dec 22

Mother's good graces are only sometimes important. I once brought hand made tomahawks to class. Duct taped true sharp swords. The security measures heightened and mother loosened then tightened her grip. The naval officers who become monsters enough to use cannons on any species they encounter, enemy humans, or friendly other species. Disgusting acceptance of horror. Playing with hearts like a stacked deck, full of reds, of face cards and jokers, I thought you've evolved but now with the credentials you can become anything, with 20% off and then a seat in the front of the stadium like other ingratiated peons. I realize myself. I heard my words all over today and realized I'm being a high and mighty asshole because I desire so strongly to communicate with myself in depth that I have difficulty with the repetitive triviality of everyone else. Even my family. I was thrown into this life without a decision on the matter. I can be like my ancestors and burn out with a faint spark or I can live a fluent and important life on the edges of definitions, lost and hunting for that elusive beast of future self. I could not make a kill. I've never been comfortable with killing anything. I love wood working and gluing together scraps of other projects to make something new and beautiful. Not just smoking pot in order to communicate. This weird new modern culture.

I could not consider myself better than television. I hate the commercials with higher decibels and the legitimate articles I've read that I find fascinating and that others can't follow entirely when I try to communicate them. The texting and the mindless references, holy shit. The needless negativity and the holiday preparations. The family disoriented and clearly confused by the games because of days of drinking or holy warfare inside of the mind. He drops bombs on civilians while contemplating the size and clarity of a television screen. My father bought a new tv on one Seahawks game day because the other one wasn't working. Now there is an enormous tv sitting in the garage, useless and vulgar with its expense and purpose. a christmas present from long ago. now gathering dust like everything else. and everyone else. playing with hearts. killing whales. hard to find anyone to communicate with sincerely. without some crazy obsession of theirs or a crazy anxiety of mine, about doing something, anything productive, some blessed, ingenious conversation that lightens everyone in the room into blossoming flowers and great growths of concord light like mountain ranges forming suddenly in between highly disputed property lines and then swallowing those who were disputing into the crevasses and tasteless blind jokes, materialism, capitalism and every other part of my own culture ruin and retracted, I reject so wholesomely, the lives of my parents, and I know they know this but still attempt to impose their ideals into me. I agree with many facets of their thought and both have inspired me to become a better person to others and to myself. I wish to attend to mountains like I'd attend to a newborn child, with delicate steps and soft breaths, and then the art, the creativity and the legacy left behind, I must recognize this with full clarity and concern, consternation, we are in this together because I am your spawn and you must deal with my insanity every now and then, but I should hide some of it from you if it turns you away from the "better" parts of my personality. I do not want to be who you want me to be. But I can pretend to be, through exclusion, the child you wish me to become because your friend's kids passed or failed at the same task...

then it fades.

insomnia rant. flagrant errors

No, sleep is not working. I am stirred awake by the massive presence of my mistakes; all of that drunk and neglected time spent wallowing in negative places, below the horizon line of my future. My eyes are open even when closed. Images burn on the insides of my eyelids like kaleidoscopes of missing friends and colors of conversations that could certainly have turned out better. At least less indifferent to each others existence next time. There will not be a next time. This is it. This is the only true moment and then it passes like everything else.

How can I sleep when I feel so sick and privileged. Breathing through a seemingly fine respiratory system as others gasp for air in between rushes of choked up blood. Surely there has got to be some purpose for this immense bothersome weight.

I feel the stars and the indifferent universe outside of my childhood bedroom window. I am horrified by my actions in their soft light. I'm horrified by all actions I've ever done, all those awkward advances and failed attempts at timing, and, indeed, am horrified even greater by all future fumbled actions. Letting great ideas slip through those yawning sidewalk cracks is a worse crime to the creative soul than to be a vegetable; sitting on the couch with beer gut and zero great ideas. Those awesome ideas will tumble around at your feet until they become an anchor to your past... your lost potential... and you cannot get unstuck from those heavy quicksand arms, my god, those beasts we fend off are making advancements, breaking down barricades and frothing through fangs, they are us and we are them, interchangeable aside from the angle of the fence, those European perspective claws and nonsensical ranting like ravens cawing over. Let this be the end of those anchor dreams! I will rise my body up through the floorboards with enough side projects to enlist a side kick and then an accountant to handle the empty stream of revenue and the self efficient hybrid old money/new money entrepenuerial sweepstakes... running rampant through black friday walmart parking lots with sociological note pads and daddy's bmw. there was never a discussion of finance that I've enjoyed even if the proposed dangling carrot was meant for my gaze and my bell tone timed salivating. I am not drooling for these emerald green bank notes. I prefer real life and danger. Proximity to those edges and constant awe when surrounded by creaking and groaning forests up in mountains where traffic cannot be seen or heard or smelled. the sense of smell up in those mountains alone is enough to wipe the memories of los angeles dead stop traffic out of the head, or the arizona flat lands with curvaceous and deceiving women lounging while old money affords them the opportunity to be legal prostitutes and skip class to pay slave boys to write papers for them, they fan themselves in that past life and eat grapes of wrath from the empty space in between their tits. There is no heart there.

night is not young and I am itchy and anxious with a sore neck and pulsing lower back listening to the mechanical rumbles from an old home heating filtration system and the red light string lights feel down off the window sill and onto the ground around me. this is not a heavenly scenario because I could not sleep last night either. the hands were tied and I am lost in thought, consumed so eagerly in thoughts that never seem to arrive anywhere. I am on a switch back between mental canyons of extreme exhaustion and self doubt... the other side is peace and contentedness, which I never trust long enough to choose as a resting space. I must round the bend once more and dip back down into that canyon of depression wondering about how that vantage point may of been to bask inside of for awhile. man oh man these lofty heaights when I'm swamped in furtive waking annoyances. gosh that waitress was absent minded and so I am. we invaded each others consciousness with the wet thud of a dead fish slapping down on a partially sunk dock. grab a handlebar off a parked bike to sell at the machine shop. grope about in the dark for the contour body of your hardly breathing girlfriend or the huge piling of broken glass ornaments everywhere else. this is not a time to wish for duct tape or bandages. it is far too late for some insipient dreams.

it must be because my dream catcher is in seattle. I left it up there in a drawer. that new huge apartment in a quiet alcove of the city in which i must whole heartedly explore with many happy tangents and proud sleeps without covers or noise complaints or parties with kegstands or anything nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. i need something new in this weird young adult chapter of my life when I realize that alcoholics and legends are both formed during these fragile, quick paced years and if I am not alert and agile, for anything that comes my way these days, I might have to tie a noose around my dreams and let them drag behind me for another 40 years or so. this cannot happen. i must not allow my body or mind to be consumed by the shoulder weight of anxious knuckle cracking time. i must compete with all versions of my best self so the whole team of my selves can rise up to my intrinsic podium. i must receive the gold medal for mental craftsmanship. i will win that log roll, snow mobile race across desert tundra and charge through great walls with my dynamic horns until nothing is left but a faint shimmering hope that I was still alive to meet you, my lover.

December 6th

Your hand on my thigh. We sat on this cold couch entangled like vines climbing up the side of an office building while inside, the men sleep on their desks, ties hanging down. Everyone needs a break. Every office boy trapped in a business suit fit for a man needs a crazy tie day. Hawaiian shirt day. Because every one of them have been to those remote, remote islands in the pacific in order to fit in on Hawaiian shirt day. This species of vine hated to be ignored and pulled the building down with force, a rippling effect from bottom to top, but no glass panes shattered, they simply melted and assimilated into a temporary glass pond where hundred of ducks immediately attempted to break through, with intent, to the imaginary water source below. They look at themselves, realize they are ducks, and decide this time to fly north for the winter, to find a black diamond and excitement. The building came down like a stretched out slinky let go. Almost as if nothing was destroyed, that the building merely became an underground inversion of itself to match the underground inversions of all of us in the tunnels and caves of our doppleganger culture which we aren't allowed to believe in, like jesus and leprechauns, and pots of gold, gold, silver, or chocolate coins. An edible currency is a moral dilemma but allows the donation to a deprived man a greater decision. Food or booze? Eat or save? Only the office boys turned accidentally into men that were awake during the great entangling, the news outlets are calling it, were injured in the sudden inversion and collapse of that grey monster of a building they climbed through the gnarled teeth to get inside. Luckily, all of them slept with their heads on their forearms on their cubicle desks, dreaming of the forests, when the angry mother nature struck. With calmed heart rates and dreamy, nice thoughts, they were suddenly suspended in air, but did not plummet to the earth out their reverie, but allowed the dream to carry them, softly down, like a downward drifting rose pedals, to wake up upside down in a cavernous wasteland where nature had ultimately lead them. There is a breaking point for this fight between private enterprise and beautiful nature. Sometimes there is communication from that unspeakable vast diversity of plants and animal life in its attacks and subtle whisperings. We must listen with our ears and eyes to ground or else lose everything.

Your hand on my thigh. It is cold. Really cold. We can see our breath out in front of us like speech bubbles in cartoons. We are not talking. Just waiting for the warmth of our bodies to either cease or counteract the cold, tightening air.

december 3rd

This is a well lit idea but how am I going to know that it becomes worthwhile. Purpose will slowly wash over me in cryptic waves and then plummet, dragging me down with the worst of them, until I'm a frozen corpse underneath an iced over lake. There is no why. There is only how.

Complex isolation at first. Seattle is my new city to conquer in the cold. Let snowflakes determine my moving date. Let the leisurely strolls through the neighborhood commence unabashed. Trees with gnarled roots will crawl toward me and I will walk nimbly by, up hill, to the estuary with winter birds.

I will be able to nourish the parts of my personality that are most hungry. In a small cottage, high-strange, feeling odd about it, sanctuary of beautiful thought and too much space for my poor college attitude. A part time on campus job might help me face my fears. Reality here is a strange thought. I'm not sure how much I believe that I'll be in seattle soon, captivated by the colorful lights and bus routes to and from wonderful, fun, places in the city. Here is a place to grow roots. I will be aloof for awhile, as I find my way through the forest of concrete domes and bone chilling screeching tires, and music venues to find friends, friends, friends, life long acquaintances with bold actions and activities, I will jam, jam, jam with musical geniuses until the windows crack from spreading frost bite. Our hands will ache and the notes will rush out of them. The moments will not be scripted. It will be easy to be discouraged from discovering a sociable personality buried within myself. I'm there for school first and foremost. I will be a nice guy in my classes and an honest, appreciative one. My time at other schools cannot convince me that I'll be anything like that in the future. I have grown because I have crawled through the desert and hollywood dream states to get here and to earn this. Who I was in Portland, Arizona, and Los Angeles is not who I am anymore and this will be clear as day to me. I cannot blow this because I have come too far to get here and my desire to live so well and free up in this foreign neighborhood is so compelling that I could not muck it all up. My intent will vary but the melody and the progress will remain, remain, remain. It's all up from here my beautiful counterpart. There is nowhere else to go when you're lasered in so tight and so passionate to the city of emeralds and ferris wheels and salt water.

Make your move and be reborn. Grow roots under the sidewalks.

unsuspecting calm before the vengeful storm

An eerie windy night outside. Tree branches scrape on tin roofs. Animals howl and wrestle in the distance. Dogs aren't barking because dogs are not outside. Too much fear of the unknown. They could run away. Their could be a predator lurking. Humans are just as fearful. They like bright light and electronic humming sounds. The white noise of a modern kitchen. The television acts as a sedative and we all know this and appease it's satellite gods. Beam us down your power of choice. Too many channels to choose from. The night is black. Inside, objects reflect back unseen red light. No sound in this attic without hearing aids shoved in ears. I can hear my own voice louder than I need to. That's why I can't talk to you on the phone. I'd rather explore this insomnia-tunnel with perked up ears and a head lamp/hat like the tall unknown neighbors without compulsion to meet. No lives are lived in social community. We are isolated in our historic homes like the roots of a family tree growing beneath a city side walk, fucking everything up. Nature reclaims what was lost. I hope there are beasts out there in the stormy night. They come when others are locked away in their castles. No moat. Rain reduces footsteps approaching. Sharing stories of fear, nightmares are deep, dark deaths, friends and lovers in a blood bath. Nothing nice to describe. They conjure images to implant forever. I want to see the horror of lunatics with weapons in the woods. The haunted corn maze that hires real ghouls and psychopaths. Sign me up. I want some fear. I want the eerie night to enter my bones and turn me white, skeleton white, with fright, skeleton fright. The wind carries voices of dead souls seeking vengeance. Avenge your grievance on me! oh spiritual breath, this evil masquerade. I wished to be killed prematurely and unjustly by a ghost accidentally exacting vengeance on the wrong human body. Therefore the ghost thinks it's haunting has ceased and rest is here for him. It works like magic because he believes that his wrongs where righted by my ghastly murder at the river with a drowning by invisible hands. I become another link in the chain, on the other side. I can be aware of a vengeance to seek. I would choose someone at random and then study them. See if they have the guts or knowledge to continue the tradition of vengeful killings and a continuing story of afterlife confronting life. Freak accidents happen when the weather is about to turn like tonight.

November 5

There is a weight on my spinal column caused by a frieze embedded with a great idea. The idea is a shallow relief. I must chisel away until I can form the right tiny characters and the epic battles presented like sea monsters versus cargo ships in the pre-flight night. The only way across that vast pearl-blue sprawl was a fearful journey by boat. You would wear a uniform with a little tin flag affixed to it upon your awaited arrival back home. That shipping village comes out and throws a party, with floats and parades, streamers waiting for your silhouette to appear on the horizon. I guess they had nothing better to do.

The great idea causing neck pain is about making some sense of all of the writing I have done over the years, the manic passages of pain and loathing, searching and questioning, all of it. I am baffled by the best way to go about it. This is a mighty project, an undertaking, especially if I wish it to flow well. I could arrange them into poetic divisions, with titles, if the transitions can't seem to be smoothed out. It just requires a step back at each individual part of the machine to discern its purpose. Everything becomes possible. In sound production, whiskey bottling, denture making, and writing the greatest focus for the efficient execution of a beautiful glimmering final product is to be aware of signal flow.

I must understand how the steam is passed through the pipes to turn the latch. Sound comes into the microphone. There are wires attached to a computer. I hear the sound through the speakers attached to the computer. Every mechanism for creativity can be made into simple machinery if all of the parts are figured out and the grease helps the correct hinges. Run of the mill creative output is a grand machine of social misdirection. Everybody influences everybody. Many concern themselves too much with the desires of glorified strangers on the glowing boxes.

Even with the perfect formula, only an altruistic mathematician would use the equation for purely good. The mad scientist is a power crazed genius. Discovering a cure for cancer that also kills all of the rainforests in the world. Ethical and moral dilemma of the artist/scientist/professor/engineer.

I need to sift through all of my old ramblings and try to piece particularly grand passages into some wonderful prose-poetry, partial autobiographical, non fiction narrative. It would make a discordant narrative if I did not have a thematic intent in mind.

I could write a chap book about Arizona surely. Otherwise I must isolate an emotion or a feeling and search through the tomes for pieces that fit.

I'm finding gems in all cavities and sections. Must find thematic similarities for a congruent-feeling portrait. I can sift through these reams once more for other intents and purposes.

oct 9th

These forests are silent sentinels guarding over vast mysterious life. Why have no real predators been discovered in this cold climate? I wonder about cold adapted species that hide in our warm bundles of fresh laundry when it's raining. It's hopeless probably.

Swim upstream at the speed of the fastest deep water current. I feel the momentum carry me toward foreign shores. Of course, it is that is foreign. The shores are there now. Self confident that they know what they are. Tourists have exclaimed their ancient names long enough now that is engrained into its memory, the landscapes rattle with each mispronounced word they can hear, amidst the cacophony of waves pummeling volcanic sand and traveling salesmen trying to smuggle sand dollars across the ocean to the forbidden island of the chain.

oct 27

Here is the night halloween parties land this year. I am tired and laying low in this universe of night. There are melodies echoing through my head and vocal harmonies, so elusive, dancing around the next turn, the next harmony, the next decision is one to make with a level head in the morning. 

Here is fatigue and a lack of concern with writing in the alone hours of night. There are no people or animals. Nothing too savage here. Just quiet servitude and music through veils of plate glass. 

leaves changing color

The shortest hand possible. I drove through the rain and laughed as I hydroplane, the back spins out, and I realign with the runway. Accents and tired facade. Idiot with a slacking, lagging jaw. Feeling myself disintegrate and become sallow. Where did the inspiration to create greatness go exactly. I've distracted from vocalizing and writing to pursue natural highs and family bonding time. One of these stunts growth and guides people to safely land on a plateau in a snow storm, comfortably covering you like soft blankets, massage fingers of addiction burying into your spine and doctors can't remove those dense surgical wires after a certain infection spreads, becomes ionized in the blood, creating pockets of air in the vessels that pop into confetti. You are craft supplies. Your skin cells coalesce with childhood glue. We fold and cut paper snowflakes. Trying to 'accidentally' cut suggestive shapes into the folds. Never worked out well and our artistry was questioned. Future hopelessness and betrayal. 

Allow myself briefly to become consumed with the weight of all averted past pressing on my eyelids day and night. Sleeping so deep in comatose bed frames, the truck of treasures at my feet with no key and that box will drive me crazy like nails into the center of my skull, curious cats slipping off thin branches and falling to their death feet first, masts raising on the horizon of reflecting water. We made our parents sad and thoughtful. 

We drank illicit sake from an oak barrel. Brown in color and texture. Induce hallucinations. Organize the work space and then return to a work environment once the jungle has been charted and explored. 

To Seattle we go with our false identification cards as relics to our younger recklessness. Our jeans are torn and we act as hero to the fate of the stories. 

Skipping the productive motions due to some climate acclimation and my vocal chords dealing with the shock of genuinely cold air as fall strikes through my coat no matter how thick. 

I won't lose heart to find my heart again. 

All Hail The Sun god

Wipe the electric    blank slate clean. There is a rising fire    behind me and to the right.    It grows in light and volume    each second, rising to meet the cadence  assigned by the refrigerator   and Roscoe traffic.               Rising to meet                          the energy demands.

Realize the necessity to edit.

"... there may or may not be an audience. If not, at least, the audience will be your future self. The applauding or booing crowd will be your future, tmore experienced, more knowledgable self. Some self that will look back on past similarities in order to compare them to the present with intention to analyze the events to predict any semblance of the future. It may or may not work, but it gives your eventual self an eventual chance to redeem your self. You might witness the observable effort given to the losing-the-battle art; the geriatric battlements and persuasive canopies of controlled and directed thought conveyed through words carved out with mother tongues." - Indian Guru Accent, with traditional sankrit fusion music and garb.

My inner dialogue was translated through my synapses into English but their external language was inhaled through my lungs and my ears into something less recognizable. I know it not to be gibberish because I know there to be construction all the same. The sounds are made by different voice boxes, different DNA and sentence structure, inviting the ears to perk up at the rhythm, at least, of rising and falling cadence. I enjoyed listening and can advocate the structure of such a language in which the locals will always be able to point out your accent if you learn the grammar. The locals will stare at you. They will sharpen spears and sentence ends.

Desire to view the world as a whole.

Doors open policy into how bad I feel.

Here is the belief in stubborn pursuit laid out sideways. It is 2:21 AM on Tuesday, September 17th and the smirnoff ghost from days of high school intoxication returns in a blue and turquoise shroud of tapestry curtain The bindings snap and come loose.

We are left in a dazzled daze of enlightenment. With my multiple personalities and my girlfriend. There are words spread out between us like a double entendre, bread and butter, red wine and a lover, and we've only got our selves to blame.

Elements in our eyes and veins cemented this. Despite all odds and sordid convictions, we will not allow our selves to implode. There is an understanding so pure. There is an amount of time spent fully focused on the eyes of another. There is... (fearful interruption of thought. loud roommates, we where, in past and present tense, the flushing of a porcelain toilet.)

Sleeping with another cold human being on a chilly night is rather nice.

Hot chocolate and coffee with kahlua.

There will be streamers and glitter in our hair.

I sit down and hear the noises of one hundred thousand crickets, the stomach groveling for more, the music selected by a sleeping beauty and the sleepy television shows enjoyed by the vacant, highlight reel minds that seek power in numbers and crowds themselves in with slamming doors. Their torsos eroded like sea pilings.

Distant cars traveling sounds vaguely like ocean waves crashing. At least in the sense of a perpetual recognizable sound. The battery of a shoreline during a hurricane, if it were a smaller battle at the scale model size of ants and an ant battalion.

Evil boys take out their microscopes in the jealous worship of the sun.

The sun god.

No gloomy evergreen rain for us if we desire eternal salvation.

Conspiracies and cross examinations. Meeting meteorites in head on collisions and hear music through the floor. The decisions of a lost  consciousness.

Next to the girl, the sleeping beauty, all will be lost, gracefully lost. All thoughts will evaporate a brain into mist, just to appease the 7th year of regenerated skin cells, combined into a new alternative to the present.

All other layers will slough off unless you write them down.

wine, jazz, and god

Imagine the wine & jazz festival for those with heart, the gregarious under dogs stay under the black light at home, searching for mistakes that are invisible in the daytime, have difficulty waking up happy, the idiotic noise down below sounded like warfare and the self righteous vocal lessons. She can't play scrabble because she is afraid of spelling. Jacob's ladder and the inevitable stupidity. We talk in the shape of an 'x' though we speak with our sad eyes and they talk of awful, contradictory things, speaking from a vocalist perspective, the bitterness overwhelms any chance for sweet salvation, you violent bastard death, laughing at my chairs, the ridiculousness of it all, fine, laugh you moron, the vacuum of space will swallow your soul and bottle openers in the shape of hula girls will fake death and hikes up volcanoes will erupt youthful splendor into the air.

Help me I'm failing. My inspiration to write has been wiped clean by the angry vacuity of those around me. I can't do anything but complain when given time to formulate my thoughts. I can try to discern beautiful moments, there are many, but my first thought mind always goes into the incredulous and painful recollection of unbelievable ignorant opinion. I hear about television shows. I hear about lavish wine festivals. I heard nothing.

Coffee to start my mind. Sleep still clinging to my eyes. Bottles of Corona line up the folding table. The folding red chair for outdoor events. "This is my schema!" you coy beast, unravelling your reactions to us, believing we might be interested. It reveals the absence of critical thinking. We can see through your stiflingly thin veneer. You are an ocean of shallow water. Up to your ankles. No blue whales exist in your grey matter. It is a dead ocean without any tidal motion, aside from the kind that folklore announces happens on full moons, and then again, since you believe in such other thoughtless horseshit, why not believe in astrology or that the earth is flat or in sasquatch with intent to hunt and kill?

"We believe in something invisible."

How about the sun? Let us pray into those rays of light. There is nothing else so life providing on this planet.

If I wrote a nice story with a happy ending, pleasant morals throughout, nice characters, exaggerated out of the realm of realism, into the abstract and blissful ether where the people who believe in god will be taken at the rapture.

If you turned on the tv and saw a mushroom cloud over jerusalem would you see a silver lining? would you be willing to meet your maker?

Wasting the earth because of an archaic ideal of heaven after you die. What about your children? Will you brainwash them into believing in the same story?

august 24

Here we talk, so painfully rigid through all of it, a burning desire to escape scot free... I'm sorry I don't want to exist in your mindless drone-happiness paradigm, free from sin, I can't bend that way. Your self righteousness would be appalling if you had the capacity to look inward. Your favorite color is green because of money. My favorite color is green because of the natural world. I am attacked for my desire to be an outcast. I reply glibly that it is merely a matter of taste, not due to an upbringing without a strong affinity with team sports. I can be a team player when I do not feel like the team is destroying my individuality. Ha ha ha.

To feel so lost in conversation is mesmerizing. I received these attacks, sent with love, they say, mind you, without so much as a fragment of retaliation. It is growing in me now. The gym this morning, with all of the mopped up citizens trying to work hard to stay fit and the illegibly television sets strewn about to make the cardio a little bit easier in such a dull and dreary world, these bastards and their flamboyant jogging shorts, made to look like clowns, with clown dreams of escaping the circus, but until then continually putting on the face paint. There are mirrors and words of weak inspiration thrown about. A really positive environment. With nice positive vibrations.

We are at different levels, different vibrations. We're up here, he says, and you are down there. You do not wish to come up to us or for us to come down to you, therefore there will always be conflict. I agree that there will always be conflict but are so sure that I'm way below you in aspiration?

It's frustrating to never feel understood.

It's worse when they say they do. The passive aggressive, racist, bigot, conservative, enivironment-killing, money motivated, art hating, ignorant fucks.

Now I should throw these thoughts away. They are so damned negative I'll have to carry them for the rest of my life.

Lost Vegas

The land was cross hatched by a drunken giant who shaved off layers of darker, deep orange-red into thin strips of yellow shallow colored intent. Here there are trees that reach for the sky like criminal gangs surrounded by police squadrons, helicopters circling and spraying their pesticide onto the fields of flowers indiscriminately. They think beauty is better on a tv screen. So they plug the quarter inch cables into their eyes and laugh like big buffoons. They have zero secret desires and they feel like god is a puppet master, they are nothing but a marionette with jerky dance moves on a stage that the devil has no interest in because you are too boring and safe and sane. Take a hang gliding risk and gloriously fall through the sky with no seatbelt to strap you in, no trampoline to cushion your suicide leap, another sordid 'fuck you' and we leave in pieces on the ground, our shattered glass faces and the notorious collapse of every bridge in the world, stranding people on one side or the other, never to be fixed because our electronics cease to work in a flash and we're stranded with our animalistic signs, our American value systems crushed by the weight of dignity and passion. There are no good dreams in this America anymore. Everyone is hateful of themselves and their decisions. There is no love. Let's make something good happen once again. Rouse your spirits or drown in a delirium. 

The land  was orange and toppled over. We drove through with wide smiles, filling our hearts to capacity with wonderful sensation. Now, the stark constant, the return to the apartment, has wrought horrible negative feelings. We are so sad to exist in this place these days. It never supplies the same glimpses of beauty in a day then driving through southern Utah. We got the fuck out of Vegas because it is an enormous hoax and a gimmick. The weak go there to disappear in an oasis, swallowed up out of the ocean of desert, draining lakes for tourist activity, and no the water is not clean, it is laced with pcp and lsd from the 60's acid explosion. We hated it and left immediately. We now see similarities for the same shambles of intelligence in everything around us. Nothing is sacred unless we make it. 

Las Vegas is a crock of shit. 

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There are circles and x's drawn all over road maps scattered about my apartment. 

Highways are highlighted. 

Byways are black lit. 

We will take the scenic route, constantly. 

----

I'm too on edge to stay focused, my back hurts, Swedish vodka taunts me, I'm alone and sad here. Feeling depraved. Hungry. Viscous and hungry. Faltering. Guilty of most self doubt. Delusions of ungrandeur. 

Needless to say, excited for the trip. It is necessary. I will sap the marrow from life here and there and everywhere. No one will prevent my longing. as=dfkjpskdfj[opasdjf[pkajdsf

july 15

The volume of cars passing by grate my ears like children screaming on airplanes, or even like fox news, or like parents yelling back at their children in airplanes. The morning after, a sickness of distraction, we thought we knew what we were doing, with tears in our eyes and with departure on our minds, this summer will last forever. Just once. Tires squealing, breaking rhythm of words and realize the desire to be alone rises above the desire to be around an old friend. Sad to realize such a gigantic cracking earth. This is pangaea and we are all islands forming from volcanic soot and rock. Sitting pretty with keyboard in front and drummers replacing drummers all of the time. The percussionist is a behind the scenes mad man with a heart full of despondent words. They come from foreign places and desire to be removed from stereotypes and the southern american species devours diversity like it is a fucking pot roast. Singled out even more for my desire to understand. I have no questions to ask in this setting. I am a silent observer. I feel like I'm trying to give nice, loving compliments to a new lover, some seductive, beady eyed girl on her back, cooing for attention like a baby kitten scratching posts that hold up the foundation of ignored marriage, and failed attempts at love, at love, at lust.

July 13

There comes a decision on what to write about. It begins with motive. Then words. Then excitement. A fire burning inside. Comes out through all pores. We will survive with this kind of thing in our midst. I will write music and it will feel great.

Just wait.

and now to remedy the situation...?

I've got the red wine blues. the liquor store, which label to choose. when you take everything for granted you've got nothing to lose. no freedom to choose.

up on the emerald coast, you've been such a gracious host
your paintings won't go to waste
I've buried them in the back yard
with the weight of the 2nd floor
the garden will lose a sense of dignity
and the flowers will now grow wildly
weeds won't kill themselves
they need lethal injection
they need chemical fraction
miserable reduction
a sickening health
with conditional wealth


---------

up those stairs into a mystery of dusty photographs and collected paintings. an art collector and dealer out of the converted top story of his childhood home, his elderly parents still living below, never had a license to drive a vehicle, always had a ride or a shuttle, someone else responsible... 'my how tall you've gotten' he would say while patting me on the head and I brush beneath the faux chandelier in the front room and gentle we mask our feelings for each other in the alcoholic haze of wine tasting exuberance, fast cars and nice collections, german motors and leopard print, dvd players with wide collection, mild recollection, my childhood was disallowed from that foreign upstairs region of the house. the wild remodeled version for which I'd never grown accustomed, and the burials cease to fuel my longing to come back up. this is not the first time nor the worst time. he never came down those stairs for the superficial presentation of christmas present giving or receiving. or nothin'.

remember to rolls royce. the extravagence. the wine tasting. the exceptional and shining rings on each finger like beacons of some foreign wealth I couldn't comprehend, it took all of this time, my window opened and my bubble burst in some short confetti explosion, with all of the things we never did with one and other..... I remember distinctly helping, on multiple occasions, with yard work. I trim the enormous hedges covering the front yard of the house. For privacy. With a black santa in the bushes.

drinking wine in diners

I remember spreading beauty bark and oh the smell. That forlorn scent amidst such scenic beauty. This man guiding the maneuvers of such a lost youth. years back. drinking lemonade from a shaky old woman's kitchen. she needs the help of young men like us. my uncle and I. trimming branches and wielding the bucket out through the dead or dying leaves and understanding now that many others would have done this without complaint for a fraction of the cost and without musical amplification that I had... the dear hunter... the color spectrum... the most beautiful bark spreading of my century. and this is an enticement of his exuberance. afterward starbucks. he bought me a coffee, sandwich, and a cd. bon iver. this is something I couldn't understand. buying things like this was out of my head. a starbucks cd? how beautiful it was. listening to it with my mother while discovering yosemite valley and beauty of such sights and such pleasures. when you're used to beautiful things you are conditioned into believing the weather is an honest factor.

I hope this trip is something exceptionally placed in my history. Self learning experience. Not just driving around. So much to explore. I hope I have a spirit, however impossible, to guide me. The spirit of my estranged exuberant uncle, who lived upstairs in my childhood grandparent's home, the home he always lived in, the upstairs he inhabited until now, until an untimely doom with failed kidneys in a nice facade of a hospital in monterey. I thank him for his advice. He treated me so well for so how unknown we were. All through the grapevine.

My sister saw him change from a functional adult to a vegetable. He died before they could pull the plug. He would not want to be alive in such a state. Such a state of prolonged existence. With tubes entering and exiting. all sorts of dialysis and kidneys destroyed from such years, all 62 of them, the eldest uncle and the oldest brother, the oldest son for the elderly parents who outlived one child and are full of wisdom but without alcohol their entire life, never touched a drop and the smoke of a cigarette treated them like an avalanche treats a sleeping village. none of us are safe but they are ridiculous in moral straightness. a rigid and beautiful experience. my grandfather. my papa jim is a man of much motivation for me. he is a wonderful example of a life well lived. I need to hear more stories now that I know that I need them. I need to find a family tree with solid roots. I do not want to see anymore gravestones in its shadows until I get the full story. I need no more gallows under my family tree branches. I will also die. Everyone will. I must accept this. Not without an understand of an awesome past for each of them.

It takes someone to die to realize how little you know.

There was distance between myself and everyone.

Always.

Now to remedy the situation.

wine stains

Dark nights with wine stains under our heroic eyes and we wield our swords drunkenly like our holsters have fallen off with all of the saturated muddy war field erosion, the kind to carve out desert canyons in the dry heat of illuminated consciousness, with peyote trips in high mountain tents or teepees or igloos if we were crazy to think with the same rational for far northern escape into wilderness, with American countryside in mind and the diversity of its geography, is that enough to believe whole heartedly in capitalism, with the awful repercussions to the actions of small business when affected by the small intravenous intricacies of the lawful and righteous arm-sleepers, those who voice their opinion after election but never vote. The smiles wane like setting suns and the mythological stories of realistic claims against the atrocities committed are wonderful indictments of creative, passionate souls. The light and soft hip hop beats to guide a resting mind to sleep in the turmoil of the Spanish civil war between elitist communists and the rebellion of liberal threats. Threat to the whole vivid spectrum of color and violent fighting. The undecided factor of everything. Your father does not define who you are. What they did is certainly interesting but by no means any indication of who you are. 

Wine drunk, in charge of a modern type writer, wishing it were classic and soon to fall asleep in the weary arms of a lovely night rest. This is far too late to be alive on a tuesday morning. but with the abstraction of time through movie nights and wine after dinners with the silent elder crew, who retire to the self same programs of distraction every night, we fall into a rhythm of movie watching where at least we can get the allure of foreign influence into our hearts, and the sickness of opinion, the American way, they say, of believing in the country in some superficial way... seeing the beauty of it will not forgive my feelings toward its people and the wild unsustainable habits of all... maybe it will.. maybe I will be humbled into feeling something like remorse for the self-hatred. More likely I will gang up against this normalcy, this status quo of influence, and die valiant on the charging battlefield of oblivion. 

I will disappear faster than a grain of sand in a time capsule. I will pretend to sleep and rejoice when the weight is finally lost. I will escape from these bones with the marrow intact. I will seek out the new moments to excrete such jovial artisan personalities from the spinal cord, there are surgeries for such creativity. Could do something beautiful and creative but that free time is spent on relatable television shows and on the comfort of repetition. For myself the comfort of falling into the condensed theme of an intense movie. Slit open mouth. Sew his eye shut and painfully recollect all memories from which these music cues derive. 

Die freely on open ground. The guilt builds and swells. Good bye world of martyrdom. This is something else. 

Sleeping without music

I want to sleep while listening to music. It is much too hot to sleep peacefully without the assistance of a fan or an A/C unit. My girlfriend is already asleep. I've fallen asleep next to her with headphones in multiple times. Now what. What can I do? I'm filled with a sense of hot indecision. The air everywhere untreated is hot and painful to exist inside of. I can't sit downstairs and write at this hour. 1:13 am. It is simply too exhausting. My brain is fried but I couldn't ask for drunken privacy like this at any other hour.

A writer's dilemma. 

Better said... a writer never published... his dilemma. I have not found the right resources to launch my words into the atmosphere. 

As of now, 400+ blog posts later, with infinite notebooks and deleted, shameful, high school writing. I have a back ground history of diabolical writing. 

What to do with it. 

It's too hot to find out these nights. Shouldn't the air be cool and comforting to bundle up? Wear multiple layers before existing the house? 

No. It's comfort in the stupid heat. Brain cells rot and grow tired. They take on the form of tourists on vacation in a state you moved to. We die dumber than we were born. 

It's too hot for clarity or argumentative philosophy. 

I know he is a good listener. But no one else cares what I have to say. They love to be absent. They hate the idea of being constantly present to the situation. It is too intimidating. They have their alcohol and tv shows to keep them warm once they set the A/C unit too high. Nothing logical or demanding of rhetorical evaluation. God damn it. Breathe with me alone. You're absent mindedness is no longer cute and high-school. This is real life. Grow up. 

We applaud you for that

Figure it out. You've got a head on your shoulders. Don't waste my time. There is nothing inside of me that you can't find out completely on your own. There is a void of personality around you, sure. This does not mean it is inside of you. You are full of life. You swim late nights in the pool even though an underage girl gets horny in there and the camera's eyes have seen it in progress. They've probably had sex in there and the water feels great regardless.

You are not bought by the casual, idiotic desires that they reach for without a second thought. You know what it is like to sleep miserably on a couch made of thorns but not in the sense of martyring for an entire nation of believers in invisible spirits and ghosts and unicorns. We are not idiots. Our brains are for so much more than we allow to exist inside them. You know this. You take advantage of books and the literature available in libraries. Great resource. We applaud you for that.

Do you think that you are a free thinker? Do you think that thought costs us nothing? Ridiculous imprudence.

"I am what you want when you don't want anything else."

You drink enough water every day to fill a pool.

Does that make you a fish? You insolent fool.

July 5

Light my brain on fire with a gunpowder-wig fuse and see if burning hair smells as glamorous as it looks in civil war adaptations. Sit on this lonely couch and reminisce the awful effects of melatonin used improperly. (I hear the street sweeper roll by on Roscoe, trudging on like a slug).

Last night we watched the silhouette of an enormous tree become illuminated by the crackling greens and flaring reds of a poorly choreographed firework display. Here we, stupid mouth-breathing humanity, setting up lawn chairs across the street from the mall, with traffic slowing to a halt in front of us and light pollution ruining the bright mystique of such explosives in the sky, the Chinese gun powder specialists who created controlled astral blasts in order to entertain and to attempt to resemble the power and mystery of gods on earth, we can create star death and expand the imagination of millions of children with eyes wide with awe or terror depending on temperament.

The colors were grand. They make us look up and go 'ooo' and 'ahhh' and the fizz and pop like military grenades made of sizzling confetti. Sparks fly and shower down toward the Earth, decaying into nothing before setting off fires. Low flying planes watch for fires. It was 100 degrees and everything is dry and arid.

We, stupid sluggish humanity, sat transfixed by the road with the slow moving vehicles, bumper to bumper with lagging, staring, empty eyes. I made faces at them so when they scan the crowd to meet me, they laugh or go bug eyed. This is a ritual for many. Many cultures represented. Middle Eastern children chanting something in unison while running around. Different languages. Diversity of human beings but none of them feeling all that patriotic. I felt like a clown, personally.

Sitting on this dog piss soaked matt of a grassy knoll. Street lamps and smog killing our view of the stars. Headlights, car horns, and greasy machinery taking away from all of the biggest 'booms!' from the park. These cars are trapped and the people rush to get a better view. We all knew we were ripped off. Our families gathered around us. Tiny dogs at our feet. Listening intently to the young couple's observations. They have clearly seen better. The Fourth has always been about beautiful fireworks for me. Something uncanny and out of the ordinary. A gathering of fleshy bodies to the Gig Harbor shoreline to watch the brightest explosions echo across the bay with no planning for finale but rather a display of awe-inspiring color and sound. No patriotism for me. Only false and humorous. Listening to racist american music and drinking cheap beer on waterfront property. Making a 45 point turn to get out and get moving toward the next mistake and the bigger bonfires with smaller people and greater fireworks. Backyard barbecues on fire, people screaming and blowing out birthday candles from trampoline flip heights and pools have sexual deviance floating around in them with mild and disgruntled apathy, with tired minds and hasty smiles, with deliberate menace and stupid nationalism, with greasy burgers, cake pops, rich kids with generous parents, filth and squalor for a dollar or more, nobody weird enough to invite over, the soiree would die in a battle with no heart. No music could be played well enough for everyone there to listen to with the most patience.

Bright lights in the sky
Spinning floppy disks
Helicopters shoot them down
over prepared for warfare
against fire

the situation is dire

we need more freedom and less individuals

we need an enormous sinkhole on the 405
during rush hour
that nobody can see until they fall in it
into hell

100 degrees

Oh don't you fucking worry. I know I'm stupid but not enough fall victim to certain illusory comforts. It all falls away. I know what it is like to be unable to make eye contact with your lover at the end of a drunken long night. I know how to say no. We vomit up our expensive dinner plates with much haste and birthdays are ignored like common folk ignorance in the best way. The sense of community is disappeared and no one gets along better than when they have to and when someone is paying money for them to get along. The price of the peeling van is never appealing. The floorboards soaked in blood. The open containers of alcohol buried underneath seats and the open availability to be constantly fucked by the law. We are unable to get away from these demons. They constantly haunt us in our beds and destroyed our brain matter. We forget our first dates. Never know what that Indian food tasted like. Tasted like used book stores that take up blocks and music pavilions without competition. They are all building each other up, god damn.

We waste currents on these dilated pupils and dilapidated roof tops.

We are all fucked and it's 100 fucking degrees.

Late night

I listen and hear the fake sex. I hear an accumulation of fake bullshit and realize the tangent of my existence as something placid and non-functional. I realize the appeal of a black n' mild, as I listen to a friend/enemy having sex with someone I can never fully listen to while my girlfriend sleeps, drunk, in my bed. I blame my roommate for this drunken behavior and feel the need to escape indefinately, immediately...

June 30th

Let your self fall into that deepest pool with arms spread wide and the inhibitions muted by dark concern and chlorine in the ears to block out appropriate sounds.

Show each other simultaneous meaningless stimuli to keep the more evil thoughts out of this late night mind. The early morning depression settles in and we are no longer nomads. I am something ridiculous and native.

This hour greets me with a crossed finger behind the back and a stick of dynamite in the other hand. Listen to other people complain about their worth and act like sex demons.

Cheat like you did on your acuity tests and miss all opportunity for swearing in places least appropriate. Make amends and remedy your heart to be able to survive. Legalize nicotine and sit, jaw-clenched, on that same sticky black leather that you brought, so weakly, from that store so far and yet so close, a triumph in short distances like race tracks.

The screen looks like a big blur.

Ha hah haha

No.

Beer-amid

Plan for some nights later.


------

Find myself again alone later. The sleeping woman did not give me enough time to satiate her curiosity and I hear horrific sounds from the next room. The late night jam session and the denial of all culpability after the crime was committed.

Making fun of reading books.

Why the fuck is that cool?

i lost my cool in defense of something that no one understands. No one stays awake long enough to capture and in the end no one gives a fuck of their day for my bullshit.

it is a similar complaint nation-wide but no one is engage by my random writing prompts for my future self.

write the story. this shit is boring.

these people are predictably awful and they blame their upbringing as cause.

I have no words other than 'fuck'

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

28

On a rampage with angry words and cool people to live with, the reality checks necessary to keep money in line with spirit and then lose all patience for all of it and become a recluse in the high mountain terrace. Reading books as a group beside the fire and we were inconsiderate with violent unstructured motive to change topic suddenly, without warning... In the news we heard of another shooting. Children involved. No hostages, just chaotic murder. We fell silent for them but the crunching of picky eaters. Then eat my words with a grain of salt and the general, instant distrust of someone from the North. 

sleeping tigers

Scattered influence
without wavering doubt
collected moments of beauty
developing like dark rooms and optical camera lenses
zooming in and out of focus

Framed the perfect photograph
with your hands in the shape of a heart

In this ivory jungle there are shadows cast by dying orange light. Many of us will not live to see the next orange-yellow moon. They will cut us down like dying oaks in yards of rich family homes. The liability is too high to let it fall naturally. Honey, think of the children. They dance around the tree and hug its based like it is a living breathing creature, with human lungs, filtering their little gasps of breath against the harsh toxic atmosphere, with cyanide the pores of dead flowers. The orange glow casts its jungle-shadow against the back of a sleeping tiger. She is provocateur; a protector of her cubs, here in her resting state, a state of natural dormant power, an engine waiting to be fired up, provoked, would devour any accidental wandering man without a moment's hesitation. Must protect, at all costs.

Sleeping tigers in her dreams. Dancing on top of lily pads on mirror ponds. The courtyard feels clear of hostility in this simulated Autumn breeze.

Moments of beauty collected and store like short-term memory time capsules.
We recognize the best moments for their clarity and direction.

Sleep problems are great for writing, my sleeping delicate tiger, I wish not to have trodded on your land of no returning, your children miss you and you will prevent their harm with your stripes, horizontal, echoing ideas of orange and white silhouettes, jungle ferns alone in provocative poise.

don't read this if you believe in hell

That bloodstream is susceptible to alcoholic enlightenment, with all of the tributaries running off into the ocean of sleep... the fingers are sore and the mind aches with fatigue like an SAT testing center during the final minutes of futile scribbling. I am the same child, scribbling in futile circles on a notebook of keyboard typing in front of a panel of judges. Seated on this mahogany bench are Aristotle, Dave Eggers, Einstein, Jack Kerouac and his crew, Woody Allen, Stanley Kubrick, George Carlin, Dave Grohl, Kurt Vonnegut, Freddy Mercury, Voltaire, John Bonham, George Harrison, Fat Mike, Karl Marx, Antonio Lobo Antunes, Henry Rollins, Celine, Conor Oberst.... all shuffling with anticipation and feeling extremely antisocial. They tap the desk with their knuckles and eventually attempt to bridge language barriers but many fail and are left confused and alone. That is the success. How it is to be alone and to write such interior dialogue. How it is to go insane and write a novel. Does anybody feel anything similar to that pressure?

How is Iceland this time of year? I looked at your villages and fell in love. My roommate told me that because of your lack of cities that resemble the insane cities of the United States that he would not want to go there because of a lack of 'something to do.' What about creating beautiful, honest music? The colors transcend the boundaries of capital cities and the glorious landmarks fall under the weight of momentary claims. I accidentally ripped the top off of a group of browning bananas.. sheepishly ate one and realized how much waste I am capable of as a human specimen. I drink too much for free and write too much for free. There are words that I can apply to something disgusting and volatile. Something unforgiving and a business decision to find my sole purpose for writing belligerent scientific prose in a delirious tedium.. Fine, fuck it, I will write for your weekly spinal column. Your science fiction narrative resembling all of the dead horse we have beat in those horrible interviews. All of them turned into liquid shit in front of our faces when we both knew instantly that I was not to be the hired man. The man on the team would surely will filled with someone of a more formidable build and with shinier shoes.

The repetition and predictability is almost taboo. The smoking and the television. The drunkenness of a date and the sobriety of the driver. The ability to keep time so sensual.

"can I achieve the ideal body of a fan fiction protagonist?"

How many sit ups will it take to avoid the blasphemous dietary claims of the unintelligent and painful chain restaurant aficionado. Will anyone die for this?

"It's in the 2nd amendment sweetie."

Believe in empathy and a sense of direction from the other side.

I lose twice because I will be judged harshly both ways.

Moon light girl, with starry, sparkling eyes. You made me a beautiful, vegan lunch and I fell in love with those lagging eyelashes for the hundredth time and then I lost count after the conspiracy of the couch and the leather blackness of it, we fell into a delirium of fall idiocy and how are we supposed to live in a climate of hostility and violence and ridiculous ignorance paired with unstoppable generosity?

It is so god damn hot and I can't complain enough about how my body feels now. Horrible. My eyes are burning with sulphuric acid and acrid smells of immense grape distaste emanate.

---------

streaks of light
grape flavored swisher
speaking in code
to foreign majority
no need to vote
they are one in the same
and the same song refrains
we reap what we sow
and get what we pay
but money is not a hostile thing

we shouldn't be torn apart by this
meaningless, ridiculous existence

sometimes you must just accept a compliment
rather than shoot it back, bring up a bleak past

you don't deserve this

any of it

jokes about suicide
in the pseudo science lecture hall
the kind that has stained glass walls
and students never take notes
they pretend to understand
the lecture as an entirety
with learning as a natural disability to some
the bell rings and wakes up some
off to another weekend full of cum

god damn rhyme but the heat and the timing

the wasted six pack.. the heavy drinking

never stopped this brain from thinking

clearly you have a problem and your parents perpetuate due to guilt for many wasted years of early adulthood.

I was clearly lost and alone.

I wrote a lot of sad poems.

No one read them.

June 24

Pressure is off. I never left that place that had stacks of cups laid out on tables on the well-watered lawns of childhood. I never left the gigantic tires that have dwarfed over time and now I'm a well-dressed criminal swinging on the mantle of great disappointment. I count my blessings without remorse to the humans I've destroyed on my way back to the source of all future anxieties I currently reside in. To tear open the continuum, someone must get hurt, or at least heart-broken. At least brain-punctured.

Happy angels, falling gloriously out of the clouds like comets that did not burn up in the atmosphere. Into the ocean with a great splash. They pervade my sensibilities with feelings of awestruck numbness and I climb out of the hole I was in earlier this month. I had been digging for something impossible to find underground. Not gold. Not oil. My fucking soul.

I dug in the soil searching for my everlasting soul. When I die it will enter the atmosphere and prevent comets from entering the ocean.

Closest contact I've ever felt. Almost unbelievable. That a week passed without regard to the present.

Grassy knolls, beers in cans then pressurized water bottles at movie theaters, spraying all over the self check-out stands, the money spent well in a haze and the job opportunities searched for hopelessly, and the writers believing everything they have heard for the second time, there is no way to avoid taking lies to your grave, there are ridiculous connections made in your mind, who your father is does not define who you are, no matter who he is, too many men fall victim to that fallacy and believe themselves to be an heir to that life that will never be theres, maybe in a monarchy this is legally true, but nonetheless, the son would rule such differently, no matter how much father-son counsel...

Grassy hills overlooking surfing babes, tall boys in brown paper bags, laughing and rolling down hills, frisbee in parks, reading in libraries, kissing hair, swallowing pride in the shallows and waking up every morning with fantastic humorous accents, germanic tribes and european heritage, communist countries and communist cunts, ignorance is bliss.

The only universal truth is that there is no universal truth. Besides gravity, naturally.

"Stealing your kisses at night."

Fell into the rabbit hole, passing over many lanes of highways, made uncomfortable by the thought of girlfriend and the amount of effort it would take to maintain a healthy relationship, let's not talk of this at the dinner table, let's talk about light things, like politics and value judgment and the poor quality of service and the lack of a liquor license and the beer tastes like filthy mexican rivers here in this colorful consciousness, remember your dreams? I slept beside you, attempting to share that imagination but I remember nothing. Only a stomach aching due to over indulgence. My heart aches similarly.

Watering plants. Natural light. Building our own furniture. Procrastinate. Music.

Sadly much too present this last week to know exactly what I did.

It was wonderful, surely.

June 18

I've never been able to write so insanely right behind you with the fan on the ground pumping full blast air around the room, making posters of van gogh or hand-drawn, permanent marker constellations waver maniacally. You can't take the change in your pockets with you when you die. You cannot forget the feeling of cheap laminate floors and blinds bashing lightly against the window frame with a wonderfully futile view of rooftops outside. Some junipers visible with jupiter high in the sky on clearer days. We will fill our calendars with days of love fulfilled to the greatest extent. We can reach our hands outward and feel the warmth of full days. Of full daze when everything else is left humbled in a bleary haze of wasted talk.

Why would astrology ever be interesting when astronomy exists?

It is certainly interesting for me, high young confused woman with dress like waves on shallow shores, and the opposite dynamic of the hazy other young woman, nameless and proud for the fact of sexual tension in the air as palpable as criminal envy for those on death row... It is certainly interesting for me, if my astronomy serves me, that, if I'm not mistaken, you are a damned fool to pretend your personality is based around the arbitrary and vague words of astrological pseudo-intellectual writers. They write to fulfill a quota and are denied so absentmindedly that they commit suicide so freely in the streets of pseudonyms and false prophets.

Who... high astrology-believer.... are you fooling?

The devout Christian argues with the devout astrologist. He says, "who do you think wrote those things? They are applicable to everyone for a reason."

Do I need to point out the irony, sleeping beauty?

I've never been given the freedom to believe in such beautiful days as simple solutions to the drudgery of everyday life. What happens when every day becomes a novelty? What happens when you receive what you've desired for so many years... Does that mean success.

Sleeping so peacefully with beautiful and gorgeous vixen, made of tonic water and pineapple cores, ripe to the marrow, I wonder frequently how the hell this conversation continued and how we were both able to maintain a controlled stop at parallel park stop signs without intent to bash up a few bumpers.

We shared intimacy, unlike you. You talk of petty things and I painfully feign interest. How can I communicate with such a black hole of conversation?

My idiosyncratic method clearly did me no justice.

I wonder how we are even still alive together, with so many opportunities to die in poisonous spitefulness. In derelict inhibition and murderous cowardice.

The only light in this lovely darkness is spawned from my creative absent-mindedness. I allow my whiskey-and-coke breath to determine how day was. The spinach and egg mix I ate this morning, in addition to all of the shopping triumphs have lead to something productive. The appetite of love and drink and productivity have all been appeased... so what else is there?

There is sleep next to a beautiful woman that you cannot deny whom you love. There is erroneous conversation abound all transactions of saliva and crucial bodily fluid, the heroin addicts beneath the bridge speak of such poetic times in introspective illumination. You are nothing different. You will about this as a period of love and of the acceptance, analytically, of love and of love with sexual consequence.

There is time for sleep. To share pipe dreams of public humiliation in dark deserts of clouded thought. There are dreams of weird and pathetic grandeur. There are the cutest women sleeping peacefully in the arms of father time. They wake up older with knowing they are growing. They grow less dead each day and accept their simple fate. A summer of love, with the quality of dreams, will satisfy their souls unquestionably.

June 12

Fear of the unknown when is archaically hot and sweltering sound waves rise up from highway hypnosis. Digging under the river bottom, searching for tunnels into oblivion, but blissfully alive and glorious, back turned upright like floating dead fish and the attractive idea of suspension between planes of existence prior to that moment of confused reckoning where I imagine I will want to scramble to appear grateful and say goodbye to all worldly possessions. My deity, what if I were to die without first signing the proper paperwork for deliverance? What if I never wrote up a will? What a mess to leave a family with. Unless, of course, I outlive all of my loved ones. I'd be helpless to donate the belongings to the disenchanted, as a ghost-form hovering about death-attorneys and hated judges or priests with greasy hands and communion wafers tasting like roofies in certain church-themed titty bars, with a large organ in the back, playing contemporary pop music, unintelligent, like a great hulking beast of an idea that no one will ever have. Can you imagine an idea that no one will ever come up with? The  groundbreaking renaissance artists would never believe twitter to exist in its mind-numbing popularity. The nurses and nuns in this dream palace, this fun house of horrors, would be drinking vodka out of the holy grail in enormous intoxicating gulps, with pleasurable cursing and esoteric sins, the more unique the sinning, the better the party becomes and then the gambling begins, down the aisles of the masonic temple, then Satan fills in for tenor saxophone in a riotous jazz fusion band, the improvised diminished chords, unholy triads that summon demonic presence in the darkest moments of moonlight where everything else is either silent or dead as a mouse, we pick up where we left off then, in our contemporary society, of college bombings and educational disgraces, mispronounced words in melody-less frenzy, constant ripples in the space-time cesspool, we're skinny dipping our feet into the soft and moist earth, letting it squish like the veins of infants, first breaths become impossible in this climate for many and lungs implode with soft pops, like bubble wrap that never echoes.

june 7

This tension pulsing through my blood like clogged arteries and clots forming heart palpitations and irregular rhythms of this senseless body glove of mine. I do not have control. Laziness and procrastination are the most painful failures of existence. I watched equals turn into idols because they took back control into their own hands and nerve endings. They made us seem stupid, small, worthless and like we are wasting time at an epic rate. We burn through hours discussing the intricacies of trust through this wasteland of ridiculous claims and billboard smiling faces with spray painted slander across the shining white foreheads. Why would I trust this mother fucker? He puts too much product in his hair and wears much too nice watches. He is a dinosaur of this faulty system. We all turn into aimless, directionless drowning fish.

We are drowning fish.

I'm listening to the Alternative Press exclusive of I The Mighty's full length album, Satori. They recorded it at the same time we recorded ours. They shot a music video and then made a lyric video. I love the album but hate it at the same time. It's awesome and we could have shared the glory had we never succumbed to pot, alcoholism, or general laziness. They are signed. Is that all there is? How did they get signed?

You need the fucking fire lit under you for this industry to lend any sort of help to you.

-----

Frustrating vibes. Recycled cans. Cardboard houses. Abandoned couches and police brutality. Angry, resentful tears. There is no immediate solution. If to tolerate a person, one should take xanax, then the two should separate forever.

---

High school prom three years ago. The pressure of an awesome summer. Beach front beers in the sun all day long. College possibility. A great huge gaping hole in my life here as a musician. Los Angeles summer heat, murdering senses. 

"...made the transition from deja vu to unlimited opportunities almost seamlessly."

Thirsty Thursday

Chasing tequila shots with lukewarm Mexican beer. The appeal is very clear whilst the inhibitions are blurry as opaque glass. It is high time to play drinking games under moonlight in parks dominated by latino gangs. Witness misshapen people in travels around blocks. Hospitalizations and shattered glass. Blood spilled on staircases and in any case the sweat tastes like salt always.

Squeeze the citric acid from dark green limes, the ripest and the fullest in that fruit orchard underground. They clear out the raspberry vines for a full apple factory. This is the lakefront view in Yelm, the middle of bumfuck nowhere Washington, and this is the fourth of july with 1/4 sticks of dynamite to blow up rows of chairs across a mighty turbulent lake.

Portrait of abstract judgment. Make out sessions in drained aquariums. The octopus tentacles entangle us with thick black ink and mysterious bruises in the time of our lives. 

Junior Summer

Imagine the possibility for a life better spent dreaming, taking double doses of Dramamine under cellar doors. Imagine the motion sickness from the slow sway of the top story of a Chicago high rise. The higher the better, they say, stoned out of their sensibilities. I imagine how Seattle would have treated me. I would be entering my junior summer with a headlong force and fury. The mental collapse of giant entrepreneurs in a pressed suit and a scraggly beard… The city would have felt fine, although foundations cracking. I would have learned and loved with a greater ferocity than here, Los Angeles. I believe my eyes would have enjoyed Seattle much better. I love walking in the rain. It is not as acidic. Born in a different era, much happier then.

Junior summer. I would be getting great grades for excellent attendance and an impressive portfolio. Colors and words entangled in purple and gold and poetry-prose. Futile remarks protesting the passage of time in slow decay. We felt the invincible nature under city lights. Something familiar. A kindred spirit beneath the walls of cobblestone. The walls covered in paint and a history of passion. The Los Angeles indifference… the amount of people fucking and fighting without a care given to your existence as another human being on this earth… that sense of jaded remorse, or more so, resignation and acceptance of sub-human empathy in those closed black hearts of spiteful indifference… I imagine Seattle with a less cut-throat attitude toward artistic minds. Less blind influence. I put this northwestern beautiful city in a high place in my mind. I love it. I’ve never lived there but I feel I would be content with the overpopulation in a different culture. Los Angeles has a culture of crime and dissonance. Homeless people vomiting up meals you give them in the streets. Seattle has sadder, more resigned homelessness, in the cold air and the cold earth.

Is the sun really worth all of this pain in my soul?

I Could Not Resist

Didn’t you know that I couldn’t exist? This formatting, as diverse as all others, has an evil hue of hair pulling hours in silent college campus libraries. Coughing and crying ring out in the sustained white noise of thousands of medicated restless leg syndromes. The rhythm of this place is set at academic rigor. There is no time for free-form thought in such an organized set of boundaries. You have agonized and labored in front of this very screen for hours and clench fist hours. Occasional victories that felt much like the discovery by the tongue of an ulcerous cavity on the arrival of a soggy birthday cake on a privileged young lady’s sweet sixteenth. Only fifteen candles dance softly in the afternoon light. One extinguished by a barrage of confused tears….

“I was looking for something to do. Nothing I found could quite occupy me and with nothing to gain you know there’s nothing to lose.”

This testing format that makes my eyes water in the electronic glow. I am not basking. My eyes water cruel onion slicing crocodile tears like the tattoos on faces of weeping gang members when brethren go down in combat. Puddles amass at my feet as if I were an unlucky duckling, crushed beneath the rear axle of a speeding pick up truck down a street with no lamps. The truck carried with it other trucks to level other wild life and leave tire tracks in freshly born flowerbeds, alongside creeks and riverbeds, but never leaving that mark of obvious destructive humanity in the grass of freshly mowed lawns. They paid cheap labor to paint their grass green. Blade by blade. Cheap workers from countries of greater spiritual wealth in the land itself. They are not disillusioned by the value of objects in the eyes of the easily persuaded public. They know the score and laugh and weep that the substance-less rich deny their existence on a level of empathic caricature. Can they not take a joke? They shrivel at the vulgar language of truth and write in small print about the specifics behind all altercations between races in order to attempt a return to repopulate this new homeland security. I’ll trade you my false sense of security for your false teeth, old man on the city bench. May you hide your defecation from an educated public but enter a new sense of anonymity in your ceiling free house. The house of the earth with its cruel twists of fate that leave people crimpled in bitter resignation. Or is it a submissive defeat? That you lost your sponsors and everything crumbled.

You mustn’t always be such a damned defeatist.

I couldn’t resist. You know that. I’m stuck on this track of diversity of experience to sustain. My heart pulls in all directions and I must follow it through the grapevines of wrath and the tree forts of solitude in western hemlocks through gardenia groves in open mass graves through tortuous torture slides in sleight of hand tricks and whistles sound when I exit… There is a desire for the unknown and impossible future to become, at forefront, a catalyst for all present actions. There is a desire for the random swerving and the favorite words of other speakers of action and truth. Let me scream in your face god damn you!

Tired as a dead skunk

No rhymes valid. They can't park here with their wit and charm. They would be towed. The resistance of rhyme for brief speech in choppy structure is difficult. Attempt, dear lord, to have constant rhythm break to avoid parallel structured form or weighted verbiage. The word association is psychoanalyzed version of prose poetry rambling. It's one in the same, sarcastic non-readers. We are cognizant of the need for intellectual change but we drown ourselves in misinformation with cement in our shoes to weigh us down. Stay down, as your forearms burn and scream for rest and a reduction in strain. No such rhythm of this night beats so clearly.

I could be anywhere

Found myself in a daze of blurry days, locating all of the basic needs in new surroundings and finding pieces of plaster on the ground, the pencil streak on the wainscoting, an example, classically so, of an abjection to materialism and a general disregard for high opinions of projected value of consumer objects, there are sinister intentions at play and not all of us signed up in any traditional sense... This technology. This miracle and curse. A compulsion to create and a format. No matter how. Some general exposure and experience can change a life into an unrecognizable mass of coalesced particles.. Particles of energy and time exhausted on things in slow progression. Getting worse before we get  better. It's true. High speed formats of entertainment and neglected education, in the sense of annually raised cost of intuition, and the alimony checks won't come through, young Einsteins will miss out on further education, into a specialized career, taught by the professionals for an edge up, intellectual senses, but there is capacity for meaningless fun and spirited carelessness in the screaming, gaping face if utter annihilation... Andromeda is coming. Space and the ultimate frontier vs verses. Truth in regard to science and the inability to prove worth in any other caricature. The things a book can do to your everlasting soul on this transient soil. Brown and decaying in great melting chunks. Our hair falls out and our knees grow helpless and weak. Frail to touch, in wheelchairs as the world rushes passed in matching athletic apparel, from stores in economic competition, like world warfare, the same nefarious scorched earth policies and hiroshimas. We did the damage. Who is this country?

June 1

Struggle against the current. Release responsibility and allow your body to float away from your past. Your spirit, disembodied, can spend time back at shore, caressing memories, but your skeleton will continue forward as if the ground and your skin both disappeared in a sudden flash.

This is motion, like riptide oceans.
Magic potion to heal any negative notions.
We live in boxes out of boxes
until sharp edges become less defined
we run fast as foxes after foxes
rounding the corners of our open minds

This place is new and inviting. No part of my history is related to this moment. It is a movement unfamiliar and desperately flailing about like sea life come ashore.

What to do with all of that unfamiliar empty space? With these spacious high walls and stairways to heaven. What do I do to deal with the embarrassment of loud voices in the night? How could I count my material possessions as blessings without a tinge of uncertainty? The misplaced value of such objects. I have random things. Barely anything belongs to me and I could care less about their value but I was hooked up years ago and since then, moving wildly forward with such gifts fucked beyond recognition.

Enormous bed. No room for things in bedroom. Closet space.

may 31

wake up with me and fill my lungs with clean air
I am a deflating tire waiting beneath a car for the green light
walking through confusing and ambiguous dreams
who would want to die and remain forever there

hold me close and define my senseless jargon as something greater

I am the sum of my things

I am a fire to consume it all. money burning on trees.

I am the liar who has more boxes of t shirts than a human needs in order to exist on the earth here. downsize. let it go. this is once. not everything is necessary. did i get enjoyment out of the object briefly? can I look forward to future enjoyment or is it obsolete?

beautiful divine fields

these are found between two open human souls. open fully to new experience and crazily anticipating sobriety and the lack of drinking due to supposed and intense sobriety but the writing process through the drinking has held together that psyche moreso than most other degenerates... as most fall into hiding.

let's communicate in sexual rhythm. watch the sunrise because of our late and crazy night ending such early hours in the morning. the morning of a move! what insanity. the last chance to longboard fully back without committing 30 minutes of balance on jagged roads. oh woe is memory. oh to new beginnings and people making us feel idiotic for our closed off states in lairs of misunderstood hues of strategy. without smoking and anxiety attacks and the feeling of neutral and calm, the awr within, and the respect for all other types increases...

I wish I were not alone in greating this wild day. This work day and the sun was an orange orb in the sky, east of the 101

May 31

Deflate this air mattress with the weight of my dreams . Quote unquote. Watch the sky rise up through dreary morning mists And all feeling of coffee cup daylight in the midst of dreary mist writing like an act of feelings worshiped and regurgitated opinion, a vessel of life rather than a life vessel, with coins on out dead eyes we devolve unceremoniously into animals less developed. Flight reaction with beer tabs involved, a selection of craft beer with the more evolutionary and the terrible feedback with fantastic appraisal post show with a recording of our own show emailed home into our standard wombs. Sky turns in between shades of blue and grey, feeling stupid and reckless enough to write beautiful music and laugh playfully at the idea of waking up so early and testing the body for full endurance but the body must encounter a lot in order to fully accept bounty for compensation. Did they pay you anything? Expect nothing. Play to pay for beer and make it all seem worth it with bills to pay and negative effects of depressing sets with band lonely money stolen and everything. Moving four words. Sky is a lighter shade of grey. In between everything 

excerpt

Lately I’ve been dreaming of rollercoasters and fireworks. Works of art by insane architects, the spines of books burning in mornings glorious. Dreams of velocity and the golden cities of old become new here and now.

Yesterday

Morning glory. Coffee. Black. Woke up at an alarming rate. Bagel with ham and egg. Bob Hope airport. Shuffle all songs. Turn back to listen to a few album cuts. Turn down to speak of education and environmental concerns to weigh in on. We are in agreement. Hugo's Tacos. Perfect timing on used quarters to race against sharks. Malibu Canyon passed Pepperdine. Skip Malibu Lagoon for clearer parking. Move to Topanga Beach for a tan and the meditative calm of a crashing sea. Helicopter lands and takes off again. Low flying billboards. Our skin turns red and we walk along the nice ruins of our mutual respect once burning higher than skyscrapers. Houses on hills. Moon Juice. Perpetuated a healthy mindset for the time being. Fender Roads keyboard and a shoeless jazz jam session. Ping pong. Drum circle. Natural food. Music festival. Delicate drumming as intricate as madness. Return to studio. Wash salt from face and hair. Laurel Canyon to Hollywood. Wander Sunset. House of Blues restaurant. Power outlet. Music piercing through crowds. Let us move our shit through by bumping into people and spilling drinks and they think we are rude for this. Play show and the drums overpowered. Ears shattered. Brains exploded. We left exhausted. Dance party downstairs. Tired dreariness to end.

distracted youth

miles away from contemporary communication, lost in thoughts that cannot be communicated in any grand detail or efficiency. We lose track of space and time and ride a current that is sometimes indistinct. It pushes us away from who we were. It pulls us toward who will be. The speed and direction are determined primarily by lucky breaks. Loopholes in the fabric of time. The space-time wool knit sweaters. Only worn by astronauts, the grandsons of global explorers. Traverse into new lands for life in the soil. Life that lasts eternally on its own. Preserves that could use less human activity inside to maintain on a natural scale.

We are letting ourselves fall victim to this current, this movement beneath our feet. We allow our societal speed dictate a portion of overall velocity. Mostly the current speed is one hinged upon sheer lucky and motivation to continue forward at a decent stride. No longer a frozen stride.

may 21

Take close up pictures of my face when I'm sleeping and tell me I could be a jazz musician in clubs with my highly talented friends whom I often jam with in dark corners of alleyways, we all dream of these wild clubs with booze filtering through holes in the ceiling and only blissful intoxication pervading every attendee's features, making them all glow like phosphorescent angels descending spiral staircases from the clouds, only blissful intoxication and not the kind that leaves us regretful and hating of most things, our bodies torn up from the inside in these caves we wake up in often enough to call home, however temporary, then the godless dancers in uniform crash the party and enforce warped justice to the screaming eulogy of a first class jazz extravaganza. The clothes disappear like we've all got x-ray goggles to use for nefarious purposes. how is public speaking in a nudist colony? does anyone get uncomfortable in their own skin when they remove the masks and make amends on torn page at a time, the typewriter as an old invention to reuse and live inside once more, all my best friends are creative motherfuckers, it takes a lot of interesting conversation and bright lights, glorious, to make them sated and content with it all, the grand crystal ball scheme of this whole facade, we are flakes of white powder in a snow globe, constantly shaken up, we'll never settled at the bottom with the rest of them, rather live on top of the buildings, the glare of the glass keeping our eyes sealed shut, but behind the dumpsters in major cities there are warriors of great strength of heart in mindful ways living beneath cardboard and without the stigma and the potential loss of rights from without.

may 20th

Did I even live yesterday? My stomach burned angrily, having had to deal with an overdose of legal poison. I was in and out of consciousness, embedding jazz on to my synapses and reading about Sudanese refugees. I felt my body quivering when I woke up. I had been shivering in the night. Something close in description to delirium tremens through the afternoon. I was foolish and my memory is clouded with idiotic passages of time and conversation with the DJ and bartender. I met so many smiling faces. They were happy that mine was in their midst, acting like I know everyone. Introducing myself and making jokes about the true situation of my presence. I rent that room. You are partying in my front yard. Open bar and a creative bartender caused a sunday headache. Also, the kidnapping of my phone and the deletion of messages and people. The creepy taking of pictures and the ignoring of best wishes and intent. It's cool. I move soon. No lasting harm done. I met the parents of girlfriends of kids of my land lord. I made it work. I laughed and made jokes. They convinced me to eat and to make connection. They urged me to be social but I couldn't do much until everyone let Debbie get them drunk. Big lapse where the night ended. I'm not sure. No idea in fact. I probably passed out outside and nearly fell in the pool. The floating candles did not work very long. They all grouped together by the end of the night, as if the yard was slanted. The basketball court was a dance floor. Yellow and green banners on everything. I assume these were the colors of the future team the son will couch. Free food. Beer and tequila shots. Mixed drinks. I felt taken advantage of in the morning. My privacy had been invaded. My memory lost but overtly harmless. Just rude messages sent and erased. Conversations read. Pictures forwarded. Not too bad. There has been worse. Drinking so heavily after supposed detox, I am ashamed. But that's probably why it happened, I hadn't had a sip in a while. Felt drunk after first beer. Sat on the diving board and had a nice conversation with and old friend. Talked to tall basketball couches about James Taylor. Sports psychology. Jazz and music. Living this musical dream.

That was a blur.


That was a blue.


Friday was one of the greatest days of my life. I have not recounted quite yet.


Saturday/Sunday were as fun as they were wasteful. Sometimes you need to depart from normal consciousness. It's only healthy to go crazy. I hate blacking out but this is so rare it's interesting to try to piece a few hours together.

Weird brain tricks out of memories. Nothing special probably. But the appeal of some insanity is there. I'll never know what happened.

may 17

Stability is rooted in constant anticipation. With nothing obvious to look forward to, one tends to look back and become destroyed by the acknowledgement of the passage of time. There is a window for self-appraisal at the end of a day. If it is all toxic and negative then this period will include regret, a sense of having lost something beautiful and special. If it is positive and healthy then this time will be more loving and content with the unpredictable events of the day. It is the difference between seeing darkness or light in your immediate past. This morning so far. Could have helped move tables for a party I was invited to outside of my room. I did not move. This is not a regret. This is acknowledgement of a missed opportunity for human connection but nothing more. No resentment grows in my decision to remain horizontal.

One must look back every now and then to discover who they are, how they react to random stimulus, and trends that have formed. If one can predict a disaster by assessing the past, this is not a bad thing. Too much focus looking behind will lead to a major lack in presence and the anticipation for the future will be weighed down by idiot regret.

Look forward to something... To kissing the hair of the woman you love. To playing music with friends. To waking up in a new apartment. Anything. The smallest plan for the future can cause riveting excitement. It does not have to be huge. It is all life experience on this wild ride. This is a journey and everything fills your cup. Everything fits even as the information sloshes around and your brain bakes in the sun. It is all there. We are all here.

This life is something to look forward to.

As a rule, do not allow yourself to look forward to superficial goals... such as winning the lottery. This is not realistic in any sense. You are better than that to believe in such trivial things.

As long as you do not buy into any group anticipation for a stupid and media/marketing based event in our dumb consumer economy... You will be fine. Do not let a television premiere dictate your mood. Ever.