. Like kerouac and jazz write a book in the mode of hip hop. Or it through the lens of something more aggressive. Jazz might be the only genre this is possible. Then I should become big into jazz.

nearly stop for illicit supplies but that overwhelming feeling of urgency but without need for anything to be rushed, I'd love the social intimacies to be quick and fast. Instantly friends lets hang out and it won't be strange that I tag along. Free tickets to a show. Request it off. (Should have advertised last week so they could request off time.) But all goes to shit. 

july 4th

Count this as the fourth, in a line up, in a sporadic combination, but the words are malleable ( able to be hammered or pressed out of shape without breaking or cracking.) but I thank your smile for guiding me through a night prior to the festivities. More than likely...... (from 2:30 the morning of.)

Pull up in the driveway and spread the blanket on top of the car. The high school, through the trees, topanga or calabasas or a mutt, putting on a wonderful fireworks display. The aesthetic appeal of colorful explosions in the sky but inside here, alone, family-less, friend-less, it sounds like civil warfare. Scare the dogs, they'll run away if you put them out. The cops are out to catch the drunks who use today as an excuse to fall off the wagon. Everyone will talk about liberty and set up tents in giant fields to protest the treatment of the homeless. There was a van with a guitar but now they are both gone. Some man had terrible luck but I couldn't add to it by deciding to be a thief. I am a coward it would appear. Although I talked to a supermodel fashion school girl. She said she wouldn't want to model and I said why the hell not? You could be a model. Then I continued sweeping.

I leaned against a light post, drawn to the colored lights in the night like the aurora borealis. One is gunpowder and a warped sense of patriotism, the other is the shifting magnetic poles of the earth. I imagine families gather here on the regular. Every year. Trying to force their way into the closest parking spot with no obstructions like trees or buildings in the way. The lights came from the direction of the road but off to the right a bit. I am filled with a melancholy, an infinite sadness because of the children present I keep calm. Here we are, all alone, together. Resenting my age and the rough-edged circumstance. No one is having a barbeque. No one is alive or waiting to turn back the clock. Blonde wisps of smoke disappearing in a summer morning haze. Low flying helicopter or on top of a high ridge would have been glorious. (Topanga lookout must have been packed with stoners and junkies, fixing u and trippin the night fantastic).

July 3rd

The day to drive up to the Indian reservation for booze and explosives but this county bans uncontrolled use of fireworks on the holiday. (Receiving pay and a half.) Drain my bank account on pretty explosions. In the night sky, on the waterfront, competing for attention with all of the others out there. Respecting the size and might of explosions across the bay. Some finale by the bridge. Hear it echo across and clap like thunder after lightning.

The day will be busy anyway. Lacking Indian friends to visit and to purchase from. Might go out and see some lights in the sky at the park in the middle. Seems more hazardous with no natural open water source for 20 miles. There must be a reservoir. Before that, exercise (if I can get my heart rate up with out exploding) then band practice or library then band practice then library. Library does not need to happen today. At least I know where it is. Given free time I will explore its shelves and find what I am looking for to learn in this world. But without much time to digest there is no need to stuff that logic down my throat. I will need an open window to jump through in a calm and collected fashion before browsing that waterfall entryway upscale library. Wondering if they have jazz or classical and wishing to expand my horizons in sleep to accommodate these new arrivals. Then work later pushing carts, will be busy tonight, from last minute preparations for tomorrow night. If I was having a backyard barbeque on the fourth I would certainly get all my shopping done the day before so then I could get day drunk with my friends and admire the work my new gardener did in the back. They would love the stepping stones leading to the upper pavilion. Here we can smoke our cigars and witness fireworks over the tree tops if we face our chairs west. It will be packed but then a dark night dinner with zero expectations a preliminary date to see if further pursuit is necessary.


-------

No time for library. As it goes. So it goes. Sweat in a lonely clean place. Accidentally sweep when I should have cart. Work is work and play is play. Keep them separate. Built up emotion at the edge of a new holiday. Networking like shit. No friends around at the moment. All the same. The horrible repetition. I'm trying and trying. Is the social life I do miss. Why is that? Once I live in the woods perhaps I'll have had my fill of meaningless social relationships and be entirely content on my own. Building treeforts for no children ever to use. Burn down the trees. We are nearly done with the staple. With the landmark. The beginning of a new chapter. Given the opportunity to go up to Seattle. Accepted to U.W. despite having holes in the necessary credits. Somehow, on paper, they assumed I am worthy of their institution. Now, somehow... I must feel worthy to be where I am. Birthday boy. Does he get anything from me. Does anything new need to happen?

-----

Count this as the fourth, in a line up, in a sporadic combination, but the words are malleable ( able to be hammered or pressed out of shape without breaking or cracking.) but I thank your smile for guiding me through a night prior to the festivities. More than likely...... ( I will copy and paste this text that was from the new post with the contents of the fourth of july in full being and realism when possible or the casual artistry. Nearly stole the guitar out of a homeless man's garage car hideout. I am glad the car was gone before the end of my nine o clock shift. But that lag was conscientious... I barely had the heart in me to steal the heart way from someone, a stranger, without the means to fabricate an end. The worst kind of situation with a person of lower socio-economic status. We don't think over each other in racial tones. We pat each others back waiting for the intenses chirstmas party every year with a date or two. The sacrifice and hanging out text message correspondent. goodnight everyone. I am exhausted and about to pass out without remorse

july 2

I scrambled the wiring inside my stereo, like an egg. But that was accidental. I touched nothing from the inside. It just fell apart when I tried my hardest to put it back together. I cracked it open to look inside but found nothing and then broke off clamps attempting to piece it back together. My impatience at not having accomplished anything. No auxiliary input anymore because of this. But it already was half broken. Anyway. My passenger door too. Nearly broke it off entirely in the drive way. My stupidity sometimes is incredible. I am stubborn as always.

But... I'm on top of it. All will be alright. These are just inconveniences and I don't need the most convenient fixes to all my problems. Dirty car. Wasteful new stereo. 

July 1

Fresh start (booze).
Keep the mindset of a 15 year old.
Forever afraid.
Shivering with cowardice.
Open up your eyes and fill them with everything around you.
Never regret.
"I can ogle whoever I want."
Forget nothing.

The menace of global vandalism.
Slap-happy with stickers on Seattle streets.
The riots and broken glass.
There was chaos for awhile
and everyone was excited.
Drag racer wraps himself around pole
murders himself outside boys window
who now is not excited to drive
as he once was.
as all kids are at his age.

Parents take the kid to parking lots in order to expedite.
Ace that test boy, else you'll get a whoopin.

This is a new day. Unlike others.
Beach front, missionary position.
the towel revealed nothing about your character.
you shook sand free and whisper sweet nothings
into the wind
making sure to spoil my picnic.
ants come marching in
carrying my lunch meat and lunch cheese
in fragments
on tiny backs.
built to carry heavy things.

allowed self to sleep peacefully. fully consumed in the foreign comfort of natural awakening.
wait until the day gets too hot and let that heat wake me
sheets soak in sweat.
where were you when I'm at my best?

"frightened little kitten gunna act like a lion now."

Car full of kids cut in front of me. I sped to keep up but switched lanes. Blasting music and singing along. Girl with dark eyes in the passenger seat mesmerizing and I glance between her and the road multiple times. On Fallbrook. They took a left on Ventura but I went straight. Where were they heading? Somewhere I should be? The girl in the car... single? Married? I felt a huge stirring in my heart when they turned off, I'd hoped our fates would intermingle for some impossible reason. I wanted to follow them ask they how they were faring. Were they making it on their own or spending their parents money still? Money does not rule everything now does it? I would have asked and smoked pot and found answers. They were perfect and inseparable. I will never dream of seeing them again.

Strange how a stranger can arrest all motion and pause any mental activity. Virtually flat-lining while standing in line at the coffee shop, or walking down the street just to see what might be on the other side of the bigger hill. The small hill, over it, are only rich houses and poor souls. They hire gardeners and pride themselves in their gardens.

I have stopped in the middle of many streets at a glimpse. 'Will our paths ever cross again?' our eyes say to each other. Probably not, we figure, sad. There is a magnetism between some eyes and mine. It is infuriating and we are all to blame for rarely acting on these impulses. I should have warned you that I am a lunatic writing, parable-minded, parallax-hounding, paradigm-shifting, eccentric college drop out. Temporary of course.