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.