What you give away

It occurred to me the other day that you might be lying about whether Ray Ray was a pathological liar.

Aren’t all junkies?


No. I was gonna say, everyone’s favorite junkie a premiere funky who gets sulky in his freewheeling scene -stealing calamide lotion staring down the street while you pop those friggled uptown

home of the brave my ass I heard her say as you walked away

But save that for another day

Sing the song of truth

No one knows your name

Bring in

calamity Jane

Citizen Kane

Nathaniel Zane


Are you insane?

Some people call me loco

Mean Jean Feline

Coke machine

Powerful but


with the “wrong”


by 4:50 haven’t made as much progress

Tuesday’s gone with the wind 4:44 started

All these devised interfaces for me to write what I know for the immutable time capsule, the diaries of not a mad woman despite the claims by others who shall remain faceless at this point in time as this is just a platform trial and entryway error momentum: 101 cards, starting today.

Making progress.

I still think about what that icon meant when he said he hated progressives on both sides. I ponder such things. I need some sort of absolution.

going with counter-intuitive as lesson for today

card 101: See? I am not an asshole? Love letters 4 days away.

There’s no way to know…

…if this were true, you just have to go with it, I imagine myself surfing again on a perfect morning in the perfect temperature water amongst friends, no tiger sharks in the making or anything wrong with a perfect day, coz you get those once in a while even if Henry Miller turns out to be an anxiety-ridden, rule-maker not rule-breaker, and Jack Kerouac was delightfully all over the place but feels in the end like a Dead Beat Dad, since my generation, the X-girls, the generics, embraced it, not afraid of hiding out on the plains of nowhere. Until it means waking up Rumplestilkskin style, 25 years later after a bad, bad lapse in acceptance of what others refer to and agree upon as reality. And I’m not just talking psychedelic experiments, but the ways of art, or physical training that likes to puff up its spiritual bases (see tai chi, yoga, martial arts that are humanly impossible and make you feel like ben wa balls, the equal and opposite reaction).

Repeated exposure to threatening stimuli also causes sensitization of the nervous system. Sensitization results from a pattern of repetitive neural activation or experience.

Prometheus has a mistress

yet it is not
that few people know this

nobody cares
this time
it’s hot in
the desert
she is sick
of wasting time

the mistress must
each day
him to come
home from
workprometheus hurts

AH, Prometheus
I could love you
better than
moulder of mankind from clay
tortured by Zeus, reborn every day?

accelerated then degenerate
as is
the ancients way

In my blood like holy wine

‘I could drink a case of you

and still

I’d be on my feet’


The format makes me think, I wonder what Henry Miller, Hunter S. Thompson, Bukowski (heaven forbid), Virginia Woolf, Flannery O’Connor and my soft spot for a poet, Miss Anne Sexton would do when facing the page.


“I want a love that’s on the square

can’t seem to find somebody

someone to care

and I’m on

a lonely road

that leads to nowhere…”


The reason (there’s actually not just one) I love this song is for the — I don’t know what it’s called and am not sure where my musical terminology pocket dictionary is right now but it’s for this set of words that is not a chorus coz it’s just Etta singing to me now when Tuesday’s grow cold love for all my life to have and to hold — here it comes


oh yeah

I don’t want a Monday










oh nothing




I want a Sunday

kind of love


it’s the way she sings it, how is that translated into everyday life when there are so few real poets left?


I ask, pathetically, or actually not pathetically at all I just wanted to see how that would feel to say that was how I felt because here’s what actually happened, I scoffed, laughed it off, as if, as if it were that easy. I’d take pathetic but I can’t. I’m Christopher Walken in Deer Hunter with a gun as a gambling device against the House, the house is life, and the House always wins.


it’s not that stark, not that dark, I wish my computer would over-compensate for my lack of capitalization, I wish the banking system and the fact that I cannot seem to get my ‘rate’ would stop killing me. Am I supposed to go down there to the trough of the impoverished, I can’t say I agree with Henry that I am broke and it feels great maybe because he was 26 and in Paris at the time and I have been through the stupidity too many times to find any hint of romanticism in the artist myth no more.


No more may not be anatomically correct, and did I mention I am writing this to the songs on some playlist and now we’ve moved onto Nirvana and take advantage while you hang me out to dry


And so then it becomes this kind of automatic writing where you try to make sense of the cosmos and if words are truly my currency it’s a good thing I am also a hooker because they ain’t putting anything on the table but immortality and I’m not sure I believe in that anyway but one thing I think is bullshit is


of pretty much any kind


so let me just say go fuck yourself

if your reasoning was fear


I am the most harmless person you ever will ever meet.


Until the end of the world when I expect my animal instincts and life experience will kick in and you’d be surprised the would-be suicides who grow a will to live when actually faced with death.


Excuse me, I had to skip that last song, I must have been giddy tongue in cheek for that when I added to whatever playlist I am listening to, I refuse to look.


Afraid by the Neighborhood brilliant song of the year

I guess I just realized


“If you leave me

then I’ll be afraid

of everything”


The turns are the thing and the instrumentation but I am not supposed to talk about that because it’s not a girl’s job to understand that, so I keep probably what I am actually best at to myself,  because of when where and how I was raised. And that’s not an excuse, Tony Robbins, and it’s not really a sad thing, it’s just something that is always mine and there are at least 4 of those, things where I am insanely talented and no one knows it except a few people and there’s no way I would know how to make a living at it and that would ruin it anyway.


I wish I could be Thom Yorke singing “After the Goldrush” right now, he is inspired, I am in love with him but not in a physical way so it’s not what you think it’s not even his soul or spirit or any of that bullshit. “I was hoping it was a lie.” It’s akin to why I fall in love with the painter of something beautiful or terribly true and ugly, why the novels that spoke to me were those words I didn’t want to put down but then did, to savor the end, and I felt that those books were now a part of me. Do kids today even get to know what that means? To lay on your back in a faraway field in the sun (and the pain, unspoken, for now, that I have come to realize was perfect Greek tragedy except I was living it in the pastoral South) reading Hesse’s “Narcissus and Goldmund” while laying on my back, in the sun, with my dog and horse nearby.


Now all I want to do is be in an altered state. Am I that un-used up (as in “I want to be used up when I die” a clumsy paraphrase of Oscar Wilde or some such about how life is to be filled with the best energy you can put forth and I am so busy dealing with sheisters, assholes, users, false face society ‘friends’ and just surviving like a hooker day to day (and I respect prostitutes for dealing with what they do – -way more than sony executives and stoner actors who are basically full of shit, sorry seth but you’re a bone head and I only support you because of free speech) – everyone is a hypocrite or a liar or has given up.


That’s about it. Ask me when I am hungry in two days (sure, it’s all my fault, I don’t give a fuck what you think you know I am here to let you know in the safety of the lives you’ve made if you are judging me in any way or what I am about to say — but sure I should have been a lawyer, sure I should be psychic and not accept jobs that almost kill and sure I should have not have been tried to be destroyed by a few who you may never know but they did exist and they did try to destroy me and I know that is not my ‘fault’ regardless of what anyone thinks in the privacy of their own stink) which I will be. I am not getting a job this week. I have no money. I have to deal with institutions and they generally don’t value me on a level that is sustainable. I don’t really even want to be here except for a few people who are making it difficult for me to step away.


And until I am really hungry and back in that place of what the fuck skid row to live out the dream of poetry, well I can’t say I don’t want to fight the good fight.


First I offer love and compassion and a broad compass of acceptance.

Second I call your shit if you deserve it and it’s funny who the pussy-faced cowards are. ALWAYS the people in POWER

third, well we’ll see won’t we.


I welcome it if you try to kill me. You could make it quick, there’s no need for torture. I know nothing, have not been abducted by aliens and don’t believe time really exists so you could just cut to quick.


I don’t know why I am still here but I figure it must be important.

The continuance

That was encoded

with the truth

that never was

end: 1:37 p.m.

beginning precedes the middle below:

It is 11:40 a.m. on Sunday, nothing discernible has changed, in the transparent scheme of things, and yet, somehow, keeping afloat, like the Robert Redford movie where he says two words and one of them is “FUUUUCK!” at the top of his lungs when he realizes his water is contaminated.

I love that movie. It is a tour de force. I am not exactly sure what tour de force means, in the original French sense of the phrase, it is something beautiful like a ballerina perfectly executing Swan Lake or the voice of an angel, whenever it alights upon your sphere of comprehension. Take it in. Bless that. You may miss it all together, but that is okay, because the one thing that has been proven is there is some stretchiness to the cosmos, and believe half of what you see and none of what you hear or is it the other way around is good advice because all it’s saying is always get more than one source for your information. Unless that source is something finely tuned and humbly honed [my ears hurt, btw, or more exactly, my left ear keeps requiring me to stick my finger in in as if my hair were a sword tickling all the adhesive that won’t wash away. What is it adhering, you may ask? Oh, do not ask what is it, let us go and make our visit…

Now we have 12:05 p.m. after finding and copying T.S. Eliot (which I have realized says something about me, I’d swear my computer is making typewriter noises to make me feel more at ease as I channel my favorite author, poet, my favorite words in a string, much like radiohead is my favorite lyrical string of music and madness and sonorous sadness all together in a balled up string that unravels like pulling blossoms from a string. I begin. I believe. I humbly ask your forgiveness.

But I do have something important to tell you.
This is say to one in particular who I can never actually tell for if they do not know then they know something else and that is enough, and what would it be anyway, because it cannot and does not and will never exist in that formal reality we know as physicality, the force upon our chest, or the weight upon our backs, the searching you used to mention circumvented by this serious discussion and then I don’t know what, your wife’s nice ass, and my poetic distractions the dark mistress of an ethereal soul that I could care to discuss as time yearns by and I become more and more dissolute and resolved in my dissolution. Does this absolve? You, specifically, of being the leading one of the compliment kind and you can’t do that to someone who is obviously vulnerable so I hold you guilty [enough to say] of having to at least finish what you sought, which was some question that got muddled, and it doesn’t matter in the ways you think I am saying it matters. Absolve your brain of all belief that has not come between us, already.

I beseech you sounds so great in your head but I have never actually wanted to say it out loud ever in my life.

I love you, as well, an over-used to the point of meaningless phrase that always makes me want to respond, “I know.”

570 is all I can bare for the moment.

12:13 pm. Go outside for smoke. Consider jogging.

“Should this be the last thing I see, I want you to know it’s enough for me.”
-Ed Sheeran

All you do is let me down and somehow you’ve been okay with just admitting it, it’s a way of thinking so foreign to me that I guess I don’t believe it or I haven’t been able to comprehend for so long that it has almost done me in on the substantial planetary level. The physical detriments to my soul. I can’t carry you no more. Without a little more truth behind the words, that is. I am such a softie.

A variation on the Phoenix, in my imagination.
A variation on the Phoenix, in my imagination.

I want nothing more than for you to be happy and in myself, that all got lost, when I could no longer figure out what to do in a world that makes no sense to me and which I want to be no part of, and yet I stay. I hang around in emptiness. Floating whistfully away.



In the room the women come and go…

talking of Michelangelo…

It is 11:40 a.m. on Sunday, nothing discernible has changed, Take it in. Bless that.

You may miss it all together, but there is some stretchiness to the cosmos, and believe half of what you see and none of what you hear or is it the other way around. Always get more than one source for your information. Unless that source is something trying too hard to be ‘something’ since the truth is such a rare commodity, it can be hard to recognize from time to time.

12:05 p.m. T.S. Eliot that unravels like pulling blossoms from a string. I begin.
But I do have something important to tell you.
circumvented by this serious discussion, the dark mistress of an ethereal soul, more dissolute prof·li·gate of syb·a·rite bon viveur, more resolved in my dissolution than any recompense therein.

And what could this absolve? You, specifically, from any belief that has not come between us, already, in passing misunderstanding, a specialty around these parts where Twin Peaks destinations tend to ruminate too long in my world.

The women come and go
prattling about Michelangelo

Oh please do not say
what is it
Let us go an make our visit

like a patient etherized upon the table…

I slip off into a mindless slumber where the senses are shattered so the inverse proportion can be gathered by slicing and dicing thru skin, blood and bone to save some aspect of your anatomy they believe something about that makes them want to patch it up, enhance it or downright remove it…if that were they case, I would have them remove any memory of pain from sciatica as I am now holding my neck in such a manner as to cause ultimate pain so I must stop with the inspiration and re-feng-shui the roadhouse blues, deal with the very real anxiety from being contacted by people who want to yell at me for some reason and want me to do all this stuff for them and I can’t possibly do everything they ask not to mention what I need to be doing not to even consider the fact that there are things that have been gutted from my life for this very reason, and the crux of the situation is that I never learned how to set boundaries so what starts with T.S. Eliot ends here, with my
stream of consciousness
on the subject of

Let us go then
you and I
where the evening
set out
against the sky

and then I bash myself for not being a better poetry memorizer, I only know snippets like
“And naked,
climbed the weather”

But it’s my own words that
fill my head
as in
rona you called and i answered
full belly moon
and more to the point
those were narnia-blossom-love odes
I could never achieve

now having been
siddhartha-sized upon the table
I am
striving for
emotional honesty
some sort of contribution of
innate attributes that are valuable

level of zombie apocalypse preparation
producer skill set (always useful,
like a leatherman),
saturation level very high
blood type unknown
could easily die
if you
inject me
with IVP dye

but there’s no reason to
do that
you need
a barium swallow
which sounds
like a
type of
not the regular
suburban swallow
but the barium
Not as bad as the Boku Harem of birds, the sparrow
massacring blue birds maniacally
and just for fun
then making their nest on
the dead bluebird eggs
which they eat
Nature is cruel
not pretty
in fact
dolphins are known to violently
violate porpoises
(that’s just strange)
everyone knows
that chimpanzees
can rip
off body parts
like nobody’s

This is a re-write at the end of a day and I merged the two and I’m hoping no one’s listening, except my publisher-to-be and agent-nanny.

Namaste, let’s call this the ONGOING ICARUS of February’s Life Story.

I’m trying to get a few different stories going now so they evolve into books or scripts or vials of story you snort before going out to the Blade Runner Star Wars (i can see it in my head but it’s not been made yet actually) -well-lit stairwell leading to 5th Element type environment–but at night. IT’s not dangerous. Yet.

So by the time it’s ten years on, I can teach story telling thru multi-media platforms/interface/just not in da butt stuff filmic reality, community college Boulder or Bozeman or anywhere mellow where I can have a cabin, a dog or two and definitely 2-4 horses and live out my days not too shabby, working on these fucking books which I sell at the internet fair (we have spaceships, 4WD trucks and sports cars for different modes of travel in this future world of Keanu K. Dick) and contribute to that non-profit work I know how to do. So full circle fuckstick I will be. That’s the goal which means at some point I have to get over my email anxiety.

I could survive a little while on all the excess chub I have gained despite being fairly active (not just laying around watching entire seasons of tv shows) from chowing down on retirement fatso fare (they are killing those old folks with Quaker midwest cuisine which means “is it really food at all? we can’t be sure, love, snide new yorkers and pass agg southerners)…but I know it’s related to anxiety and not being left alone–because I could never afford the real estate and the gate.

And on to what might have been is over because it never was and there are things that could be better than what just happened to make me so sad in the first place. That is not something anyone is likely to get to and if I may ask, if you read this whole post, could you comment with the words: THANK GOD THAT IS OVER> so I know you read the whole thing!!!

Much love to all my readership.

I cannot thank you enough.