It hasn’t been that long, I’ve already removed you omnipresent watchful eye and it makes me cry thinking I could ever forget the nearness of you and all I really want to do the older I get is to slow down time or convert it so the moments that are dreck, standing in line at the DMV actually don’t take long at all and the moments you wish you could get back laughing with your father the only times you remember are the ones that come in knocking and you just feel that he shouldn’t be gone, not yet.
But that is becoming more common these days, with our “age bracket” not doing that well on the good run, no passings away into an infinity where no one knows what happens for sure but they fight wars and kill young men of all creeds and colors in the name of certainty that whatever it is we are fighting for is what my infinite beyond special imaginary friend really wants.
The cacophony is deafening in the end. You can only process so much before you choke on the bullshit. The weak ones will take delight in their temporal power. But you don’t know yet that you know better. But to what end? To have all your files alphabetized? She sure did lead an organized filing system life. As if that were the revised version then that accolade alone would make it all better.
I can say whatever I want. No one is listening anyway.
The artist editor shape shifter relationship is gone. While we were mourning the moving along of the old ways, before we even understood them👒 ah yes things happen so much faster now. Or do they🛁? The drunk chick in Garage Pizza was still sloppy drunk in smellivision slo-mo pretty blonde freakazoid mode. Was I ever that – loud? Yes. Obnoxious? Most certainly. With such little cause? Nah. Everything hard-won around here.
I’m wrapping up this unfocused diatribe because come in Irene is playing on iTunes and it annoys the shit out of me, Hemingway.
Look into my eyes / I am not myself
But then again / who am I
There was a sign over the concrete and to the south and lower left on the etched dried out tapestry map of your life flowing into the river that is my one and only breath, that never knew breath before you.
–WHAT IF THAT WERE THE CASE? If it were only true for you? Would it matter more then? Imagine that it was only for you. This life.
- When everything you want is straight ahead
- You might fade away
Love is so over-rated
too complicated to say
And here we are
Every time you give your love away
No one needs you
You better think again
You let somebody in
- And that’s the reason
- You do not
- Jump from. The roof (not to mention the fact that it’s not high enough anyway)
PIANO CHORDS A FLAT
-will take you for a ride
-why is that bad, again?
Aye, rebel music, oh why can’t we roam the open country oh why can’t we be what we want to be we want to be free three o’clock road block and I’ve got to throw away yes I’ve got to throw away yes I’ve got to I’ve got to throw away my little herb stalk
Suss me out
Check my life
If I am in doubt
Your two accomplices for the moment. Your momentum, while marginally impressive (only give the astounding depths of despair from which you’ve had to hoist yourself out of – the fact that there is any consistent productivity going on is a not of a benchmark 🛀🏼 but we know what happens when we put the cart before the egg.
The backslides comes easy, their nature is so come-hither. It’s easy to fall back into he patterns where you’re suppressing anything that you want or need to get better – just barreling through on some mission that will just wind up hurting you in the end.
The goal, therefore, becomes – with our without commensurate growls or interruptions from contemptuous sources – to attain a more-or-less-even-a-slight-percentage improvement in any of the following: emotional honesty with self and others on issues that you even know how you really feel and are I alignment (again, mais or menos) enough to be able to comprehend, then Articulate. Then realize. Evolve. Fit in, fall back, free fall, full of fear, how do I define me for you?
All her life she’d had to suppress showing any feelings of shame, despair, guilt or personal sense at all. She was told what not to do (acknowledge it) or face grave consequences, which actually later did transpire. Life is like that. Who knows? But her life had been.
Now the trial period was over, times enjoined and enough wasted hours cryogenically formed in the shape of her Heart. Now it was steadying and reliance and emotional honesty – with samurai sword.
Things occur to me and then I am off on a side road and I may have forgotten why I ever cared about some of the work I had to do but I always did and now I just don’t care in the same way and that is astounding and I don’t know where to start so I start with the room, without all this dirt but actually having access to a bathroom. Not paying a slumlord, it’s not worth it, but just looking at these places annoys me because my experience with landlords has been they are swindlers in this town.
It becomes a game of what to leave behind.
The pros-cons lists bore me now. I almost get the same results following a horoscope as I do trying to compare square footage to skank factor of the design choices but I want short-term and I am spinning my wheels-why because sometimes I hate this place, circling around like a sour lemon drop candy in my mouth, the tart sweetness the surprise oasis gems on little side streets and the birds sing here.
This isn’t turning out the way I thought it would be. Officious and highly detailed planning. Everything’s changed, again. I remind myself daily of what my father would want me to be doing or at least the right frame of mind to be in and now I begin this next stage of the plan where I do nothing wrong and everything goes swell.
See you on the dark side.
I am getting rid of clutter and in that are various scribbles on papers that could have only been expressed that way, then.
the rawness of the rambles makes them feel more like brambles
his was conjecture of meanings melded from papers just ripped in half readied of poe’he darkness made visible becomes the light – is called “impoverishment quota” 2006-2009 or thereabouts
In honor of national kiss a poet day
The dream denied becomes the dream that died
900 small deaths
Of minimalist irrelevance
the fingers you touched
Just the same
and there you arethe reason
I miss my train
We wait in blissful journeys laid waste with stories of each other’s loves as endless as the rainfall this harvest moon.
One of us will shiver
Always time to move on
from such things.
We do not know.
We never know.
You are always
Today’s national kiss a poet day so that’s why I wrote it
FOR SO MANY REASONS, UNFORESEEN AND PLANNED/CHECKD OFF/COMPLETED
AND THINGS LIKE THROWING THE BALL FOR THE DOG WHO IS NOT MINE BUT THAT MAKES HER HAPPY SO IT MAKES ME HAPPY
THAT’S OKAY RIGHT NOW
BLITHERING IDIOT THAT I MAY BECOME
this was the story
Always be nice to your sanitation engineers and workers, they are very important in disease control. Plus they know where the bodies are buried sometimes and why not be on good terms with that kind of Intel?
- I’m proud because I produced a garbage pick-up out of cataclysmic disaster, waking up to as a bear, since the sudden cooling in temperatures in this desert has left me groggy and dream-inducing lucid visions of sugar plums and usually ends up surfing or dealing with tidal wave in some form.
- Lately it’s been more matrix of job I can’t quite get out of but can’t quite do – yet as it occurs on the fringe of consciousness (like creme brûlée of reverie), crumbles off as wakefulness abides.
- I’m in a room like Brazil or Gateca or X-Files only we’re in charcoal grey suits asking the questions of terrified or defiant fleshtones in pinks yellows or blue indigo to warn us they are actors meaning they play people having emotions and we are after all humans stuck in between dimensions assigned to our greatest skill, 2×2.
- Ours happen to be interviewing and getting the truth but not by pain except the bloodletting phase which for gods sake is only virtual – our first collaboration – when I,prisoner came out and we met thru the mixed-sex bars.
- He was a graphic novel illustrator who could draw my dreams and that alone was reasons to submit the request to run the prison library which I did with his brogues Borgues posters advertising the good of my infinite mind so pretty soon we had a cult of jailers, reformed zealots, yard bosses and lost souls. The sociopaths sent tea cosies. No one could deny the efficacy of our ability to tap into your dreams and show you how to succumb not to evil but to let the dark embrace the light, the light shroud the night with hope the nihilists hate to say because it sounds so gushy but no other word conveys so simply the possible and Improbable.