leaves changing color

The shortest hand possible. I drove through the rain and laughed as I hydroplane, the back spins out, and I realign with the runway. Accents and tired facade. Idiot with a slacking, lagging jaw. Feeling myself disintegrate and become sallow. Where did the inspiration to create greatness go exactly. I've distracted from vocalizing and writing to pursue natural highs and family bonding time. One of these stunts growth and guides people to safely land on a plateau in a snow storm, comfortably covering you like soft blankets, massage fingers of addiction burying into your spine and doctors can't remove those dense surgical wires after a certain infection spreads, becomes ionized in the blood, creating pockets of air in the vessels that pop into confetti. You are craft supplies. Your skin cells coalesce with childhood glue. We fold and cut paper snowflakes. Trying to 'accidentally' cut suggestive shapes into the folds. Never worked out well and our artistry was questioned. Future hopelessness and betrayal. 

Allow myself briefly to become consumed with the weight of all averted past pressing on my eyelids day and night. Sleeping so deep in comatose bed frames, the truck of treasures at my feet with no key and that box will drive me crazy like nails into the center of my skull, curious cats slipping off thin branches and falling to their death feet first, masts raising on the horizon of reflecting water. We made our parents sad and thoughtful. 

We drank illicit sake from an oak barrel. Brown in color and texture. Induce hallucinations. Organize the work space and then return to a work environment once the jungle has been charted and explored. 

To Seattle we go with our false identification cards as relics to our younger recklessness. Our jeans are torn and we act as hero to the fate of the stories. 

Skipping the productive motions due to some climate acclimation and my vocal chords dealing with the shock of genuinely cold air as fall strikes through my coat no matter how thick. 

I won't lose heart to find my heart again. 

All Hail The Sun god

Wipe the electric    blank slate clean. There is a rising fire    behind me and to the right.    It grows in light and volume    each second, rising to meet the cadence  assigned by the refrigerator   and Roscoe traffic.               Rising to meet                          the energy demands.

Realize the necessity to edit.

"... there may or may not be an audience. If not, at least, the audience will be your future self. The applauding or booing crowd will be your future, tmore experienced, more knowledgable self. Some self that will look back on past similarities in order to compare them to the present with intention to analyze the events to predict any semblance of the future. It may or may not work, but it gives your eventual self an eventual chance to redeem your self. You might witness the observable effort given to the losing-the-battle art; the geriatric battlements and persuasive canopies of controlled and directed thought conveyed through words carved out with mother tongues." - Indian Guru Accent, with traditional sankrit fusion music and garb.

My inner dialogue was translated through my synapses into English but their external language was inhaled through my lungs and my ears into something less recognizable. I know it not to be gibberish because I know there to be construction all the same. The sounds are made by different voice boxes, different DNA and sentence structure, inviting the ears to perk up at the rhythm, at least, of rising and falling cadence. I enjoyed listening and can advocate the structure of such a language in which the locals will always be able to point out your accent if you learn the grammar. The locals will stare at you. They will sharpen spears and sentence ends.

Desire to view the world as a whole.

Doors open policy into how bad I feel.

Here is the belief in stubborn pursuit laid out sideways. It is 2:21 AM on Tuesday, September 17th and the smirnoff ghost from days of high school intoxication returns in a blue and turquoise shroud of tapestry curtain The bindings snap and come loose.

We are left in a dazzled daze of enlightenment. With my multiple personalities and my girlfriend. There are words spread out between us like a double entendre, bread and butter, red wine and a lover, and we've only got our selves to blame.

Elements in our eyes and veins cemented this. Despite all odds and sordid convictions, we will not allow our selves to implode. There is an understanding so pure. There is an amount of time spent fully focused on the eyes of another. There is... (fearful interruption of thought. loud roommates, we where, in past and present tense, the flushing of a porcelain toilet.)

Sleeping with another cold human being on a chilly night is rather nice.

Hot chocolate and coffee with kahlua.

There will be streamers and glitter in our hair.

I sit down and hear the noises of one hundred thousand crickets, the stomach groveling for more, the music selected by a sleeping beauty and the sleepy television shows enjoyed by the vacant, highlight reel minds that seek power in numbers and crowds themselves in with slamming doors. Their torsos eroded like sea pilings.

Distant cars traveling sounds vaguely like ocean waves crashing. At least in the sense of a perpetual recognizable sound. The battery of a shoreline during a hurricane, if it were a smaller battle at the scale model size of ants and an ant battalion.

Evil boys take out their microscopes in the jealous worship of the sun.

The sun god.

No gloomy evergreen rain for us if we desire eternal salvation.

Conspiracies and cross examinations. Meeting meteorites in head on collisions and hear music through the floor. The decisions of a lost  consciousness.

Next to the girl, the sleeping beauty, all will be lost, gracefully lost. All thoughts will evaporate a brain into mist, just to appease the 7th year of regenerated skin cells, combined into a new alternative to the present.

All other layers will slough off unless you write them down.

wine, jazz, and god

Imagine the wine & jazz festival for those with heart, the gregarious under dogs stay under the black light at home, searching for mistakes that are invisible in the daytime, have difficulty waking up happy, the idiotic noise down below sounded like warfare and the self righteous vocal lessons. She can't play scrabble because she is afraid of spelling. Jacob's ladder and the inevitable stupidity. We talk in the shape of an 'x' though we speak with our sad eyes and they talk of awful, contradictory things, speaking from a vocalist perspective, the bitterness overwhelms any chance for sweet salvation, you violent bastard death, laughing at my chairs, the ridiculousness of it all, fine, laugh you moron, the vacuum of space will swallow your soul and bottle openers in the shape of hula girls will fake death and hikes up volcanoes will erupt youthful splendor into the air.

Help me I'm failing. My inspiration to write has been wiped clean by the angry vacuity of those around me. I can't do anything but complain when given time to formulate my thoughts. I can try to discern beautiful moments, there are many, but my first thought mind always goes into the incredulous and painful recollection of unbelievable ignorant opinion. I hear about television shows. I hear about lavish wine festivals. I heard nothing.

Coffee to start my mind. Sleep still clinging to my eyes. Bottles of Corona line up the folding table. The folding red chair for outdoor events. "This is my schema!" you coy beast, unravelling your reactions to us, believing we might be interested. It reveals the absence of critical thinking. We can see through your stiflingly thin veneer. You are an ocean of shallow water. Up to your ankles. No blue whales exist in your grey matter. It is a dead ocean without any tidal motion, aside from the kind that folklore announces happens on full moons, and then again, since you believe in such other thoughtless horseshit, why not believe in astrology or that the earth is flat or in sasquatch with intent to hunt and kill?

"We believe in something invisible."

How about the sun? Let us pray into those rays of light. There is nothing else so life providing on this planet.

If I wrote a nice story with a happy ending, pleasant morals throughout, nice characters, exaggerated out of the realm of realism, into the abstract and blissful ether where the people who believe in god will be taken at the rapture.

If you turned on the tv and saw a mushroom cloud over jerusalem would you see a silver lining? would you be willing to meet your maker?

Wasting the earth because of an archaic ideal of heaven after you die. What about your children? Will you brainwash them into believing in the same story?

august 24

Here we talk, so painfully rigid through all of it, a burning desire to escape scot free... I'm sorry I don't want to exist in your mindless drone-happiness paradigm, free from sin, I can't bend that way. Your self righteousness would be appalling if you had the capacity to look inward. Your favorite color is green because of money. My favorite color is green because of the natural world. I am attacked for my desire to be an outcast. I reply glibly that it is merely a matter of taste, not due to an upbringing without a strong affinity with team sports. I can be a team player when I do not feel like the team is destroying my individuality. Ha ha ha.

To feel so lost in conversation is mesmerizing. I received these attacks, sent with love, they say, mind you, without so much as a fragment of retaliation. It is growing in me now. The gym this morning, with all of the mopped up citizens trying to work hard to stay fit and the illegibly television sets strewn about to make the cardio a little bit easier in such a dull and dreary world, these bastards and their flamboyant jogging shorts, made to look like clowns, with clown dreams of escaping the circus, but until then continually putting on the face paint. There are mirrors and words of weak inspiration thrown about. A really positive environment. With nice positive vibrations.

We are at different levels, different vibrations. We're up here, he says, and you are down there. You do not wish to come up to us or for us to come down to you, therefore there will always be conflict. I agree that there will always be conflict but are so sure that I'm way below you in aspiration?

It's frustrating to never feel understood.

It's worse when they say they do. The passive aggressive, racist, bigot, conservative, enivironment-killing, money motivated, art hating, ignorant fucks.

Now I should throw these thoughts away. They are so damned negative I'll have to carry them for the rest of my life.

Lost Vegas

The land was cross hatched by a drunken giant who shaved off layers of darker, deep orange-red into thin strips of yellow shallow colored intent. Here there are trees that reach for the sky like criminal gangs surrounded by police squadrons, helicopters circling and spraying their pesticide onto the fields of flowers indiscriminately. They think beauty is better on a tv screen. So they plug the quarter inch cables into their eyes and laugh like big buffoons. They have zero secret desires and they feel like god is a puppet master, they are nothing but a marionette with jerky dance moves on a stage that the devil has no interest in because you are too boring and safe and sane. Take a hang gliding risk and gloriously fall through the sky with no seatbelt to strap you in, no trampoline to cushion your suicide leap, another sordid 'fuck you' and we leave in pieces on the ground, our shattered glass faces and the notorious collapse of every bridge in the world, stranding people on one side or the other, never to be fixed because our electronics cease to work in a flash and we're stranded with our animalistic signs, our American value systems crushed by the weight of dignity and passion. There are no good dreams in this America anymore. Everyone is hateful of themselves and their decisions. There is no love. Let's make something good happen once again. Rouse your spirits or drown in a delirium. 

The land  was orange and toppled over. We drove through with wide smiles, filling our hearts to capacity with wonderful sensation. Now, the stark constant, the return to the apartment, has wrought horrible negative feelings. We are so sad to exist in this place these days. It never supplies the same glimpses of beauty in a day then driving through southern Utah. We got the fuck out of Vegas because it is an enormous hoax and a gimmick. The weak go there to disappear in an oasis, swallowed up out of the ocean of desert, draining lakes for tourist activity, and no the water is not clean, it is laced with pcp and lsd from the 60's acid explosion. We hated it and left immediately. We now see similarities for the same shambles of intelligence in everything around us. Nothing is sacred unless we make it. 

Las Vegas is a crock of shit.