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.