April 30th

The words were perfect. They entered my ears like blankets soaking up spilled wine on hardwood. They defined my anxious questioning of the gears in my neck. I discovered a portal through the rabbit hole into a dimension of genuine creativity outpouring. I found a hole in the back of my neck that oozed red liquid that wasn't blood and we felt the dynamic shift of weight against our shoulders when I exposed all of the comfortable lies we told ourselves in order to stand up against the broiling tide. We were slammed against the bulkhead as we ran along the beach. Truth becomes like an avalanche. Your disappoint in your self is exposed in the sunlight for all it's worthless. There were cockroaches skittering in the unused dishwasher. The carpet acoustics were to be diminished with loud hardwood. No problems with carpet dwellers and we would have to speak spanish in order to maintain sanity. We would take the stairs and avoid garbage spillage in the elevator and realize how much we are going to have of one and other and how awful it could be. IT could be. Polarized opinions and steadfast, stubborn, resistance to change. I felt as if my life could change forever in a day. It can. It surely can.

----

Riff on loneliness. On empty rooms and sleepless heads. Fill the void with a meandering of thought like a vagrant and migratory flock of birds who go north in the winter in flagrant disrespect to social norms. These fever dreams are vivid but mean nothing. They are flashes of intense insanity in sweat soaked sheets and I am not immune to the appeal of them over this healthy reality. I wish for more visual freedom.

April 28th 12:09pm

I can still hear the electronic coughing of the space heater buzzing to life like morning yawns and a dissatisfaction with the waking state after the vast expanse of international travel dreams in those bleary states of rest. There was a quaint doppler effect, the electronic buzzing fading in and out, in order to radiate an orange glow of heat. Any poor creatures who may have resided on that piece of metal felt the heat as a comfort until their tiny abdomens pop like balloons in the fierce fire hazard shield of the space that space heater heated. The electronic buzz and these imagined pops define what my ears experienced on coldest winter nights, aside from soft jazz emanating from a speaker near my head.

As a side note... I opened this blank page (for typing as fast as my rage pervades) and considering what it would be like to advertise these rants as evidence of my past work for future freelance employers. I realized grotesquely how this may not be 'real work' just as a recorded jam session is mostly a practice and an outpouring of ideas to mull over at a later, less intoxicated, time. These are the things that perhaps should not be released (unless incredible!). Stuffy literary people would probably disown my words as evidence of true work. I break rules of grammar. I am aware that I break rules. I do not question the way my mind and body connects for the execution of these ideas. That being said. I spend most time free writing and very minimal time constructing pieces to publish in literary rags or magazines or as columns on musical blogs. Then I can introduce the question of motive. I'm not going to just write up an album review for myself. (maybe I should though. practice.) In college, I had the motivation to write through assignments. Even if the assignments were mostly nonsense in order for me to get a good head on my shoulders for writing. These directed moments of deliberate word choice and 14 page essays with constant revision and reimagination are evidence of my capacity to write anything for the 'real world' but then it is a question of speed. Maybe I can simply study conventions in greater detail. Know why sentences need all of the elements they do. Learn to recognize a fragment as I write one.... but I digress.

Summer sounds like an old black-lunged A/C unit high on the wall activated by a light switch. It's loud. It needs a filter change before more constant use as the ice caps melt and the sweltering sun comes closer to southern California with a vengeance. You've done this to your atmosphere you fools now I attempted to make you crazy or burn your skin as you gleefully bake in my rays.

April 28 1:24am

She was afraid of driving fast through the night because of how much of could enter her car. Like ashen hands covering over her heart. An arctic breeze in this suddenly midwestern landscape. She screams ecstatic joy at the rising and falling cadence of musical notes. Planned intervals and crazy discipline. They casually talked of tours inside the mediterrean grill where I got myself a beer and committed to making a video of myself playing drums in the next week. Clever conceptual art on the walls. The whole area surrounding the venue pervaded a communal artistic pride. I heard a jazz band playing live through booths of bead necklaces and art of the statuesque gods we ignore... they played Chameleon and I hummed it alone in line with no heart in conversation...

She couldn't hear so well out of one ear. Half of a buzz kill. Some determined following. Some scented princess named immediate regret. A smile to stop bullets from firing. Or freeze frame and drop like disintegrating bodies in an atomic blast, there is no memory left of them.

I have entered the void of abstract, intangible wires.. they connect somehow in my wearied, troubled mind. There is some thread running throughout but I am not a quilt. Burn through the hand woven remembrances. They are not living things like the people who made them. Why people believe in crazy things you wouldn't believe!

April 27th

Words that could be shared but we already shared red plastic cups and metallic cans. They were shared on the melted chap stick pipe passing. They were invited to parties close to current situations and feeling the weird connection between disparate individuals through connected medium. They rudely compared themselves. They felt obligated to discover the ego beneath our feet and our disgraced opinion of the world. The idiotic feeling of fashion and 'this is how the world works and I'm experiencing it first hand' kind of feeling. There are miscommunications and regretful decisions made in the face of so much responsibility. Tonight is the night to die anyway. If we're going to, it may as well be now. But the risk was not great enough for this kind of reaction to feel warranted and then I realized myself as a dissenting opinion disgusted by the fake laughter and the meaningless music, but it is popular so everyone can connect with it, an opinion that elicits more fake laughter, the kind of ghosts from tv shows of the 90's and the kind that never will leave my head whenever I do something that contradicts myself. They always know the best derisive laugh. They always know when to exit the conditions properly. They always know when to decide between continue happiness and unknown sadness. They know what it is like to desire to be more than a laugh track from a dead generation. They know what this feels like and that is enough to exist on this world. They are alive enough to find the party scene as a total lie. They are available for incessant ridicule. Drums played and beer pong in a shining live room with instruments right there and a killer round of pong throughout the stupid journey out of sobriety and into the familiar grounds but we journeyed with unknown individuals and made friends with them all, constantly checking glances for immediate eye contact and feeling loved by the constant fact of musical understanding... they wanted to get something out of this and hopefully they did. there is something genuinely wrong with how we go about advertising ourselves and that has nothing to do with us personally, as long as the whole group experiences new territory and makes friends with fellow lives, young minds with open receptivity to curious new ideas, the kind that have nothing to do with social status or background, it's about age and situation in the world. it's about consuming alcohol at rapid rates like white water rapid rivers and confidence to succeed even though the liquid cure is much more of a liquid evaporating in hot air, and nothing is ever resumed. It is a dropped call from a payphone immediately before murder. It is a look of shame in the eyes after the last batch of conversation fermented. I apologize for my opinion and sadly regress. I cannot believe that I've allowed myself to feel guilt for who I am. It's all environmental and the attitude where it all stops in time is forgotten. We always discredit one and other. I can't understand such a blank mindset.

What I know is that life is once. You have once shot to learn as much as possible in order to become the best possible. The only chance for historical memory. But I hate repetition. I hate routine. It should never be so isolated away from the individual that none of us are allowed our personal freedom. Continue to party or gather around the television? the hatred for such mindless absence. self proclaimed 'random groupies' and the girls altogether bring knives to each others throats, none of them welcome or worthy more than a constant dry spell and a new realization that we should forget our reckless high school ways and begin to find new heart in the new minds of individual souls, legs spread on canvas but never in real life, the words don't translate and it is a voyeuristic onesided adventure through space and time, but not alone, never alone, rude comments comparing this kind of style of writing to masturbation in retarded accessory and drinking the poison with the self satisfaction of sleep. The unintended consequences. Never the satisfied night for me. They were there but I hate wasting a drunk. It is silly. Unhappy and unhealthy.


It nearly happened. It almost always nearly happened.

april 23

These night winds will take me. Let myself be carried until I feel nothing under me. Desire the rhythm to fight distractions of second hand regurgitating information..


Lock eyes with fate and escape.
wielding firearms like dumb children
and never graduate
realize the regurgitated information
the blank terms and the years of misuse
and a willingness to dig deep into
now I understand
the entire faith in written word
I can convince you everything
of travesty just as long as I think it could make sense to you

chaos, my friend, is important
a random excitement
a random swerving
the best instantaneous meetings available


......


insecure. afraid of the words to say. the bridge between here and there. reality vs distraction and I can't seem to think clearly so I'll create a character.


She is a blurry image of whirling blonde hair. She is charismatic as an acrobat and she can sing too. Good god can she sing. And good god are the words failing me entirely




why why why
do we have to die
die die die



settle now precious
you are worth nothing

values should be questioned

but the heart of a value is to never question it
it's burned into your brain with high conditioning
and everything loses its meaning if it doesn't
directly relate to what your purple mind says
or remembers or forgets

did we act accordingly to plan

did we lose control again?


---------

red wood giant, trunks ancient like hieroglyphs and the pyramids, there are no reasons to believe conspiracies or other falsely illuminating things, like scrolls and impending doubt and the mispelled words that could make you fall to your death. These things in conjunction with irony and a sense of humor that pervades everything and the metaphors for well oiled machines and the level of cognition is worlds different and the concepts never allow themselves into place and I am incapable of much more than choleric responses to pleas against religious denomination and that special connection I'll never understand just like many for myself and then they will always believe that my love is based in sex and that there's is based on sick vigilante justice but no heroes in the sky today, they've died long ago with the dodos and with the extinct things that weren't before we were... the results of expanding monopolies and shrinking minds. the world implodes gleeful with high heels and stockings, stuffed full of rose pedals pried from the wet ground for scent but then death and the scent increases to a blistering orgasm, no one survives their mind.

everything happens all of the time

I have grand plans to travel and say fuck it with full heart

april 22

Find that broken red lawn chair. Sitting back with the spine twisted at an angle similar to certain yoga moves but without protective breathing. Tilt the head back and pry open the dusty shutters to observe a night sky that is never quite as dark as movies make it seem. Light and heavy pollution permeate. We breathe it in and allow stethoscopes on our shaved chests. We allow thin needles puncturing our skin in places that need to be numbed. Then lose consciousness and faint like a sissy in the waiting room, amidst the same crumpled magazines that were beyond reach years ago, they no longer give me a sticker as reward, this time a compliment and something like awe about how much I took on the features of my parents and the weird flicker in their eyes, 15 years later, that I've turned out in such a way. If they were to understand or die... I would never know. I will never return.

I can't shake the feeling that this has never happened before.

Spinning glowsticks and dancing like a careless mess, she turns her head toward me with a faulty acknowledgement. No, fallen angel, I've never met you unless on that evening I was as drunk as you are tonight. I generally tend to avoid belligerence on weekends when I'm out among people. Truthfully I barely deem myself worthy of the freedom. My mind is such a jungle gym and I juggle so many responsibilities, some of which are obviously irrelevant and self-deprecating.. Either way, my mind is a busy superhighway at night in a black out with 40,000 broken head lamps and cut brakes, everything screeching and swerving. Some days in intimate company I find myself as drunk as you, my dear. Your hair disheveled. Your face a painted smile. I envy your escape. Your solace. It's temporary and shame on you if you did not know that. I guess that's where the problem rests in me. I can't shake the feeling of imminent horrible morning. I can't forget where I am.. who I am. Some nights it would definitely help to be fucking absurd. Not to allow strange social conditions to disallow me a great time. Another thing, darling, I know you're barely listening, with all of the alcohol in your system your attention span is limited to immediate physical desires, sex with attractive person (perceived) and a bathroom because you've consumed so much liquid, but the part that turns off your filter remains in your blood until your grumpy liver filters it full circle.... One more thing though... The price! My god, have you ever imagined such an expensive can of confidence? These things are not for the poor and it is very clear that our value systems are warped when a PBR tallboy costs a grown man $11. You'd have to sell two records for one. How silly. We lose. We all lose. Oh, what's that? Your daddy pays for everything? Sugar daddy? Rich boyfriend? Sex for money and drinks? This must be a triple digit bill for how drunk you are, no offense. You'll have to do something special once you exit this delirium you've entered. That spiral vortex that will land you, safely, into the bed, the arms, of a strange man whom you've just met. Be young, lady. Be on your way. I'm not the man you think I am. I'm much better than him. I wish I could ask you to communicate your secrets to me. How can you let go so freely? Is it a mindset or a metabolism?

april 20

I fell into a daze
at this crucial phase
not today
not today

weary minds will be blank
I'll shoulder all the blame
what to say
what to say?

time to start some
peaceful traditions
no one ever knows
what we're fighting for


---

1:30 am

god damn has it been a musical day. constantly aural stimulation and bass parts, drum parts and keys with pads and sequencers, no one keeps up with this boiling space, desire to sleep but the music wins and the words come out like free jazz, boom boom boom, the loop pedal keys and the vocals with sporadic drum beats, grooves and volume, columns of air pumped through loud speakers, one man band, desire to play it all at once and feel the groove of something like a constant 7/8 mindfuck with tamborine off beats recorded separately and we feel the beat and dance solemnly, the duty to music and the ear training prevalent with each note and each downbeat, practice with metronomes and vocals lessons, harmonies with favorite songs and unconventional parts to write for crazy and wild migratory birds, the album day unfulfilled so I just hoped to make it important once more in a day in the future and supporting that local habit, it died when my speakers died due to the sleep mode and the ability to listen to a decently loud album until I sleep and the sound would stop and silence by proxy, the last fade out of the last note and then I sleep with the music in my brain and dream of it. It is a cultivated thing. The hours spent listening and focusing with polished intent. Let it overtake you and live and breath the musical honors of every possible instrument.

April 19

We fell to pieces like puzzles in reverse.

-----

We make a conductive scene, a field of conduits and of electric impulses shooting out through space... It means nothing, I know. I am well aware of the absent mindedness of such words wrapped together like chain link fences in the distance; the optical illusion. This is a verbal illusion. My regretful mind compares the bitter crocodile tears nearly experienced at the onset of the worst band I've ever seen with layered glass paintings on the wall... certainly 'heavy in monetary value' but this kind of weight or meaning is senseless like a passed out priest at an AA meeting.

I imagine the fields of glory. The young carnage on hoods of cars with doors open blasting unlistenable music that crowds of drugged up individual all move around to. They move in tiny circles as if their circumference was the length of their arms extended and they were paralyzed in that semicircle forever...


Tonight, a possibility I couldn't shake
there was an influenza of good vibes
there was an overused word
there was an opportunity
there was antidote
there wasn't

Dream of the possibility
a casual friend shot himself in the head
casually
and right in front of me
as if it were my fault altogether
but I hadn't seen him in years
and his intent never became clear

Wake up knowing you missed something
it was just there, on the tip of your dry tongue
you can taste it
you know it exists
it is a thought, an idea to shatter the bothersome world
of incongruous facts and ignorant minds
the ignorant minds that project themselves onto everything instantaneously
 the excessive conservatives. the minimalist liberals

reduce global impact, kill yourself.

------------

murder and chocolate. there are criminal videos of these haunted hero. they have taken lives of children and have stained their religious affiliation forever. how proud these ignorant countrymen become and how unsettled the whole structure is. there is a moment of confusion and blood. there is an anarchy of sorts but it is quickly reconciled by lies told and then untold by the news media with their perfect makeup and enormous hair, trying real hard, through method acting to envision some sense of pity and sadness....


the writing isn't working. I could have written beautifully. But I fucked it all up.


Sorry if you read this. You assholes. 

April 17th

Today had to have been the least memorable day I've ever had. There was day sleep and paranoia. There were realizations of self hatred though not for the body. Some social disorders that no one has been crazy enough to diagnose yet. Lovesick and cut off, perhaps forever, from the person who exists separate from me the same vein and the content disappears when I realize how estranged I truly am and that the burning potential might not be enough to keep me involved unless there is a dynamic regime change in my life repetition. If I have more days like this to come, I might as well die immediately.

Where was the dramatic life experience to out pour onto late night white pages. a cathartic experience and missed connections compiling like wasted wishes in a well. no amount of coins will buy you that good fortune.

this is wasted time defined. what happened to you

April 16

Running on the fumes of light sleep (on the couch, feet up) and I'm coughing up coffee scented coughs. There is a pot of warm black morning liquid and a documentary about my doppelganger inside of me. This is Tuesday morning and I've been awake and aware for 3 hours already. Already feeling the anxiety that I must feel to execute all the grand ideas that bounce around in my head in a confused jumble of fragments, of unfinished projects and dreams I'll never see. There are options for natural energy but I might prefer the unnatural and the bizarre and the least scenic route available.

Remember me, orange sky?

I know you are here to tell me that the weather will change. You are here to echo back the ringing in my ears and to let me know how small I am in relation to the sky where it is blue somewhere, black somewhere else, with white dots moving in slow motion across lazy evening skies through the trees. You are here to isolate the sensation of stillness in my immediate surroundings. Nothing even crawls. All are resting or in drunken cajolery without intent to attend Sunday mass. There are fireworks going off in the minds of many. The orange sky is lost to them. They are elsewhere. The deserted Sahara... left Sarah alone in her bed without her clothes... Cruel boys took them away and she will never fully recover from her uncovered flaws and her pigeon toed two step, though she will never fly unless from off the fire escape, sounding like a garbage bag tossed out into the back alley, there are nastier exits than the one in store for you... The orange sky, like none other. Nothing even rhymes to define. Nudity is illuminated in a lighter hue. The trees are silhouettes. Ambiens, jameson and blow. Missing out on the rager down the way. The vibe changed and everyone is self conscious instead of self-absent and sometimes the alcohol leads to behavior more sexual than they could ever tentatively guess. Some unforgivable shit but this yellow-red sky ignores and consumes all concerns simultaneously like alcohol washes away sins as well as compounds. We are all naked underneath our clothes. The fading grey orange eyes of this great painted ceiling will look down at us and our stupid decisions with the indifference of an anemone.

April 13

They say, 'love thy neighbor' but then are too afraid to journey over for a party when they hear loud techno music and a multitude of voices through the halting fence. The wooden fence does not sustain gaps between the boards and the culture shock would be like lightning through the senses. Not quite as damaging as electro-shock therapy where doctors induce convulsions and crazy people with brains on fire begin to act boring and same again. It seems the grid system is not conducive to amicable neighbors with smiles and milk-borrowing, perhaps even spouse-cheating and tire-slashing... the grid system around here is laid out to confuse the outsider and to lull the active inhabitants into a quiet and lonely daze, something like happiness in a day that lasts forever or is repeated until our skin peels off of our bones.. there are trees leaning through and daily disputes as to whom the branches belong at certain times of day when the shadows are cast between property lines and people genuinely care about these things.

We are afraid of rejection so we hide in simple bubbles. We fear the different and unknown, the unpredictable... The party seems to have died, the night silently swallowing another gathering of carefree exuberance... their cries out happiness echo out there somewhere in the glow of cheery constellations. They hang in stoic watch like lighthouses. Our eyes hear enough color to fill every canvas in the nearest art collector's storage unit. They gather dust and so do we. Stars are individual suns and on meteorites traveling through space and time, they offer glorious light at the horizon though our atmosphere surely advances the technicolor clouds to a deeper level of awareness... they know how to portray my thoughts in a pure visual sense.

purple liquid melting our shoes in forecast silence and radio weather reports.
store front windows busted in by a flash riot of color and mobs of bankers run through with burning money on their breath as they burn and consume and burn and consume
and then we say awful things with intent to collide heads like rams or elk or fuck all
they all crash heads against rive bottom and the larger rocks in waterfall hallways
the rivers that separate our species and keep us apart because everyone who has attempted to cross has drowned naked and upside down, all with insult added to injury and then again here we go for writing as quick as possible and in great bulk like a costco card and semi truck and never ending budget or the keys to the place with a technological buddy who can disarm the alarm to silnce authorities, maybe I would work inside the infrastructure to find codes and espionage on the nights without kings and diamonds with blood on wedding rings, we play with words with intent to win and you win lose your consciousness in attempt to follow me where I travel at the speed of 180 beats per minutes with no breaks and pure 8th note sentimentality and the grammar vocab and punctuation don't mean shit outside of a bathroom.. your own mind cannot follow and my future self as audience will never translate these words to anybody because they are self evident and the random creation in of itself is enough to sew many dissenting mouths shut or to shove a leather strap in there while reattaching a missing limb or two with forced certainty that the anatomy works like this but the only thing constant is the pain for the individual laying on that non-operational table with coffee table books strewn about of holiday greetings and family environment to soothe the impatient patients into a sleepless dream.


This is all such a sleepless dream.

April 12

Trust me sweetheart. We can make love by candle light without burning down your apartment building. Oh no you still don't believe that rose pedals spread across the velvet bedsheets will enhance the aromatic pleasure of touch and feel? I read it in a health magazine, that if we bathe in lavender/vanilla suds before first contact of the evening that every single one of our senses will be on full alert and our bodies would become frail and vulnerable to the annihilation of touch. We could go out on a date, I get it, I could buy you popcorn and dinner, sit through a shitty movie, hold hands maybe... Why don't we forgo that senseless foreplay? I know now that during that one, intense, sex scene our eyes will lock and in that moment we'll both feel a shared tingle from the soles of our feet, pouring out the tips of each strand of hair on our flushed heads. We will feel the chase, the wonderment of a foreign naked body. The pride and the illusion of pride in dark places where love is either a sacred shrine of an ignoble anti-saint. Believe me, my dear, the night will be ours to return to in lonely future nights when we are not together. It will ferocious and heart felt. With emotions all exuding from our sweating pores and the room tilts when we cease rocking forward and back on dark and soft things, couches, chairs, mattresses... wherever the activity takes place will be the very best place it could have been for that presented moment. Just take my hand and we'll be in heaven together... wait, I saw the fear flash in your eyes, I'm not going to kill you and then myself. We will lock legs and spiral upward toward god and climax in long and short bursts of energy and the proclivity toward moans increases with each symphonic trust,  our brittle bones shake with expectant marrow and all ends of the body rumble like volcanic earthquakes, enough to form new islands in the pacific ocean, our minds will connect and we will exhale heavily and the same precise moment like clockwork, one of us was able to predict while the other guessed correctly and this magic is the root of a successful fuck. Your apartment already, wow. I can't believe we are here. Can I come in? No I'm not allergic to cats.

Prose of The Day

 "And the esplanades suddenly seemed to him replete with cadavers, placid cadavers awaiting some kind of resurrection, cadavers that talked and drank, leaned toward one another, moved away, told the dead lottery vendor no as he tried to foist the dream from table to table forgetting that the deceased do not dream, that they detest the dream, the plans, the future that has excluded them, that they hate what they do not know, what they do not command, what escapes the narrowness of their understanding, and they remain stubbornly seated in old waiting rooms, contemplating each other in silence, with cups of nothing on their knees."

Excerpt from Knowledge of Hell by António Lobo Antunes.

LOVE

There is a stage of denial and then there is a stage of recognizing denial as an absurd self-deprecating front. When you become conscious that you are ignoring something more beautiful than sunrises, how could you live without accepting that beauty? There were nights spent together, tangled on tiny mattresses that locked our souls together in some romantic embrace even if our physical bodies were drunk and confused by morning. The desire spawned in these confused nights of scattered longing and the Seattle skyline at night over the water. The promise and potential. The longing and heart beating faster with words of collective lucid dreaming. If I dream that you are asleep next to me and you dream that I am asleep next to you, then theoretically we can betray our bodies and allow our minds to rest peacefully in each others company. Waking up alone may come as a surprise but to lucid dream about the same thing at the same time must awaken some spiritual connection. Something like the willful energy it takes to kiss every part of each others body. but that's where that ends. We can bury ourselves in pillows and soft music. We can give a fuck about nosy neighbors. We couldn't care less about the opinions of others and we can talk on the phone for the length of blockbuster movies. We can do everything together. We can fill the void. If we can pull off this collective dream thing we are masters of our fate and should remain, at least in part, in each others hearts forever. We don't know what will happen. Every time I see you it is like vacation. It is like I am experiencing myself on a beach in paradise with everything free and reality bends to my will. It is like I am truly and unquestionably the master of not only my own universe, but the universe in general. Would you like to watch me bend some spoons?

Her long hair, always some coloring to single her out from a line of suspects, piercings and tattoos, signs of alternative beauty, which to me is the only true form of beauty today, also a sign of some personal desire for mild self mutilation, and my own realization that this body is just a hunk of meat and flesh dangling on bones, and that pain is something we all understand in fair proportion, but every mind deals with it separately, there is a pleasure to be found in a personalized pain as in pinching yourself, on a light scale, or jumping through burning hoops of flames to feel the same way again... With her I feel light and free. We no longer hide anything. Very nice. There never was a reason to, despite gossip and talk. Our hearts were already in it.

She has a smile that stops hearts. A chesire cat grin to move mountains. Something intelligent and mischievous behind those eyes, the constant danger and inevitable unpredictability is what sold me long ago. Someone as afraid of commitment as I was. We found each other in a perfect climate of shitty relations and people to avoid... It was hostile all around us but those moments we stayed in each others arms to avoid the incessant knocking on the doors and walls were the very best despite friends hating us both for it. They didn't understand. Or they had a twisted jealousy.

I will sleep theoretically right next to you tonight, my dear. Look for me in paradise.

april 5

There is vodka in your teeth. Stuck there like cavities. There is mint on your breath. Like therapeutic tea. Your tongue is a swollen lump of words you should never have said. Your countenance one of a drowning person revived. Their life had flashed carnival lights right before their eyes. Now they are paralyzed by this gorgeous sight. The colors never leave their sparkling minds. You are a burrowing species into the reams of history. The likes of which had never previously been seen. You are unaccustomed to the limelight and always hide in the shadows. You are afraid of floor to ceiling windows. You are an image of moonlit night. As you well know, a soiree is an evening of music and light conversation where which the superior musical connoisseur will introduce new nocturnes to a receptive and earnest audience, who listen with childish curiosity to the swelling chords and rising and falling frequencies, the dynamic shifts that represent different sections, but nothing like pop music of course, this a somber occasion, celebrated like a happy funeral in the post-parade streets of mardi gras.

There will be streamers and enormous floats with naked dancing women wearing traditional religious garb of the Muslim faith. There will be controversy and hubbub but it will be all for nothing. It will be a group of insensitive people thinking they are harming the sensitivity of outsider cultures, the kind they will never quite understand but always fear of harming the integrity of for historical integration of violence in their society. Racial profiling is a crime against humanity, but the police are about the law. The law is crooked so why shouldn't the cops accept gambling money and other sorts of overlooked criminal injustice? If I were a cop I would be crooked as fuck. I would take from the poor and protect the rich. I would use my night stick whenever unnecessary. I would defend white collar criminals by arresting their enemies with idiotic picket signs. Human rights? More like human lefts. These assholes all have it coming with their hippie peace signs and their war protests. How could businesses thrive if we didn't have our work force of young men over seas in a war they don't understand? How could we still have the cheap labor of illegal immigrants in our factories with all of our American boys back in town? They need a good conditioning anyway, with our schools no longer teaching the bible and all. They need to know that the enemy can always potential attack their homeland and they should be violent toward any human of that one enemy's culture. Atta boy. You're learning quick.


That disgusting maggot line of thought. There are millions like this who will never see a truth that I can agree with. They are the plague of our nation. We are bound by the same faulty laws but the way we react is through intelligence and not blind fighting. Idiots are taking over. They always have told us what is the best way to keep truth at bay and to keep the public consensus under the table like an oval office blow job. No one understands. We're floating in space. Alive all at once.

april 4

He feels the earth start to shake beneath his feet as if he were on the precipice of historical discovery but then nothing happens. No one acknowledges his lapse and he is left with thoughts of further isolation and depression. Did it happen? Why didn't they warn us? He ponders the possibly of the devil rising up through the ground to enslave humanity to act upon his nefarious whims. This may as well have already happened, so the fear of this passes quickly. We are already deep in shit as is. The devil may care. He can roam freely among us without any turned heads. Our bars are full of hospital patients and children resort to free-basing laundry detergent to find escape from awful parenting and neglect in homes of particle boards, holes in the ceiling from all of the screaming toward god and heaven. There is no salvation in a slave state and your history stays with you until you die and then it is forgotten and only sick bastards will continue old grievances and fugues after you die. If someone hates you that much, the best thing to do for them is to forgive. A nice gesture in the face of bitter animosity is the most righteous possible activity when you find yourself in combat. Whatever the disagreement was over, it is all over now. Your dead. The issue must also be.

He lays on the concrete and stares at a gaping, starless sky. There are colorful clouds up there to represent changes in the weather. Different levels of conditioning at a young age allow these clouds to appear in a number of ways. There is utter indifference, a thought of stupidity in regards to keeping your eyes to the sky, but for meteorites and comets, for galactic explosions and asteroids that end existence of humanity. Do not be indifferent to the transient beauty of the world we share. This is willful ignorance due to subverted moralities and a constant striving to impress other mindless humans. Find yourself in dissociation from society and you will see how imbecile and moronic the whole system is. Define 'beautiful' for a person. Beautiful for a scene is a nostalgic event and I always imagine the thousands of others who have noticed the color changing sky as a dissociative fugue from their daily monotony, their system of trials and rewards, of unremarkable days lined up until everything blurs and a huge feeling of submission overtakes your ambition. You amble along at the lowest potential wrung. You should hang yourself. The sky will take on new colors in your mind if you do. There are no right ways to look at things but to ignore perspective is to shut yourself off from a world of truth and understanding.

Why desire to blend in?

We are not fucking chameleons or lemmings walking off great cliffs in greater hoards, are we?

April 3

Don't waste one last drop,
the scorched earth doesn't deserve
any of that precious liquid
and even if it could
majority of the terrain
becomes jealous and angry
desperate for temporary
relief
from the gleaming sun

solace for them might come

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Easy for train of thought to derail from the railroad spikes of focused poetic intent. All of the twisted synapses in my caffeinated head send off electric currents in a massive chaotic asymmetry. It is truly an unpredictable system though it is refreshing to explore tangents. This allows creative departure. Reality is a pulsing and vibrant shifting kaleidoscope. We all have our own minds to assess these random distractions. Such as Ginsberg and the Adonis of Denver who would ingest copious amounts of benzedrine at night to attempt to translate the continuous stream of thoughts occurring every waking moment into words. They would communicate with one and other in the most blunt and truthful way possible. Beautiful nights, sharing the mutual realization of (or desire for) truth. This kind of communication does not have to be sensible. It is success when it is felt; understood on a level beyond words.

april 2

Film our sorrows with the scrutiny of fisheye lenses. Our warped realities, honey, don't you believe there won't be a sequel to this. We're counting up the days until equilibrium like an hourglass on its side or in zero gravity, the granules evading contact with one another with a reverse magnetism.

Let the allergies take over and the horrible sleep fall over the body like a wash cloth and a dream of dreaming. Could not imagine washing up on that shore of regret. Must have the full wild life experience now and right now and immediately.

Why Write?

"... not that a novel can change anything but that it can preserve something.  The thing being preserved depends on the writer… Whether they think about it or not, novelists are preserving a tradition of precise, expressive language; a habit of looking past surfaces into interiors; maybe an understanding of private experience and public context as distinct but interpenetrating… Above all, they are preserving a community of readers and writers." Jonathan Franzen

April Fool

Our values are misplaced on diamonds and gems that mean nothing
Gather all of the riches in the world, you'll always feel like you're missing something
a constant sun beating down on the wretched wealth of seasonal defectives
how grand that sun seems after days of rain or clouds, how effective
awareness of the transience of existence
and this awareness is the most beautiful gift
you can ever give.
people often forget how to live
like they are alive and breathing
the blood in their eyes thick and seething
no, we are not dreaming
this is not just us getting into the scheme of things
it must burrow deeper into earth's crust
into a new place where we learn to love trust
but all these false idols will rust
the bleeding diamonds and greedy humans must stop.
underneath lazy oak trees and questioning authority
this is where we need to be
enough of this constant shuffling between
supposed popularity and incessant conformity
we are each an individual unique force to be reckoned with
a concert in your lips, concealed with a kiss
a love for trust is what I lust for above all else
stacking my sorrows on a lengthening shelf
I miss the simpler life I had when I didn't know people of this callous nature existed.



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"Let me in!" she screams pounding on the gate as the flood water rises above her ankles. Panic grips her mind and her quivering body, always afraid of vast and empty oceans. Her brother dangled her off the back of a burning yacht as a child. None of us recover from our childhoods.