Coffee shops with lavender carpeted ceilings and low hanging chandeliers, imagining smoking pot in antiques showrooms, with all this sort of valuable shit around, shining and glimmering, I would look around at everything and build up a tolerance for that sort of trash, and eventually feeling like all the silver spools out for golden twine... it is all a run off from that one mighty stream, and we are all just small animals, becoming obsolete as the water lessons and we dehydrate quickly and forever. Lava lamps broken into piles and amorphous shapes, calling attention to everything, sharing the love and filling in the blanks, suddenly arriving and we are all exploding inside our hearts, fuselage imploding on sound barrier breaking shuttle and the pilot turns out to be drunk anyway, one drunken cough and the plane lights up like a parade, and having a nice day besides, going out for a moment and sharing the stories that define heart beats, the things that make us move.
Ten thousand year old park blocks
tracing out the negative spaces
shade the contours of her body
from every angle
and she poses eternally
forever a charcoal fragment
of my life
no modesty
desire threesome
mindfulness/awareness
productivity/content
empathy/shared emotion
.....
divorce the mind
we are expanding into oblivion
but hey we met at a strange time
as the buildings collapse
lets finish each others sentences
and marry our thoughts
at a drive through in Las Vegas
they have heaters around
and one day a man from the north arrives
constantly talk of weather when such
imperative decisions are evident
in daily breaths and for daily bread
I can't stop thinking about sushi
and a life ending smile
something easy to accept
for what it is
a personality behind it that sapped the faith out of me
I encountered the girl of dreams
though I can only now tell it all as a fable
something out of a fairy tale
and I am no longer the protagonist
I am only a pathological liar.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Saturday, December 29, 2012
December 28
Enter the sanctuary of bright lights and pretty people. It is a synagogue. A cathedral of liquor bottles lined up squarely around the bartender/god and everyone worships the courage chemical. the ability to say the things you wish you could say if you were sober. of course you have no limitations which can be good or bad depending on the crowd. could get laughs and pussy. could get your ass kicked. could wind up alone and sad because of either outcome. potentially when living in that shrinking room, the floating caskets of the mind drifting down beneath the streets, in the sewer with the rabbits, the sewer rabbits that exist in fear of cars and dogs in suburban neighborhoods, modeled after ancient television shows. Ancient televisions shows! Treated with the same historical importance as ancient scrolls of writing upon the invention of ink. What animation! Bodies frozen in history like a mistake worth repeating. Have any doubt? Cross your fingers and dive in. Your wishes will be granted.
Park blocks away and find myself increasingly nervous and reach closer. Bump into a bunch of people. Feel judgmental eyes. The concern had to have roots in the THC and the lonely paranoia. With no back ups to talk to and discuss the terrible drug with. No other companion to understand become on the same exact level that I was on. And the anger subsides because I now opened the floodgates. One night. Drunk as I leave the abode (waiting) wearing appropriate winter attire and sufficiently intoxicated to enjoy the walk. My guess would be a mile and a half. Nothing too horrible. The cold night doesn't help. Bundle up and set out against time and the elements to fall in love at the English bar drinking Pilsner and Newcastle and whatever. I'll drink what she drinks. Match her. Talk to her. Never giving a fuck. But hey, these nights won't last. One day I will be looking back. This is the time to take initiative. Never take baby steps. Just jump into it with a force not to be reckoned with. Your impact with the water will cause a ripple effect beyond the measure of richter scale and tsunami warnings will be issued to those without impact zones. They chased them down and subdued them by force. We are no longer welcome.
--
Explore the city for whatever language is left and use that countered sobriety for something good, strong and meaningful. Feeling too week to exist this isolation and return to a place where communication with another human being is an actual possibility. "You have to like to be alone." But there is no shame. Never living in pain. Rhyming sentences and not letting meaning pass through. Takes a minute to understand. Especially when so sedated. Bite the tongue and sit quietly resting with or without the shoulder pads necessary for resting. Lazily sleeping around. Become the anti hero of your own story and fill all of our hearts with eminent fear and joy tossled together. they are blended into a fine dust that we inhale whenever positive vibes fill the void beneath our breath. there are reasons behind such geometric symmetry. there are such occasions where the spirit of an individual is questioned and twisted to the very core. these are telling times to discover true nature. how can one deal with a broken heart? how can one deal with the thoughts of knowing all three most loved women in life are gathered in the very same place at the same time and when that warmth is so far away the slightest chill feels that much colder. there is a bite in the air. not of cupid's arrow. he is drunk and a poor shot with whiskey breath and a secret communication with the devil himself beneath the view of cute angel, bottle glass lines his cage. fermented fruit in varying decay lay around his crib or his grave site. either or. this is the time that we find ourselves. and all of us suddenly understand one and other on such a deep level. oh my god, I think constantly. How could I have been so cruel? ignored the ones that could have given me shelter that I looked for and all of the rebellious natures of cliques and friends and we all hated each other for reasons that are entirely fixable today. nothing can last forever. that kind of grudge-holding kills everyone involved swiftly and without mercy.. thirty years down the road.. all at once.
the air inside my lungs. my broken neck at the bottom of an infinite set of stairs. the stairway to heaven most lively. trying to type as fast as I possibly can and writing freely letting my fingers guide the train of though in my head due to the slight lapse in time between the two processes. words are falling and cascading but there is a bit of control involved unfortunately my critic is not shut off and words that come out are being told through subconscious process to sound a certain way and to make logical sense. but if I've lost you at this point then we can see clearly an accidental irony in the face of all golden gods, letting the wrods take hold in jazz rhythm. knowing damn well how a standard piece of written material should appear but considering it a jam session with words. everything from the language represented all at once.
sunrise in bedrooms of ex girlfriends
running through my mind tired of having holes in shoes
falling down onto knees until bleeding
picking up all of the raspberries we could carry into two buckets each, there was a breeze in the air and our long hair swayed in the breeze, we were children and still are, trapped somewhat in limbo, confused and wondering how it all happened in such a manner. I'm still the boy, the child, in the forest, wandering with friends and carving trails through a meadow and the trees laughed at us for our evident joy in their presence, we all basked into each others species, opening to the true heart of the earth, the soul of the world in grains of dirt, the shrubs and quietly whispering dead trees, cut one down once during a day, for some arguable reason, something live an avenged lover. we tried to cut one down for no reason and would up trying to expedite the process with fireworks in the wilderness. it was not wet. we were fire hazards and we gave no shits. shot bottle rockets at one and other and tossed mortar shells through the air at targets or at a silent salt water bay... lit the fuse and threw the damn thing at the last minute. now would I be more cautious? I could have blown a damn hand off and how could I be typing this as quickly as I am. only listening to second song since beginning of stanza. flying until my wings hurt though I don't care to land simply plummet into the ocean. splash.
Park blocks away and find myself increasingly nervous and reach closer. Bump into a bunch of people. Feel judgmental eyes. The concern had to have roots in the THC and the lonely paranoia. With no back ups to talk to and discuss the terrible drug with. No other companion to understand become on the same exact level that I was on. And the anger subsides because I now opened the floodgates. One night. Drunk as I leave the abode (waiting) wearing appropriate winter attire and sufficiently intoxicated to enjoy the walk. My guess would be a mile and a half. Nothing too horrible. The cold night doesn't help. Bundle up and set out against time and the elements to fall in love at the English bar drinking Pilsner and Newcastle and whatever. I'll drink what she drinks. Match her. Talk to her. Never giving a fuck. But hey, these nights won't last. One day I will be looking back. This is the time to take initiative. Never take baby steps. Just jump into it with a force not to be reckoned with. Your impact with the water will cause a ripple effect beyond the measure of richter scale and tsunami warnings will be issued to those without impact zones. They chased them down and subdued them by force. We are no longer welcome.
--
Explore the city for whatever language is left and use that countered sobriety for something good, strong and meaningful. Feeling too week to exist this isolation and return to a place where communication with another human being is an actual possibility. "You have to like to be alone." But there is no shame. Never living in pain. Rhyming sentences and not letting meaning pass through. Takes a minute to understand. Especially when so sedated. Bite the tongue and sit quietly resting with or without the shoulder pads necessary for resting. Lazily sleeping around. Become the anti hero of your own story and fill all of our hearts with eminent fear and joy tossled together. they are blended into a fine dust that we inhale whenever positive vibes fill the void beneath our breath. there are reasons behind such geometric symmetry. there are such occasions where the spirit of an individual is questioned and twisted to the very core. these are telling times to discover true nature. how can one deal with a broken heart? how can one deal with the thoughts of knowing all three most loved women in life are gathered in the very same place at the same time and when that warmth is so far away the slightest chill feels that much colder. there is a bite in the air. not of cupid's arrow. he is drunk and a poor shot with whiskey breath and a secret communication with the devil himself beneath the view of cute angel, bottle glass lines his cage. fermented fruit in varying decay lay around his crib or his grave site. either or. this is the time that we find ourselves. and all of us suddenly understand one and other on such a deep level. oh my god, I think constantly. How could I have been so cruel? ignored the ones that could have given me shelter that I looked for and all of the rebellious natures of cliques and friends and we all hated each other for reasons that are entirely fixable today. nothing can last forever. that kind of grudge-holding kills everyone involved swiftly and without mercy.. thirty years down the road.. all at once.
the air inside my lungs. my broken neck at the bottom of an infinite set of stairs. the stairway to heaven most lively. trying to type as fast as I possibly can and writing freely letting my fingers guide the train of though in my head due to the slight lapse in time between the two processes. words are falling and cascading but there is a bit of control involved unfortunately my critic is not shut off and words that come out are being told through subconscious process to sound a certain way and to make logical sense. but if I've lost you at this point then we can see clearly an accidental irony in the face of all golden gods, letting the wrods take hold in jazz rhythm. knowing damn well how a standard piece of written material should appear but considering it a jam session with words. everything from the language represented all at once.
sunrise in bedrooms of ex girlfriends
running through my mind tired of having holes in shoes
falling down onto knees until bleeding
picking up all of the raspberries we could carry into two buckets each, there was a breeze in the air and our long hair swayed in the breeze, we were children and still are, trapped somewhat in limbo, confused and wondering how it all happened in such a manner. I'm still the boy, the child, in the forest, wandering with friends and carving trails through a meadow and the trees laughed at us for our evident joy in their presence, we all basked into each others species, opening to the true heart of the earth, the soul of the world in grains of dirt, the shrubs and quietly whispering dead trees, cut one down once during a day, for some arguable reason, something live an avenged lover. we tried to cut one down for no reason and would up trying to expedite the process with fireworks in the wilderness. it was not wet. we were fire hazards and we gave no shits. shot bottle rockets at one and other and tossed mortar shells through the air at targets or at a silent salt water bay... lit the fuse and threw the damn thing at the last minute. now would I be more cautious? I could have blown a damn hand off and how could I be typing this as quickly as I am. only listening to second song since beginning of stanza. flying until my wings hurt though I don't care to land simply plummet into the ocean. splash.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
dec 24
eyes adjust to red lights and glow in the dark stars, watering darkly at the edge of consciousness, we are exhausted and happy to be living in such a frenzy, something fast and excessive, a binge of all sort, fill the memory banks and reminisce about each later if it at all pops up in the process of all my standard bullshit. words are flowing and continuing to crash into one another, festive and exuberant, using large words and understanding the legacy of good writers, though breaking the spell into a musical framework, something cosmic and the spark of a new inheritable trait, despite all side effects and synth backing tracks, all for visual entertainment purposes, could face the wineter cold alone and without an escort, the words spill like water over a clfifside and exhaustion takes full attention suddenlt. required to pass out in order to have a decent christmas
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Dec 19
Take on the role of the constantly dissenting opinion. Always looking at things through an outside perspective and distancing away from situation in order to maintain logic and integrity whilst skirting on abstract idealism for the ability to push boundaries. Wonders if it means anything anymore or if it simply an argument for no sake at all. For the belittling of the people and the best interests being expressed beyond conscious thinking, there can always be others making decisions for us, we can be rats if we wanted to, we could fall to pieces and smile broadly, we could become skinnier than models and call ourselves beautifully underfed, we can throw ideas around and try to satisfy everyone. conceptual art instead of abstract art. something to represent the music within. my clothes, old and tattered, represent something about my character perhaps but this is rarely a conscious effort, when it is it pushes absurdity in my mind, I feel like a clown that child run away from, an accidental terrifying influence and we are going somewhere so fast toward oblivion and beyond our recognition. Line everything up before it happens before the explosion that kills us or sends us out of the blast radius, something that either decimates into nothing, into dust and atoms, into particles and we try not to feel like we've disappointed ourselves the whole damn time. we never fell into those shattered categories. we broke all the rules and found out nothing new about ourselves aside from fragmented glimpses at our psyches. this is for introspection. a cohesive unit and a teeth grinding headache. I feel that crippling anxiety I though had dissipated into thin mist many ages ago. back before cell phones and hover boards. back before such ideas were ridiculous and I saw the cities in ruins before I ever stepped foot in them. I remembered the carnage before it happened in a time lapse. I felt the exhaustion of a day spent strangely. aloof on the couch and feelings of inadequacy pervading everything. negativity and anxiety. no smiling, the doctor ordered. couldn't keep the wind off our backs. couldn't sell ourselves short. glorify and testify. the words are important, ultimately. but the meaning is elusive. open to interpretation. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I will live freely. I will exchange frequencies with televisions and communicate with satellites. I will be flying through the air when the world dies.
Monday, December 17, 2012
dec 17
I went with intention to find a place I could spill out my soul. I could writhe in emotional agony and have the company of others to add all of their unspoken melancholy. We could make eye contact and hundreds of lost memories would suddenly explode into full clarity. I could be open. I could think about beautiful women I've neglected on accident. Paths cross once to never cross again. I could think about how I cling to many memories of the past rather than make new ones. The sharing of dreams in a non-intimate setting. Sounds off like a grocery list. I want to see the world from space. I want to travel vast distances in a hot-air balloon. Ride an inner tube down the Mississippi. Across the lazy Columbia. Down filthy Thames. I want to drink straight from the Nile. Instant sickness.
I thought I was clear enough. Move too quickly and get dizzy. Naturally I wound up back where I started. Interrupt my thoughts with a cute song and a soul-crushing realization. A listless, wandering soul. We are alone in this. You have your life, I have mine. I can't have yours and you can't have mine. We can't have each others.
Everything I love will be in the same place at the same time and I will be in the airport nearby. A rogue wave down the willamette to wash it all away in a flash. Hopefully I feel something then. But now I'm just sick and troubled. Concerning myself with trivial matters. These things will change. What I was two years ago. The strange and horrifying passage of time. It makes no damn sense at all. What did I do with all of my time? Did I do okay?
I dreamed I was a senior in high school again. The highlight of a life many times. The dreams to look back on. To learn from. To forget. But I did not take full advantage. I couldn't. So much time gone. How did this happen??
---------
*I don't understand how you made that connection?*
Well the thing is... each of us have our own individual maps of the world, in a sense. our brains are vast neural networks with erupting stimuli abound. Each new stimulus will bring up, from the depths of the hypothalamus, old stimuli that the brain decides is relevant (beyond our conscious power). This is what means to recall a memory. It is through a huge network of connections. We all have these and they are all different from one another. It is impossible for the same sequence of events in a lifetime to leave the exact same imprint in two individuals. The odds are against unknown clones. Say I mention a flower, a red rose specifically. Your minds eye has an image of a rose in it. How this came up and what all it reminded you of is not the same for me, or anyone. It fluctuates. It is not static. I could ask you to conjure up an image of a rose in a year and it will be different. (for me.. I think of pedals falling slow motion into a calm body of water... then a flash of my mothers garden before the bushes outgrew the fence savagely... thorny beautiful bitches of a flower.... and more... freewrite on this if you would like to at one point or another...)
This network of connections is called the schema. It is a mental framework where stimuli (the five senses) are kept in an intricately woven maze. We do not have sophisticated enough technology to analyze this data aside from isolating areas of the brain where activity is present given the stimuli of a rose. Different areas would light up given the image of a rose versus the scent of one due to the power of scent for more permanent installations in this network to draw from.
If we all shared the same connections, we would be machines.
and blah blah blah
I thought I was clear enough. Move too quickly and get dizzy. Naturally I wound up back where I started. Interrupt my thoughts with a cute song and a soul-crushing realization. A listless, wandering soul. We are alone in this. You have your life, I have mine. I can't have yours and you can't have mine. We can't have each others.
Everything I love will be in the same place at the same time and I will be in the airport nearby. A rogue wave down the willamette to wash it all away in a flash. Hopefully I feel something then. But now I'm just sick and troubled. Concerning myself with trivial matters. These things will change. What I was two years ago. The strange and horrifying passage of time. It makes no damn sense at all. What did I do with all of my time? Did I do okay?
I dreamed I was a senior in high school again. The highlight of a life many times. The dreams to look back on. To learn from. To forget. But I did not take full advantage. I couldn't. So much time gone. How did this happen??
---------
*I don't understand how you made that connection?*
Well the thing is... each of us have our own individual maps of the world, in a sense. our brains are vast neural networks with erupting stimuli abound. Each new stimulus will bring up, from the depths of the hypothalamus, old stimuli that the brain decides is relevant (beyond our conscious power). This is what means to recall a memory. It is through a huge network of connections. We all have these and they are all different from one another. It is impossible for the same sequence of events in a lifetime to leave the exact same imprint in two individuals. The odds are against unknown clones. Say I mention a flower, a red rose specifically. Your minds eye has an image of a rose in it. How this came up and what all it reminded you of is not the same for me, or anyone. It fluctuates. It is not static. I could ask you to conjure up an image of a rose in a year and it will be different. (for me.. I think of pedals falling slow motion into a calm body of water... then a flash of my mothers garden before the bushes outgrew the fence savagely... thorny beautiful bitches of a flower.... and more... freewrite on this if you would like to at one point or another...)
This network of connections is called the schema. It is a mental framework where stimuli (the five senses) are kept in an intricately woven maze. We do not have sophisticated enough technology to analyze this data aside from isolating areas of the brain where activity is present given the stimuli of a rose. Different areas would light up given the image of a rose versus the scent of one due to the power of scent for more permanent installations in this network to draw from.
If we all shared the same connections, we would be machines.
and blah blah blah
Friday, December 14, 2012
dec 14
there are simply no words to say. there was no logical motive in the act therefore we cannot surmise any artificial motive for the rest of it. it is nonsense and all that will follow are gun law arguments with two sides of surreptitious opinions because they are afraid of alienating themselves by putting their feet down and landing on a concrete belief. they would rather be wishy-washy and skirt around the truth they hold in their hearts to write about later. they would rather lie than expose themselves and such is the way of life. and this is probably why horrific bullshit like a school shooting happens in the first place...
----
morale low. sickness hits and headaches are pounding like the doors of opportunity slamming shut never to be opened again. millions of them. its true at this point I'll probably never be a famous astronaut. I'll probably never be a major league pitcher. sound engineering is closer to the truth though the language they speak exhausts me quickly. the technical terms for things and all I understand is that signal flow has something huge to do with it all. why the microphone works best for what. why music sounds like it does. beautiful moments capture in elegant precision. no one has ever felt any better about themselves.
dirty girl. in the bed frame of mind. the lack of social connections and the alcohol to kill creativity. the heat coming from the floor. the hardwood feeling something like ice beneath the feet. the ideas of transportation through space and time. the feeling of spreading seed across the country to see which climate life grows best. stay in the west and south west and fail to see the in between. I wish to spend a year in every single state in the next 50 years. if this is possible tell me where to start. if this is impossible, let me dream. god, let me dream you up. let me conjure you despite logical fallacies and all of the learning I've had. "I've got to drive to Pasadena to see ya" that wouldn't be horrible, let me meet up with you and we can exchange philosophies in person and personal. intertwined in sheets and feeling like forensic scientists for the minds of each other. great minds should always fuck each other. as I've said. and let us wrestle and grapple and feel the energy passing through our systems until guaranteed that nothing else but truth is left. there might be tears of joy or sadness but we are expressing ourselves until pitch blackness evolves and revolves around and around.
---
the words are garbage. I'm garbage. is this poetic? or is this shit. I've said out loud much better things today. but they are gone.
----
come home to find cockroach on its back
watch it struggle and feel cross breed empathy
before squashing it
how did you get on your back, little fellow?
when the bomb drops
I'll be gone
and my material possessions
will be yours to live inside
so don't worry
you will survive
always
in damp apartments
when the rain comes
here is shelter
though I do not wish
to find you
among my things
breeding in my shirts
or something worse
though I know we share this earth
I know also that you will outlive me
once we end in calamity
so forgive me
you can proliferate your species elsewhere
---
hey mister
do you drink all of that beer yourself?
hey mister
do you want some help?
me and my friend, I mean
we're underage and all
but I'm sure you started at our age
if not younger
help us out buddy
you don't even need all of that yourself
not possible
we can help you
if you only let us
give us a case
I'll give you 20 bucks
my friend will roll you a joint
just go back in
buy a blunt wrap
and a case of better tasting beer
for yourself
and he will oblige
take a few moments to roll
one rack will disappear into our backpacks
then so will we
we don't have our licenses
you don't have to worry about us driving
we're just trying to get some girls drunk
so we can get laid
again and again
take advantage of them
you know how it is
hey mister
let us haunt you for the rest of your life
let us ruin dreams
we'll be on the cover page
having killed our peers and each other
drunk and underage
in a drunken rampage
at this moment
reading the article
you will light the joint
and reminisce about your old times
joyfully
oh my, how the times have changed old man
you're mid twenties
old man
take a look at your life
we were just kids
but we still are!
just trapped
deep inside
mounting tragedy
of reality
don't wake us up!
----
morale low. sickness hits and headaches are pounding like the doors of opportunity slamming shut never to be opened again. millions of them. its true at this point I'll probably never be a famous astronaut. I'll probably never be a major league pitcher. sound engineering is closer to the truth though the language they speak exhausts me quickly. the technical terms for things and all I understand is that signal flow has something huge to do with it all. why the microphone works best for what. why music sounds like it does. beautiful moments capture in elegant precision. no one has ever felt any better about themselves.
dirty girl. in the bed frame of mind. the lack of social connections and the alcohol to kill creativity. the heat coming from the floor. the hardwood feeling something like ice beneath the feet. the ideas of transportation through space and time. the feeling of spreading seed across the country to see which climate life grows best. stay in the west and south west and fail to see the in between. I wish to spend a year in every single state in the next 50 years. if this is possible tell me where to start. if this is impossible, let me dream. god, let me dream you up. let me conjure you despite logical fallacies and all of the learning I've had. "I've got to drive to Pasadena to see ya" that wouldn't be horrible, let me meet up with you and we can exchange philosophies in person and personal. intertwined in sheets and feeling like forensic scientists for the minds of each other. great minds should always fuck each other. as I've said. and let us wrestle and grapple and feel the energy passing through our systems until guaranteed that nothing else but truth is left. there might be tears of joy or sadness but we are expressing ourselves until pitch blackness evolves and revolves around and around.
---
the words are garbage. I'm garbage. is this poetic? or is this shit. I've said out loud much better things today. but they are gone.
----
come home to find cockroach on its back
watch it struggle and feel cross breed empathy
before squashing it
how did you get on your back, little fellow?
when the bomb drops
I'll be gone
and my material possessions
will be yours to live inside
so don't worry
you will survive
always
in damp apartments
when the rain comes
here is shelter
though I do not wish
to find you
among my things
breeding in my shirts
or something worse
though I know we share this earth
I know also that you will outlive me
once we end in calamity
so forgive me
you can proliferate your species elsewhere
---
hey mister
do you drink all of that beer yourself?
hey mister
do you want some help?
me and my friend, I mean
we're underage and all
but I'm sure you started at our age
if not younger
help us out buddy
you don't even need all of that yourself
not possible
we can help you
if you only let us
give us a case
I'll give you 20 bucks
my friend will roll you a joint
just go back in
buy a blunt wrap
and a case of better tasting beer
for yourself
and he will oblige
take a few moments to roll
one rack will disappear into our backpacks
then so will we
we don't have our licenses
you don't have to worry about us driving
we're just trying to get some girls drunk
so we can get laid
again and again
take advantage of them
you know how it is
hey mister
let us haunt you for the rest of your life
let us ruin dreams
we'll be on the cover page
having killed our peers and each other
drunk and underage
in a drunken rampage
at this moment
reading the article
you will light the joint
and reminisce about your old times
joyfully
oh my, how the times have changed old man
you're mid twenties
old man
take a look at your life
we were just kids
but we still are!
just trapped
deep inside
mounting tragedy
of reality
don't wake us up!
Thursday, December 13, 2012
dec 13
feel the passage of time wash over me like a hurricane all in one second. sudden recollection of time spent and the amazement of childhood. never forget the bigger ideas about smaller things, so ignorant in every aspect and never walking through town. waiting at the bus stop, kicking rocks and waiting for the incredible ride back to the basics. some hill top home in the trees. no worries for complaints by neighbors, my god. no nervousness whatsoever. easy to hide somewhere when necessary. all over the property, shining of achievement. glorious for the moments spent. it becomes a magic trick and the topic is never discussed again later...
time as a 13 year old. 11 year old. teeth falling out. I wiggle them to just get it over with. gone are my wisdom teeth. experienced braces for the first two years of high school. something grand for timing. wore a strange jacket to school. something from the seventies. for no reason whatsoever. it is about the movement of the hands. it is about framing pictures intelligently between scenes. rats all clamoring for attention at the same intervals. but I love it and I miss it. the playground. the giant tires and the swingsets. many played basketball and others wall ball. dodgeball in the gymnasium. football players on steroids verses many of the rest of us. borderline athleticism though it was never a full commitment. never specific enough for lasting effect aside from level of health. we walked past each other through the halls. i stole a chair from the science classroom. we made pyramid in the hallway. no one had a smart phone yet. things were more simple. beautiful and innocent. dumped party garbage in the forest though forgot to check the back yard for beer cans or bottle caps. they were littered everywhere. angry and vengeful parents call up laughing. that damn son of ours, messing up our waterfront property and being dangerous with his friends. all controlling. and fuck.
I remember rides in the M5. I can recall tree forts.
time as a 13 year old. 11 year old. teeth falling out. I wiggle them to just get it over with. gone are my wisdom teeth. experienced braces for the first two years of high school. something grand for timing. wore a strange jacket to school. something from the seventies. for no reason whatsoever. it is about the movement of the hands. it is about framing pictures intelligently between scenes. rats all clamoring for attention at the same intervals. but I love it and I miss it. the playground. the giant tires and the swingsets. many played basketball and others wall ball. dodgeball in the gymnasium. football players on steroids verses many of the rest of us. borderline athleticism though it was never a full commitment. never specific enough for lasting effect aside from level of health. we walked past each other through the halls. i stole a chair from the science classroom. we made pyramid in the hallway. no one had a smart phone yet. things were more simple. beautiful and innocent. dumped party garbage in the forest though forgot to check the back yard for beer cans or bottle caps. they were littered everywhere. angry and vengeful parents call up laughing. that damn son of ours, messing up our waterfront property and being dangerous with his friends. all controlling. and fuck.
I remember rides in the M5. I can recall tree forts.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
dec 12
last night, I met up with an old friend, insomnia. sometimes she is an evil bitch. other times she guides my hands through creative endeavors, writing or painting or some shit, early into the sunrise hours of morning. other nights like chinese water torture. like last night. everything I cannot change swarms through my head. she pushes hope out of my brain and fills in the gaps with mournful regret. with lost love. with what could have been. she was a child with a magnifying glass. I am an ant. I tossed and turned under her watchful eye and her bad energy haunted my every thought my every dream inspired by desperate longings and impossible situations. I imagine all of the hours spent staring at ceilings on top of tough mattresses and send shivers down my own spine. It is cold. The covers are not yet helping.
2:20 am
I've developed an addiction that is powerful like nicotine after a second time quitting, then the seventh, though it is unrelated to chemicals. We are at warfare. Senses alert for opportunities to satisfy craving. The fear of nervousness. Without the pack. Without the patch. Driving along the coastline with windows rolled down. Sunglasses are on and everything feels perfect and incredible. Sudden realization that this life is real. Always reminded of the best moments. Spectacular powers of observation. Placing hands on shoulders with a grand memorization. Mesmerize the minds and feel blank walls placed strangely around the room. The blank faces and the empty stages. This is something tangible and outside of any duress. No stress no setbacks. A pack a day to abide by it. The rule. The notebook and paper. The ideas for stories. The execution of rants. Some based on ideas. Reminders and hints at past occurrences. Like the Ferry to Seattle for a music festival we attended in the rain after a party at a cabin out in the woods. Along the lines of the ability to execute a grand idea. It is not about the accumulation of ideas. It is to put them in effect. To translate into new social laws. To change the course of history. The current of the raging river. Heading elsewhere. Away from all right ways and ancient understanding. To be future minded yet wary of the past. Never forget what defines you. You have so many stories. Bursting. Addicted to printing words. For speaking in ritual to an audience of one though directed towards different entities most times. Nausea drags the creative self out and back into a slumber. Nice to know you and to appease you.
2:20 am
I've developed an addiction that is powerful like nicotine after a second time quitting, then the seventh, though it is unrelated to chemicals. We are at warfare. Senses alert for opportunities to satisfy craving. The fear of nervousness. Without the pack. Without the patch. Driving along the coastline with windows rolled down. Sunglasses are on and everything feels perfect and incredible. Sudden realization that this life is real. Always reminded of the best moments. Spectacular powers of observation. Placing hands on shoulders with a grand memorization. Mesmerize the minds and feel blank walls placed strangely around the room. The blank faces and the empty stages. This is something tangible and outside of any duress. No stress no setbacks. A pack a day to abide by it. The rule. The notebook and paper. The ideas for stories. The execution of rants. Some based on ideas. Reminders and hints at past occurrences. Like the Ferry to Seattle for a music festival we attended in the rain after a party at a cabin out in the woods. Along the lines of the ability to execute a grand idea. It is not about the accumulation of ideas. It is to put them in effect. To translate into new social laws. To change the course of history. The current of the raging river. Heading elsewhere. Away from all right ways and ancient understanding. To be future minded yet wary of the past. Never forget what defines you. You have so many stories. Bursting. Addicted to printing words. For speaking in ritual to an audience of one though directed towards different entities most times. Nausea drags the creative self out and back into a slumber. Nice to know you and to appease you.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
dec 11
horrifying negative energy. get me the hell out of here. there are topics to graze over that make us stupid and simple minded like the wounded animals we are. only intention for survival but via the best and the most extravagant means. helicopters and burning fuel and everything. my brain can't tolerate waste. it can't. it doesn't allow me to enjoy things sometimes due to this. I think about ocean creatures I may inadvertently be killing by neglecting to recycle. I think about the plastic bags in landfills multiplying.. and wonder if it is even humanly possible for me to live well without impacting the earth itself in a negative manner. I think about small change when I drink ten dollar beers at pubs. Every sip tastes like a quarter and may as well be one. The taste of blood in my mouth when I bite my tongue when I my body disagrees violently. Sometimes I shake and spasm. I just can't stand the broad sweeping sentiments. I can't use the word 'can't' anymore. It is gone. It must disappear. Be gone foul demon. You are worthless to me. Forever.
Keep everything light. Just under the surface. Make independent films from scratch tracks then revise twice then tear it apart and start from the drawing board. Polish off a handle of sailor jerry's to reminisce freshman year of college and every year of high school. Remember drinking in parking lots with the windows down, blasting the best tunes. These permanent fools. Forever suspended in oblivion. I'm entirely included. Killing the planet by living on it. It is the system itself. Everything is set up with materialistic gain in mind therefore it is a culture to crush on the skulls of the weaker. Constantly. To rise or die. To love peacefully and to live on forever.
we all beating hearts. we shouldn't forget that we are all breathing the same polluted air. we are using the same words. the same transportation. we forget we're all connecting and no one ends up giving a shit in the end. it's do or die. so just die.
psychologically analyze the results. the vacations. the sun as a necessity. the cold front coming in and the layers come on. it makes you appreciate the sun so much more. it makes everything better. and worse. the cold. the weather. the people. the permanent places in my heart. sink into me. make you appreciate everything more. because otherwise it all dies. it all dies anyway. find a place to make yourself worthwhile and involved in the world.
do not die purposelessly.
you are so much better than that.
Keep everything light. Just under the surface. Make independent films from scratch tracks then revise twice then tear it apart and start from the drawing board. Polish off a handle of sailor jerry's to reminisce freshman year of college and every year of high school. Remember drinking in parking lots with the windows down, blasting the best tunes. These permanent fools. Forever suspended in oblivion. I'm entirely included. Killing the planet by living on it. It is the system itself. Everything is set up with materialistic gain in mind therefore it is a culture to crush on the skulls of the weaker. Constantly. To rise or die. To love peacefully and to live on forever.
we all beating hearts. we shouldn't forget that we are all breathing the same polluted air. we are using the same words. the same transportation. we forget we're all connecting and no one ends up giving a shit in the end. it's do or die. so just die.
psychologically analyze the results. the vacations. the sun as a necessity. the cold front coming in and the layers come on. it makes you appreciate the sun so much more. it makes everything better. and worse. the cold. the weather. the people. the permanent places in my heart. sink into me. make you appreciate everything more. because otherwise it all dies. it all dies anyway. find a place to make yourself worthwhile and involved in the world.
do not die purposelessly.
you are so much better than that.
Monday, December 10, 2012
dec 10
forgetting birthdays like license plates numbers as they speed under the walking bridge, the freeway, headed anywhere, I imagine them just taking the closest exits and going in the smallest loop possible. It would take a long time for me to recognize the pattern of the same couple thousand cars. Maybe never.
----
----
Sunday, December 9, 2012
dec 9
the initial momentum was like a clock ticking though once it built up it became rapid and pounding. her eyes were blue and her hair smelled blonde in the outcome. the outgoing vibes were one of friendly comrades... the skin smelled used... the eyes appeared to be lying despite the words coming out of the mouth and we were instinctive in our behavior at that point despite all of the wonderful cues. the big words thrown in now and then but used over and over like a drummer and a drum fill. just to fill in space between parts. something so important and crazy. something lunatic and warranted. something effervescent and in control, somehow, simultaneous.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
dec 8
the joy of walking through a pretty neighborhood in the morning
there is a bite in the air
it vitalizes
we share a common lung
road kill
all garages become storage units
we have too much shit
cars have to park outside and endure the weather
some die of exposure
others step over the roasted skeletons
and thrive (drive)
abstraction. parking spots I'll never find myself.
stairways walking up to unknown patios
invisible palisades
in the morning
fallen leaves underfoot
death is so fragile
every time I lay down I feel like I'm in a coffin
lowered underground six feet
uprooted flowers on top of me
spare me the sincerities
I'd wish them all to be screaming
because I miss them not because they miss me
but I can never assure them fully
that I'm listening
vibrant movements on the walk
dancing steps and following trails
made by others
love fed by lovers
eaten hungrily by wolves
night-sick and burrowing into shelves on clay
the solid and hollow earth
the burning center is a myth
we are the burning center
----
write joyously about a morning sidewalk but titled it something grotesque and negative
'dying slowly and painfully'
though about a nice and joyful experience through the trees.
then do the opposite
meaning 'pretty morning walks'
though the content, a poem probably, would be about dead animals in the streets and neglected love and worse.
----
trees grow through power lines and vice versa
reaching upward to illuminate television screens
I mean everything so dearly
I hold them so close to my heart
though they would never know
anything other
----
had been full of such inspiration and a great amount of it became lost in translation
---
feeling like an astronaut without a space suit. flailing helplessly through a vacuum burning alive and freezing to death simultaneously depending on which part of you faces the sun at the moment of evacuation. when your life flashes before your eyes will it leave you blind? that would be nice. otherwise it's just a huge veil of images with no connections, no meaning, no stanzas in this poetry. your meter is a fucking mess. though it's fine. I'd rather you slur your words than hold your tongue. There is so much expression to share with all of the rest of mankind. That is your purpose. I guess. I guess I believe in concrete written word to propagate my legacy. No matter how small. the act of writing is simultaneously the act of remembering, forgetting, and also communication. in the most basic sense, communication. maybe also a form of time travel, as I've said before years ago... it's written down somewhere. I believed that writing is a form of this kind of time/space teleportation because the present me writing this material is the past me from your perspective. I'm writing to you from your past. Which is my present. Which becomes my future. Then I can look back, like turning around suddenly when you feel like someone is following. I will ask myself, "Are these words still mine? Or do they now belong to someone else?' and I'll have no answer. Past me has no answer. Present me has no answer. Perhaps future me... There is the disconnection. I experience a strange kind of deja vu mentioning the thoughts of the past. I feel the moment I wrote them, in a sense, departed from the alcoholic delirium between the years. the movement and forward progress (in most things) though some things stay the same. the better parts improve I hope. present me? I am sitting in a white dress shirt licking nature valley bar fragments from my teeth sipping on rum and coke. The couch is comfortable though I sit on edge like that euphemism for a captivating movie. This is not a film it is a life with only fragments of video footage. Every has the capacity to save everything these days. Our lives become social experiments. And soon I will exit and walk down to the bar, thinking about life with all my heart.
there is a bite in the air
it vitalizes
we share a common lung
road kill
all garages become storage units
we have too much shit
cars have to park outside and endure the weather
some die of exposure
others step over the roasted skeletons
and thrive (drive)
abstraction. parking spots I'll never find myself.
stairways walking up to unknown patios
invisible palisades
in the morning
fallen leaves underfoot
death is so fragile
every time I lay down I feel like I'm in a coffin
lowered underground six feet
uprooted flowers on top of me
spare me the sincerities
I'd wish them all to be screaming
because I miss them not because they miss me
but I can never assure them fully
that I'm listening
vibrant movements on the walk
dancing steps and following trails
made by others
love fed by lovers
eaten hungrily by wolves
night-sick and burrowing into shelves on clay
the solid and hollow earth
the burning center is a myth
we are the burning center
----
write joyously about a morning sidewalk but titled it something grotesque and negative
'dying slowly and painfully'
though about a nice and joyful experience through the trees.
then do the opposite
meaning 'pretty morning walks'
though the content, a poem probably, would be about dead animals in the streets and neglected love and worse.
----
trees grow through power lines and vice versa
reaching upward to illuminate television screens
I mean everything so dearly
I hold them so close to my heart
though they would never know
anything other
----
had been full of such inspiration and a great amount of it became lost in translation
---
feeling like an astronaut without a space suit. flailing helplessly through a vacuum burning alive and freezing to death simultaneously depending on which part of you faces the sun at the moment of evacuation. when your life flashes before your eyes will it leave you blind? that would be nice. otherwise it's just a huge veil of images with no connections, no meaning, no stanzas in this poetry. your meter is a fucking mess. though it's fine. I'd rather you slur your words than hold your tongue. There is so much expression to share with all of the rest of mankind. That is your purpose. I guess. I guess I believe in concrete written word to propagate my legacy. No matter how small. the act of writing is simultaneously the act of remembering, forgetting, and also communication. in the most basic sense, communication. maybe also a form of time travel, as I've said before years ago... it's written down somewhere. I believed that writing is a form of this kind of time/space teleportation because the present me writing this material is the past me from your perspective. I'm writing to you from your past. Which is my present. Which becomes my future. Then I can look back, like turning around suddenly when you feel like someone is following. I will ask myself, "Are these words still mine? Or do they now belong to someone else?' and I'll have no answer. Past me has no answer. Present me has no answer. Perhaps future me... There is the disconnection. I experience a strange kind of deja vu mentioning the thoughts of the past. I feel the moment I wrote them, in a sense, departed from the alcoholic delirium between the years. the movement and forward progress (in most things) though some things stay the same. the better parts improve I hope. present me? I am sitting in a white dress shirt licking nature valley bar fragments from my teeth sipping on rum and coke. The couch is comfortable though I sit on edge like that euphemism for a captivating movie. This is not a film it is a life with only fragments of video footage. Every has the capacity to save everything these days. Our lives become social experiments. And soon I will exit and walk down to the bar, thinking about life with all my heart.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Dec 7
write a concept album about details of the daily experience. score a symphony and title it 'Rome' . frozen mind just simply listening and realizing an overall lack of energy. the kind that furious rotation can resolve. we'll get there one day.
all the stories. your masterpiece will be entitled 'missed connections' and will be the legacy you leave behind. we will infinity find ourselves in conversation. we will be present and confident in a sense rarely expected. esoteric yet sophisticated. warm though with clear concern and clear design.
'subtract me from your heart'
some familiar expression of longing.
it resounds through every valley and reverberates every cave
all progressive motion
toward a world
of
idyllic
mutations
of truth
but then entering quickly back from abstraction. we digress. let everyone know what makes you tick. there is a determination centered. And a time commitment to some technical success in coordination away from....
listen to yeasayer.
-----
10 pm
let your self be crushed by dissonant waves. in keeping the status quo you kill, through subtle increments, your adventurous spirit. the one that remains beyond anything else. even if it all crumbles and dies in a gasp.
what the hell am I talking about?
-----
sleep and louis-ferdinand celine
all the stories. your masterpiece will be entitled 'missed connections' and will be the legacy you leave behind. we will infinity find ourselves in conversation. we will be present and confident in a sense rarely expected. esoteric yet sophisticated. warm though with clear concern and clear design.
'subtract me from your heart'
some familiar expression of longing.
it resounds through every valley and reverberates every cave
all progressive motion
toward a world
of
idyllic
mutations
of truth
but then entering quickly back from abstraction. we digress. let everyone know what makes you tick. there is a determination centered. And a time commitment to some technical success in coordination away from....
listen to yeasayer.
-----
10 pm
let your self be crushed by dissonant waves. in keeping the status quo you kill, through subtle increments, your adventurous spirit. the one that remains beyond anything else. even if it all crumbles and dies in a gasp.
what the hell am I talking about?
-----
sleep and louis-ferdinand celine
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
dec 5
trip over the necessary words. use cheat sheets. lapse of time. time lapse. looking back on hours spent though they are multiplied hundredfold. simply no time to create in this sense. filling the hours with engineering work and bass parts and more. calling out the click and falling out of line. keep from us and our canceled motivation. we get along just fine. just alright. everything goes as planned and they'll never expect a thing. the new technology. in the face of awful contraptions that compartmentalize us and make us less human. though they are convenient but it is a game changer. no one reads everyone is self conscious on social media and everyone is proud of their monetary conquests. live the dreams. fall to pieces.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
dec 2nd
I contemplate the devolving sophistication of our culture... for my
own sake... for the sanity of the mind of a writer... The more content
the better from a marketing stand point. (Look at Stephen King or
Grisham or Patterson... they never stop writing). Often a higher
quantity of 'product' reduces quality all around. This is a double-edged
sword. Our culture is a hyper attention-deficit, over-medicated,
over-populated conglomeration. We all play follow the leader though at
the rate at which we are following currently, this can only be a
downward spiral.
I contemplate the idea of quantity over quality. Sometimes I think I'd rather create one masterpiece and enter directly into the reams of history after I die than create endless amounts of shit to become a celebrated puppet in our contemporary culture. On the fronts of celebrity news magazines or some such drivel.
Huge masses of trivial information bog down potentially enlightening information. So yes. Quantity is good for a marketing standpoint because most marketing geniuses are the ones smart enough to exploit the stupidity of the masses. Stupidity meaning the attention deficit over-saturation sort of thing. We can't expect them to listen unless we repeat ourselves 500 times a day. Does it bother you to be a gimmick? Wouldn't it be nice to be celebrated as the anarchist you are in your heart? To be lauded. Loved.
I'm just afraid that no one will ever expect quality out of the products they seek. Everything might turn to shit.
----
Staring at the sterling 5 string slowly spinning on a page that can be purchased directly. Drool over it for a moment and never forget and then contemplate the idea of a 5 string bass with low B which would be a flat in my tuning. It would be a good idea, maybe, to disguise freshly sour milk with instant breakfast before ingestion. To trick the body and the bank account proper. Would work fine. Witnessed low rider and smoke out. The bathroom flooded and no videos went up. Something personal and alone. A problem? The way with words. All lines rehearsed. Very illuminating. Broken etiquette. Not true you would never know when to yell. Yell always. Be heard and make an impact. Be loud and respected simultaneous. Yell to yourself. Find words where necessary and take sleeping pills that make consciousness waver like drunken sailors fresh to port, feeling the earth beneath them sway like the great ocean. Like sewer rabbits darting fearfully back beneath the gutters. A whole inner city jungle down those pipes. Creatures convalescing and growing out of morbid curiosity. The motivation for life? Morbid curiosity? This body is a prison or a temple or a passageway. Depending on how your brain developed. When did the authority figure in your life chisel the ideas into your head that you hold as your own. Until reaching the age of reason, though many never do, young death or sheer stupidity, or fearful conformity, or worse... Then you question with full intelligent capacity. Seeking out that small high. Percentage of users over do it. And all lights go out at once with the final breath of Chicago. City streets, cars splashing through puddles, rain and drizzling opinions, opening eyes in the rain as the sky tears across into a giant ravine, the sky an open wound. crying tears of greek gods who exist though no one believes in them anymore. their temples are now tourist traps. hordes of camera-wielding vacationers, trampling the sacred solid and capturing the soul of a place, the life essence with a retractable lens. they wear pastel colors and sun hats. dark sunglasses and foreign languages. american english? this is not the language of the gods and it is often clunky when compared to a sophisticated ancient language. there is beauty to be found rather than mere communication. but we've reduced the societal language to awful grammar and spelling correctly to be a form of autistic savant syndrome. we have forgotten how important it was to keep intelligence at high esteem. to support each other as human beings in this rat race of existence. holding hands and skipping toward a brighter future. but no. we will accidentally step on others without ever having a negative intention toward another in the world. there are unforeseen consequences to every action good or bad. planting random flowers. maybe they grow thick roots and kill the garden. all the while blossoming into something beautiful. lay me to rest in that garden grove. let me sleep in the forest among the damp leaves and menacing by night trees, tall and majestic as fuck. let the contemporary cultural linguistics slip into my speech. euphemism. we are a reflection of it and vice versa. do I feel represented properly?
I contemplate the idea of quantity over quality. Sometimes I think I'd rather create one masterpiece and enter directly into the reams of history after I die than create endless amounts of shit to become a celebrated puppet in our contemporary culture. On the fronts of celebrity news magazines or some such drivel.
Huge masses of trivial information bog down potentially enlightening information. So yes. Quantity is good for a marketing standpoint because most marketing geniuses are the ones smart enough to exploit the stupidity of the masses. Stupidity meaning the attention deficit over-saturation sort of thing. We can't expect them to listen unless we repeat ourselves 500 times a day. Does it bother you to be a gimmick? Wouldn't it be nice to be celebrated as the anarchist you are in your heart? To be lauded. Loved.
I'm just afraid that no one will ever expect quality out of the products they seek. Everything might turn to shit.
----
Staring at the sterling 5 string slowly spinning on a page that can be purchased directly. Drool over it for a moment and never forget and then contemplate the idea of a 5 string bass with low B which would be a flat in my tuning. It would be a good idea, maybe, to disguise freshly sour milk with instant breakfast before ingestion. To trick the body and the bank account proper. Would work fine. Witnessed low rider and smoke out. The bathroom flooded and no videos went up. Something personal and alone. A problem? The way with words. All lines rehearsed. Very illuminating. Broken etiquette. Not true you would never know when to yell. Yell always. Be heard and make an impact. Be loud and respected simultaneous. Yell to yourself. Find words where necessary and take sleeping pills that make consciousness waver like drunken sailors fresh to port, feeling the earth beneath them sway like the great ocean. Like sewer rabbits darting fearfully back beneath the gutters. A whole inner city jungle down those pipes. Creatures convalescing and growing out of morbid curiosity. The motivation for life? Morbid curiosity? This body is a prison or a temple or a passageway. Depending on how your brain developed. When did the authority figure in your life chisel the ideas into your head that you hold as your own. Until reaching the age of reason, though many never do, young death or sheer stupidity, or fearful conformity, or worse... Then you question with full intelligent capacity. Seeking out that small high. Percentage of users over do it. And all lights go out at once with the final breath of Chicago. City streets, cars splashing through puddles, rain and drizzling opinions, opening eyes in the rain as the sky tears across into a giant ravine, the sky an open wound. crying tears of greek gods who exist though no one believes in them anymore. their temples are now tourist traps. hordes of camera-wielding vacationers, trampling the sacred solid and capturing the soul of a place, the life essence with a retractable lens. they wear pastel colors and sun hats. dark sunglasses and foreign languages. american english? this is not the language of the gods and it is often clunky when compared to a sophisticated ancient language. there is beauty to be found rather than mere communication. but we've reduced the societal language to awful grammar and spelling correctly to be a form of autistic savant syndrome. we have forgotten how important it was to keep intelligence at high esteem. to support each other as human beings in this rat race of existence. holding hands and skipping toward a brighter future. but no. we will accidentally step on others without ever having a negative intention toward another in the world. there are unforeseen consequences to every action good or bad. planting random flowers. maybe they grow thick roots and kill the garden. all the while blossoming into something beautiful. lay me to rest in that garden grove. let me sleep in the forest among the damp leaves and menacing by night trees, tall and majestic as fuck. let the contemporary cultural linguistics slip into my speech. euphemism. we are a reflection of it and vice versa. do I feel represented properly?
Saturday, December 1, 2012
dec 1
heart beat feeling the tantrums by the rich, waiting around to be a millionaire and stuck up, everyone, feeling the reserves of horrible beauty, the kind that ruins your face in the end, you can never rid of it, wait around to get drinks bought for you, a false atmosphere despite drinks and colored lights, there are hundreds of ways to fall apart though you choose the easiest. old neighbor falling apart into french language beverages and a secret code. they all are conspiring into something new and unforgettable. something transcending weed in small quantities and all inclusive. wondering about me. calling the shots. feeling stupid for such thoughts. I knew. I knew. I know now. Now I know. You will not understand. Life experience adds up. To something worthy of sharing. If not... shut your damn mouth . feel sick and stupid. discontinue thought now for those reasons. dying here. though based on food primarily.
---
1:00am
he stumbled back after a long hiatus. treading lightly in the lemon-lime light.
avoids concrete sentence structure. the story becomes hollow through distraction. the audience does not find themselves lost in a page-turning trance. paper cuts and sweating. swearing and fidgeting in endless ecstasy. they were lost in a way. a deserter knows what they are doing. the moment of doubt is the fatal moment where foundations crack. deep fissures begin to grow deep in your heart and your body goes slack due to malnourishment. so never doubt. aim high, set trajectory and catapult yourself above those cemetary walls. you are no longer a breathing corpse. heart pumping blood into thankful veins. it is an overlooked feature in this delicate machinery of the body. it is a history of mankind. the blueprints others left and the fantastic ways their lives were spent. ask for the accounts of their life. write their story. talk for them.
though somehow, neck craned to the sky, stars visible after nights of obscurity, analyzing shifted galaxies, the striding soldier still points toward Jupiter, star-bright with awe and wonder, it is a huge and beautiful world, I never understood how the sheltering changed me, the isolation in moments, largely accounted for by the position of the zodiac in the sky... wheels churning... though somehow I felt the fear breathe cold at my craned neck. it rushed nearly sounding like a set of footsteps echoing loud and fast approaching then suddenly ceasing at the point of lunacy. there is a set of eyes on me. a human creature capable of successful nights over the bridge. lose me. lose interest in me.
paranoid of growing pressure welling up inside and spilling out through nervous twitches. some are subtle, others not so. constant itches to scratch. dodging eye contact and crucial points in modern human communication. at the very basic level missing the non verbal cues always, in awkward and choppy phrases, telling future tales of glowing shrines, there are no morals and the sense, once lost, never returns. We become doomed for a lost cause.
the rhythm and meter are there surely. cadence is strong and momentum continuing though the sense of it is lost in playful deviations of original phrase. mind on fire. I begin with a singular idea and then multiply with thoughts as rapidly as they come. they could all be typed in an instant if I cam to practice perfect typing technique. and it saddens me to know that children will at one point in the future experience life without ever writing on a piece of paper. it will all be electronic and the crazy transition should be sci-fi generic, though without any sense of horror. the fear comes from the unknown... go off on tangents or cotangents. catatonic in the sinful morning hours of a sunday. take on a herculean effort to increase dexterity and strength in order to kill that demon. ever-approaching, hunched and snarling, baring its fangs with poisonous wishes, a very real and animal hunger in its black eyes... I will have to be over prepared to survive.
---
1:00am
he stumbled back after a long hiatus. treading lightly in the lemon-lime light.
avoids concrete sentence structure. the story becomes hollow through distraction. the audience does not find themselves lost in a page-turning trance. paper cuts and sweating. swearing and fidgeting in endless ecstasy. they were lost in a way. a deserter knows what they are doing. the moment of doubt is the fatal moment where foundations crack. deep fissures begin to grow deep in your heart and your body goes slack due to malnourishment. so never doubt. aim high, set trajectory and catapult yourself above those cemetary walls. you are no longer a breathing corpse. heart pumping blood into thankful veins. it is an overlooked feature in this delicate machinery of the body. it is a history of mankind. the blueprints others left and the fantastic ways their lives were spent. ask for the accounts of their life. write their story. talk for them.
though somehow, neck craned to the sky, stars visible after nights of obscurity, analyzing shifted galaxies, the striding soldier still points toward Jupiter, star-bright with awe and wonder, it is a huge and beautiful world, I never understood how the sheltering changed me, the isolation in moments, largely accounted for by the position of the zodiac in the sky... wheels churning... though somehow I felt the fear breathe cold at my craned neck. it rushed nearly sounding like a set of footsteps echoing loud and fast approaching then suddenly ceasing at the point of lunacy. there is a set of eyes on me. a human creature capable of successful nights over the bridge. lose me. lose interest in me.
paranoid of growing pressure welling up inside and spilling out through nervous twitches. some are subtle, others not so. constant itches to scratch. dodging eye contact and crucial points in modern human communication. at the very basic level missing the non verbal cues always, in awkward and choppy phrases, telling future tales of glowing shrines, there are no morals and the sense, once lost, never returns. We become doomed for a lost cause.
the rhythm and meter are there surely. cadence is strong and momentum continuing though the sense of it is lost in playful deviations of original phrase. mind on fire. I begin with a singular idea and then multiply with thoughts as rapidly as they come. they could all be typed in an instant if I cam to practice perfect typing technique. and it saddens me to know that children will at one point in the future experience life without ever writing on a piece of paper. it will all be electronic and the crazy transition should be sci-fi generic, though without any sense of horror. the fear comes from the unknown... go off on tangents or cotangents. catatonic in the sinful morning hours of a sunday. take on a herculean effort to increase dexterity and strength in order to kill that demon. ever-approaching, hunched and snarling, baring its fangs with poisonous wishes, a very real and animal hunger in its black eyes... I will have to be over prepared to survive.
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