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.