Hear from the outside what sounds like nice, youthful adventure on the inside, that abandonment issue I have when I get drunk, those scantily clad part going girls in the 20 degree February weather, looking for a valentine to take home and try out with creaking bed coils until the true date approaches and many suitors battle outside, gently without trying to rough up their bouquets or bloody up their tuxedos, and quietly as to not offend the neighbors, hey, hey. I was distracted by a mess. Telephone dissonance and a bar scene indescribable. I nearly started crying. Here I am once more missing out on the present tense, the insanity of this greek life I can't fathom, those spray tanned, long legs and their disciples at their heels, gnashing.

Good Morning Sunshine

Cold lower back, grazing the tan/brown carpet where divots form from chair legs, that black beauty acoustic gem of sixth string is to the immediately vicinity of my right side, glowing restless in the morning fog, those lowered clouds elevate my clarity although the views are obscured, vague and defiled, made like Bob Ross paintings before completion. Stacks of books and psychology yesterdays, mirrors in water sources or shiniest reflective windows, into the soul of it, the heart of this raw earth and our horrible tendencies, shake it off like a bad cold one morning suddenly dissipates, pull apart the infrastructure of those sad dreams, the ones with countless animal deaths and awkwardly silent funerals, no jokes or anecdotes, nor eulogy, or pictures, just downtrodden families dressed in a mock up of black grieving robes, purchased from the funeral director's wife, who makes these weeping outfits for rent each day someone is lowered into the ground. You can wear one around your face like a blind fold if you wish not to know who died. Is there some pane for broken glass? Excessive, gratuitous love on sheer cliff faces, belonging to the parable of Zeus, almighty with sharpened scepter, glaring down at unarmed mortals with an anxious, testy look in his eyes. No one has believed in him for so long, with all of these modern gods and jesuses, that he no longer gets to punish anyone for misbehaving. Poor old guy. He was able to decapitate those who stood against him in the olden days. Now vishnu would send elephants the size of meteors toward his castle battlements until it all crumbles back into those low flying clouds I earlier mentioned.

Seagulls and crows picking worms out of the ground water mud. Soft low voices humming from without like radios left on in between stations. All low frequency mumbles and static. A hen from the chicken coop next door calls her sun salutation as the rays grow downward, angular through my window like a plotted graph of increased solitude between here and her mighty, fiery globe hanging up there with eminent, unpredictable implosion or extinction. I hear the cooped up animal cawing for the sake of sun's warmth after a night of silent huddled shivering out in the tundra of cold waste. It is a rejoice for newfound life in sun light. An affirmation of existence and I should have a similar habit, my god Zeus, what do you have for me for my morning affirmation? Is it the written word, yoga, prayer and candles? Or something physically active. A icy breath jog up the icy death stairs, the grand stairway toward orion. Twenty minutes writing. Ten minutes cooking. Ten minutes eating. Ten minutes preparing for school. Ten minutes playing guitar. Or should I let the day come at me like a surprise attack each morning? Halfway through my second cup of coffee, I realize I have to run out the door and have time for no else. Good riddance morning. I'll see you again this afternoon.

jan 26

A hangover from sleep alone, off to a bleary start when these eyes are so inflamed by visions of beautiful sunnny Seattle days, hard cased under layers of sea ice melting. fashioned a boat out of found objects though it doesn't float, it was an attempt to paddle across this ocean of sleep and find an awakening that is appropriate and inviting instead of past noon and confusing like some dusty angel had their weight on my chest as I tried to breathe through the night, great helper, she, to find me when I'm most vulnerable. Forget those subtexts, here is pure flowing water, tainted from oil poisoned wells and logging horrors, chopping down the trees to maintain plastic worlds and living expenses for millions of drone armies, just men, men with christian values who must chop down trees older than their settlement in this land in order to raise up a greater number of churches, churches, churches. Temples for war ships. there will be booze and hazards enticing us to sin throughout. these wasted bashful idiots lighting candles at bleeding altars and the mother they have abandoned in order to fund a worship for a false deity. there is no justification for this blasphemy against nature.

Stupid words.

Blurry mind and pained back. feel like I overslept or something. not sure how to resurface from this spinal injury.

trash vortex

There is a fragile balance between cities and nature. Over crowded cities rarely have widespread respect for nature due to a lack of exposure to it. When all you see is a suburban sprawl with sorry, human planted trees lining boardwalks of the elite, it may be difficult to consider the dying rainforests, the gathering trash in the ocean, the littering uncertainties of our species.

I say the world's most powerful nations should band together for a massive trash pick up service. We will all join hands, climb aboard boats, and address the plastic issue. Then we can build a projectile to house all of this trash and shoot it at the sun. Where it will disintegrate and our damage will be a bit less than average that year.

It is not comforting to think that even if we drastically cut back Co2 emissions, our atmosphere is still mapped to warm. All we can do now is try to slow down the results of our collaborative fuck up. The change will happen anyway because the elements are already up there in the air and we are addicted to oil and the burning of fossil fuels. We love the taste in the air on a smoggy day. Red tides with vengeful poisonous jellyfish with styrofoam cups lodged in their watery intestines. They will consume one human body in the shallows at night but it will not be enough.

Where is the black plague when we need it?

Maybe we need a plague of disappearance instead. A person disappears. The disenfranchised get his material possessions in equal proportion.

but Fox news first must die a horrible, violent death for any hope for change to become likely.

Jan 10, 2014

7:52 - 8:12

There are shiny diamond ideas in your eyes and I want to extract them for my own uses. During which, we can walk jolly from the covered cafe to the watered down cemetery and make a strange use of space on a hillside for all members of our family to be buried, rotting, beneath those tomes of sleet rock and sharp, staggering lines cut with crosses and godly men, born again upon death, when the reality from our worldly perspective looks rather stark and bleak especially when forests are cut down to necessitate room for the disposal, religiously of course, of our bodies and we become, underground open casket, part of the cycles, the natural cycles of earth, decompose and interact with other species hidden deep beneath the mineshafts and flower gardens, the squeaking breaks outside, the head is numb and the words real all strange coming out.

The coffee clicks ready and I envy that automatic process for completion of a task. Mornings find me lately in various stages of lethargy mixed with neck pain and vague frustration. Technology fundamentally messing up that rhythm of the day I desire. There are moments of clarity shot down my electric pulses sent from my broken printer. My dream catcher might be working against me as well, although this was an archaic technology made from natives near the Grand Canyon. There is glass that reflects me and I don't look like him. There is a dull head ache hidden behind my eyes for fear of inevitable end and a suspicious that nothing I ever do will matter.

How sweet to fall victim to these thoughts of inadequacy. Canopies of chandeliers well lit, euphotic, in this ballroom mind. Masquerade dances with other versions of myself. All participants had to decide which mask they would wear and if the pain seared on them would show or if they took the chameleon route and tried to blend, wholesomely, into the environment all beside them.

These first week of school days. I feel confident but weak. Victim of communication break down. Heart breaker. Hazy in stature, still not quite sure why I am here and if this is the perfect environment for my scattered sensibilities.

Friday. 8 am. Trash compactor bangs around angrily outside as if struggling to digest bad news. I am sitting with my neck craned listening to these violent mechanical sounds thinking about land fills and how, or if, they differ from cemeteries. More people should leave flowers at land fills for the trash they left behind, especially if it could have been sorted and recycled. Then I drift into the open ocean, the colonies of plastic bags, like pirouetting jellyfish dancing gracefully under black moonlight, then the filter feeding animals inadvertently consume this floating human waste, from all parts of the world, these trash filled streets and their run off...

It is grave. These reflections are not kind.

Wish to rejoin wild animal kingdom and depart from human social customs, the silly emotional triumphs and failures that dictate our movements as society-dependent butterflies, flitting around from branch to leaf, hiding those colorful sparkles behind our ears, tragedy removed from the present and sent out into a vast, unknown future, where all death occurs, but not yet, just wait, wait, out there like at a bus stop, waiting for something unpredictable and drab, a creature cloaked in the night will come home to you with a carriage and a proposal, and depending on how you are dressed, if those splashes of make up are symmetrical and your face all comes together with those savage eyes, this creature might take you, but the decision to go is based on attached to trivial things, what about my television show, you ask in full denial and cowardice, there is no more of that for you now, you were wrong and every shallow, empty thought, is taken away at that moment for realization of reckoning, there is no need to believe in anything other than a pulsing black void when we die.