cathartic comedy bewitched the lack of confidence and subsequently air pressure propelling oxygen from lungs. it is a mad season. explicate they say. after the dark. after the fall. after the light. after the ash. after the decomposition. after the green. after the brown. after the black. after the fall. after the ash. after the decomposition. 1000 made from 1. only 5 will ever learn to stretch their legs. what does it all mean they say. the imbeciles are the fools who say it means nothing and do not understand the intertwined destinies of the grim fate of every particular soul. right are the fools who say the same but realize the comedy of free will. they say explicate. what is foggy is foggy. what is clear is only subjective. after this after that after who after what after when after where. the smile stays the same it is the sentiment propping the corners which changes with every passing phase.

a particularly well composed piece of literature worth bringing to the attention of sojourning bloggers: DEATH by NUMBERS: NOAH and The WHALE:

As our rotting bodies
Pay back the earth it's love
In a vile fleshy matter
We'll crumble into dust
I'll be picked up by the wind
And blown into strangers eyes
Defuse into their bodies
And their tears when they cry
'Til I have 5000 people carry me
'Til I have 5000 people carry me

Oscar and Lucy
Will buy themselves a coffin
Oh a single box of wood
That, together, they will rot in
And their bodies will decay
And combine with one another
Oh a single act of love
Far greater than any other
And in death they'll leave just a part of them
Oh in death they'll leave one part of them

Oh when I'm minerals in the soil
[ Find more Lyrics at www.mp3lyrics.org/pPko ]
I'll diffuse into a tree
It'll have 5000 brances
Which will have 5000 leaves
And I'll be in every one
Oh and when a leaf blows free
I will land upon the earth
And grow another tree
'Til I have 5000 trees made of me
'Til there are 5000 trees made of me

When Darkness surrounds me
Oh when darkness surrounds me
Oh when darkness is all I can see
When Darkness surrounds me
Oh when darkness surrounds me
Oh when darkness is all I can see
When Darkness surrounds me
Oh when darkness surrounds me
Oh when darkness is all I can see
When Darkness surrounds me
Oh when darkness surrounds me
Oh when darkness is all I can see

I will have 5000 bodies
I will have 5000 trees
Which will have 5000 branches
Which will have 5000 leaves
And I will have 5000 lovers
And I'll have 5000 bees
Made of me

emigration of six legged insects. spider shanty towns in my chest cover up the gateway to heaven's steps, flower pedal children, conscripted to laugh. sinister, riptide lips curl and quiver with fluid dexterity, compelled, jaunted to swallow themselves by a pure execrable evil. still, they dance doling out lime and chloroform dividing potential between the seraph and succubi--heavenly hosts one perfect and the other ephemeral, could rest my raging soul. but sat proper and primrose showered a blue hue through the wasted breath of a smoldering city, august red burns in an amber glow over her, the valley. the queen sat at her throne, conqueror of morality, sewing innocence with experience, weaving a gray fabric ocean, held my arm close and whispered, "we need but throw ourselves in". i am a martyr, but not tonight. emigration of seven scrolls across the eyelids of a mutinous wreck. you are the arrow i am its home.

my midwest queen born from amber highways, gilded trumpets sounding through her holes.
blue lights pour from the sky, red and august dawn breaks, we swam together through the salty spray of somber oceans (dead soldiers), mists of alcohol and clouds of cheap cigarette smoke.
from the pale black cliffs every evening, she crawled into my head, whispered "if only we werent just stretched skin and brittle bones." i said "well darling you are the pauper and i am the cathedral walls, maybe something holy will errupt, (sanctuary's the gift of my all hallows hold) out of the empty smiles that disappear when your pupils close, when my pupils close" youre tossing and turning in your writers cloak, coy cinnamon fleet foxes in your hair and down your shoulders parting for a cryptic brow-- voyeur arrows, over stale blue eyes that echo your soul, climbing the ethics of ivory and midnight. you are soft white porcelain in an orange glow. the sky is pouring. fine whiskey glasses its a chantry cove, but who's taken the helm when i put my pen back down?

cause i'll be tired, drunk and all alone. it was your pretty face, echoed and shattered the only stained glass windows i ever owned.
so please dont.

only something worthwhile comes from nothing, that is why love in its true form is so beautiful. it requires the complete resignation of self of two people. a common conjugal goal is formed from the emptiness, from nothing

pent up on a lonely mountain i am waiting to fall, i remember what i am in the slow exhale. i wont tell you because someone has mona lisa eyes. i like purple in Bb and A. sometimes it feels smooth in baby blue, thats ok too. i am not afraid of the silence. i am afraid of not having anything to say. i see the same passing smile. i wave inside. i dont know if i like myself more than she does with eachother's eyes. its ok if i never know. i am going to say thank you tonight. then start admitting its my fault, then i'll be a brave man. miss misery, i am not sure if we did not hold hands that i would have ever walked the stairs and empty space between me and you, all that white noise raining down to settle out blue and black behind everything thats collapsing still the same. i'll love you anyway. but i want to share a cup of tears with my queen so we can redraw beauty in forgetting our names, thats what they say will keep the rain away the gray plumes inside of me and you bellowing through the holes in my ribs and the pores in my skin, please, save me if i save you. painting lonely mountains on the falling face of a passing smile.

global amnesia, compacted white snow, covered red--was the movement of a hand for a dear friend. i am glad to see go, yet farewells are more often bitter at least thats what i know. you can substitute the world for yourself but you can never have both starshine and midnight on a cloudy day. i am sitting on a blackbird line. discovering what i need to stay alive, or what will make me like myself in other peoples eyes. i shed my skin and bore out a hole in my chest, grow the teeth that are meant to only sink in, and become one with the machine. living like a ghost. i dont know where to stay ok.

Once by the ocean, blue and bold, swallowing sin floating cold in a picture, perched with a murder of crows I count my reasons, watch my holes as they grow swallowing all my hope and in that sunlight shoal, faint and fickle I'm running scared blind yet beautiful and unaware I'm still a child, cloudy eyes pregnant with rain, and the chemical smoke blocking my brain, makes me sad, really really, ,sad I never see it. I never saw it.

maybe i just want your attention today.

Jack sank back in the velvet-clothed chair sitting by the fireplace and started smoking his pipe sporadically mumbling aloud. “Which is better to be blissfully happy or somber, to entertain a solemn incantation bewitching me the gift of pen? I say the later let me find no light as to not divorce my avenue of escape, my quiet and quaint sojourn to a place where I make my own fate, wish me not to the world awake. Yet smile on me, Father. I do not exist, I faithfully insist, as it was once annunciated from the fiery lips of a devoted acolyte, make me so. Yet let me breathe. I have grown too far from living under the lamp shade of an luminous chart of pluses and minuses—my shameful checklist of regression. And I live much like a man wrestles a bear for his life; a wild bear, untamed vicious, industrious never resting, so is the idea that perplexes me. I am to experience mental, and metaphysical, psychological strain to subdue the frightful thought or to befriend it is no less a challenge. And silence is all I seek, yet raincloud do not stray too far, for although you are my enemy you are just as much my friend. That charming cohesiveness of my worried heart and wondering head, so the bittersweet ache of solitude is to me, and it gives me and a dark cloud plumes just beneath these priggish and haughty skin and bones, they think they are invincible to the disease of man, they have a mind of their own, for my sake it is so, yet beneath it all it bellows pushing and blowing some somber weather front through my chest, my arms and my hands pouring out scripts, dialogue, storylines, poems, etc. I pray it is from God. Let me not think of it as from the devil. For I fear all matters of evil try to find ways into me. Accepting my fate as a vile beast! No! I cannot acquaint such contemptible reveries, illusions, fabricated certainties to myself, to God to all that is good! Me thinks I have become a madman wearing the straitlaced uniform of normality. I beg you leave me despicable swine, all things evil and crawling let me be. For surely it is weak, and the weak according require such a parasite.”

Ayn sat, listening on the window sill, looking out on to the street collecting an ethereal glow as the rain reflected the streetlamp’s light. She replied “Jack, I fear you have grown too fond of the night, and the alcohol.”

Jack scoffed and turned toward the window. He looked at Ayn despondently saying, “Ayn you remind me of my mother, always shouting orders, always telling me things I never want to hear, then again she was always right, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean you are.”

“well, honestly Jack, I don’t care about you. Not as much as Francis, Peron, your mother or Mr. Weathersborn. It just am sick of you sulking to all hours of the night drinking whiskey and writing on your father’s walls. If he were alive—“

Well hes not is he? He’s dead… quite very dead by now. a year its been a year since he died, I don’t think he would have minded. Its mine now anyway” Jack interrupted.

“I'm simply saying, preserve what matters most to your heart, don’t let fantastical visions and transitory felicity take hold of you, it will surely make you a gambling man; eventually betting things far more valuable than your creative edge. And quite frankly if I have to listen to another one of your discursive rampages I will break every one of those damned bottles” ayn recanted.

today is gray. i feel refined to that same hum-drum city logic on days when i cannot distinguish the cracked gray sidewalk from a pregnant sky. but with a curt tip of the hat the weather can turn its good shoulder and shine on you brighter and more beautiful than it ever seemed before. thats the thing about the midwest--the sky is unpredictable, you can never tell what kind of day or person you'll be based on the sky. the weather here is definitely an esoteric personality. though despite the ambiguities and seemingly arbitrary circumstances that roll in and out with the ever bellowing chanty midwest sky, i start to think that there are some certainties in the seemingly capricious order of things. i mean, subtle reoccurances of the same event like the constant collision of arbitrary atoms, must mean something. what i really mean is the girl with the green pea coat. because you wish it it never means that it will manifest itself as a true and real actuality. i wonder why there is so much light in the dark then. it seems like things that do not compromise each other run hand in hand off the cliff of reason. i suppose i should have paid more attention to things outside--never discounting the potential of anything. today i may just watch the sky.

polymorphic blossoms. antiquated crimson, pale and distant. mutiny. one by one. fade to kiss the ground. the grass is green when the sun is high. the earth becomes an angry neighbor as we walk barefoot across its stretched skin, cracked and dry. whisper "do not abandon me, for my umbrella has torn a leak of light, let in all the noise, bright april sound, let in all the rain, become safe from underground, calling. calling. morning. organic bonds, holding hands inside my head.

i got misery in my pocket and your heart in my hand, i am tired of red balloon rhetoric but that's just the way it comes out when i try to stand beneath a waxing moon. the railroad were stitches to my past, but im stuck planting seeds of good intention with a midnight spade and i'll stay lucky as long as i can think that way, im tired of the heartbreak havoc, my arms are heavy, blue and shaking when im running around begging for oxygen, its another weekend, another weekend, heard someone say you should forget yourself today. the kids are screaming singing "im an animal inside you" a wall over, faces flush red, words start to grow, and get stuck in your neck, roll over, shiver and shake, face coverd in the vines of a lonley mistake, i should be in an emerald jail or staring at the constellations glaring back, at my wishful sorry face, ill have to hate to pick back up again. living alone, my sunshine trys to hide her eyes, swallow the outer space. well, my old man sailed the seas and back. kicked the dust of his retreat to find the light pouring in, crawled to my mother's arms and said "lets bury our past". but im feeling cursed, tired and alone again, i just feel blue today, dad, and im sick of myself when im humming the songs, i write when im sad, but you knew all along God would send his Son, im giving up my life but my heart is something you dont want.

i like A when it is loud and ordered to the holes inside. B and E sounds good too. C reminds me of the dust bowl i live in--it is a farmer's sulking guised as a pleasant distraction that nothing matters. G is the color green. D feels like the invisible--if i could understand it or color a little melody i like it more. still sound doesnt exactly drown it out. i only get sad when i hear she is moving away. but not always. its cause i want to know my name through the eyes of a stranger. i despise the silence between us. outerspace. speed trials. but not for me. i wait underneath a sunshade painted gray for the alphabet to arrange the letters and empty space to gain the confidence to make you smile. then i feel like i belong to something bright, and beautiful. not with my head hanging down, trying to cure my golden frown with a big nothing rolling in with a midnight tide and chemical clouds. then i see the comedy of being blind, and i wish i had no eyes. skip and skate across a fiery grave, flames of an obvious ignorance licking my heels in the dust of my retreat--it keeps me dark anyway. i was living high on the day until i saw nothing and something were the same. but let the figures fade and pile up again, and the life i thought i'd love to share, is empty like an open chair sits with open arms and a place to sleep. but if we're living for the lonley notes that ring away in outerspace what causes the singly breath of harmony of your hand in mine to shine bright, and beautiful (cause it never lasts), wasting away waiting underneath a sunshade painted gray.

i dont know my name. am i in the absence of sunlight for the fourth year of pioneering the great escape? deep blue space. the invisible man said wait for while. maybe then ,( )i can kiss you, in between the bars, i am asleep today i'll never know your face, maybe we fizzle and fade the same like a shooting star. bright and brilliant because it only lasts for an instant than vanishes beneath the still blue poison and pain. i waited for the alphabet to arrange itself into the letters that would make you smile, cause then today feels like it isnt a waste when i am taking a fall feeling sorry for myself like i always do, i cant look past the face on the wall staring back at empty space. it seems like a joke to me why hold close what can be replaced. walking down Washington to get downtown. needle in the hay. but there's a whispering man a floor above whos words get stuck between the timber and chalk, how am i supposed to sleep, forgetting my name. cause the blue fire and flame feels the same, when nothing and something collide into a suicide of darks and lights. i kept my door open but i dont like living without a lock

I wonder if the wait is worth my while, i got a sorry face and a head full of gray.

"particles of light, particles of matter, come together for an instant then scatter."


what is it like living without an empty frame?

i got a long way to go, getting further away.

drunken mouth of words dressed as a tall tale, well she’s buttoned down, gonna tell you where she drowns argument where Everything’s for sale, cause it’s a damn tourist town, rob me of some decency caught looking down, the narrow lighted hall way, read exit in the end, I felt it was a metaphor for the circles I've been walking in

Do you want to know what it is like to have you stomache wrtech itself in to bewildering knots, not even a adtrot sailor has knowledge of. have you seen the night let the day from its clutches and paint its hemorrhaging heart across the morning, that is what hell feels like, when the small sincere child sees the impurity of the world and all that was once beautiful now crumbles away to dirt and ash—a perfect, putrid, vile, evil. I have seen the mirrored midnight compel me to to wonderous things, horrible things, things you can never know, things I will never remember. I painted a picture of blacks and whites, climbing the steps to an illusioned consequential breath--a shawowed perspective for what I realized as a rising success was merely the falling of my chest and all that is lovely only hurts my head. And I asked myself, Jack, I asked myself cold and sober, did you fall in love with the end of the world? To which the answer never came. But wait, slowly, quietly, surely, what is this light that emerges like a maiden from the mist—it is sleep. and behold my escape to a fantastical world of deadened emotion and unscripted reels played over the setting sun of a distant reality. For she was the end of my world, everything that I compartmentalized and hid as a secretive window in a pitch black cell. It was there I could invent. But an apocalypse, a personal apocalypse, changed everthing..

(dialogue by Mr. Brigwillow from The Secrets Of Cheshire Hollow--a short story i am writing)
Like all places I suppose. Certain existences in life are unexplainable my boy. The mystic, the ethereal, the subtle whisper you hear in your ear and heart that warps and cripples perception, granting illusion the mainstay of your addled vision—begs an explanation. For within the confines of a severely severed soul there lies an insatiable void of fascination for things less suited for the light. Such an inherent brew of the most fluid evil plagues the dampened corridors of our hearts, and living is but a wilted rose clinging to its last petal. All hope and fortune is abandoned here, beyond The Gates of Ends there can be no return, for regression of dying for the already dead would simply mean reawakening to the living, which is, nearly impossible, I might say. Which leads me on to come to say, why fear what you can embrace? Now, I am off to sleep, can't seem to get enough these days, it’s the anticipation I suppose.

“dammit kiddo, looks like you screwed yo’self on this one, aint no way even some slick shit like you cudda slipped outta this un,no, not even with no lies, big or small, not this time, you're stuck in that there corner”

“yeah, looks like it. Like aways when you live inside the circles huh? I know it is. I checked, I read it all through, nothings up ahead, I saw the sun rise this morning, it was murder red and foggy, foggy at best, at best. I barely could make anything out, it just isn't, normal. Not normal like I'm used to, ever since I gave it up.”

“aint nothin normal bout it sonny, aint nothin normal bout you neither. Id seen you walk up there like youdda own the place, caught a whim of smoke then choked back down to a skeleington of sorts. I've seen you before, pleanty of ya. Cause yarll the same. Think tomorrows always a day away, like it’s a drug. you figger its best ta push it aside jus like ereything else you done did. Till one day, one day it comes like the rains. Heavy hard and unrelenting, it soaks ya through, drowns ya. An all that time you couldda been lernin to swim, stead ya watched, watched and grew into the rocks an sand. Back inta the desert”

“naw now billie, you’ve got it wrong. You can't live how you do, I can't, no one can. Routine? Blah. I shrug it off like everything else. Id wake up everyday wishing for it to be new, but it was the same. The clock kept me living its twisted hurt, reminding me where I should have been when it said 2 or 3 or 4 or 5 or 6, and I never was there. it reminded me what kept on adding up. I stood frozen and kept on wishing something would happen someone would break the glass and stop those hands that machine. Nothing was worth it. The walls kept on growing yellow everyday a little more, like, like a disease. I had to get out, you don’t know what that does to a man, I had to leave.

“well, you gotta lern to walk before ya run I suppose. Aint much place for ya here, these days aint much place for anyone unless ya turned black to the soul, unless yur hungry for it, then they’ll want ya. Cigarette?”

“yeah I might as well blacken my lungs while I can, I decided I'm going back tomorrow, so I won't have a chance to do anything, you know how it is, they’ll figure out who did it then clip your wings before you get the chance to take off up the ladder. Damn government jobs, damn grey walls, damn gray life. I smoke too much and don’t read enough, I'm gonna die before I finish a book. Its always the last page.”

“yeah, I don’t know. Never was much for that kinda thing, always thought it best ta keep it close ya know, hidden and safe, jus go about trudging along toward something, I was never sure what but I thought the sun looked different so I jus took my chances I guess, didn’t get me far.”

“yes, see. It’s the clock, the damned clock, waving about like some police man thinking he can direct us where to go”

“maybe”

“maybe!? It is, it goes away when you don’t look at it in the face. Oh, that’s the worst, when you look close, real close, hell win everytime. My face always feels contorted afterwards. Ill write about it and then forget it ever happened”

“well I guess it depens on where youd had grown up at. I don’t care much for it now, aint gonna help none,shouldda sold out sooner though. Know it right as hell now. That’s the funny thing about walking in a straight line you ferget to take a look back erey once in a while, seen where youd been comin and goin.”

“yes well I suppose so, you really shouldn’t have. Say if you give me 5 dollars I’ll go buy some coffee and be right back”

“hell I aint got no five dollars, you're a writer for that news paper, I recoglized you soon as I seen ya from the picture there”

“no well, I used to. I told you, I couldn’t take it anymore remember”

“so you came here”

“yeah, I just walked out, and came here. Where ever it is”

“I don’t know, been walkin all day myself, forget where from. Don’t know where to”

“ah, yes. Eternally iconic the lonesome travler along some desert highway in search of something. Well I have driven down this particular rode plenty of times. There isn't much. Rocks dust, animal bodies. They smell. Especially when a deer get hit. Blood bathed the road. Looked like someone spilt paint all over the place. Then it gets hot and sticky, grimy and smells awful. I always get sick when I smell it now. Happens so much these days. Somethings gotta keep the population down though.”

“hmm. I suppose. Don’t change I don’t got no 5 dollars”

“ right, well I need to go anyway.”

“you aint going no where like you always do. All talk, that’s what ya are, newt and the big nothing, big lie, the big fool.ha.

writing words that erase themselves, I couldn’t get much better,

writing words that erase themselves, I couldn’t get much better,

i have come a far way from the basement on the circle. though 88 miles is not as accurate of a measurement. i keep staring down at the gray though, its the quiet screams of growing that pang deep inside when i am trying to stay light. i still dont smile much these days, not like i used to, its just so people think everything is ok, so i can finally convince myself it is. i am a painter who has been given palm full of clay. you feel like you belong somewhere in empty space between the bars you make it your own. opportunities come, and what you once wanted seems so much less appealing then it initially was. then desire is predicated by being a different kind of child. not like i am now. its when you want for the potential of things. there was a time when i didnt talk to anyone for months, at least it seemed that way. i better stop holding my cure close and listening to the notes before i start crying. i have forgotten why something and nothing are the same. thats when i know i am too far ok to ever be the same. its easy to go there, i know i am trying to stay clean but ill run away like i always do. i always said ill get through becoming you. i dont know who to choose.

midnight's rolled into a single cell. chalk white smoke that tastes like roses bled through the note I wrote right to peter and paul near a golden gate in midwest gale. ravens circle wide in the glow of a setting sun. exhaling extacy with the air that drains a freckled face's smile to a saddened sigh. says every time, you know you have to change. was an old man and his sea capsized over replacing pictures in a revolving game. (seven excuses. remembering the stripes on my shoulder don't ever match my face. i just stare at the gray turns black and white that dissipates into a lonely chair occupied in empty space. calculus bloomed into vines and slouching doves. fended off with a ghost named, ,passing by. the city stays quiet when im crying. the city stays quiet when im crying. polluted light pools in holes, keeps me up at night.

i realized today what i had forgot about since last april, that the sooner you recognize yourself for who you are and what you are capable of the sooner you will be somewhat happy in knowing where you are going to go or where you can go or at least have some semblance of an ideal of how your next step will meet the ground, and the one after that, and the one after that. everyone thinks they're a pro, or , rather, illusioned masses of people believe their school of thought is the best because oft he results it produces. i have heard relativism is one of the greatest evils of the world, specifically the 21st century (yes it was from on of those schools of thought). the thing is, not everyone is the same, and accordingly not everyone has the same desires, feelings, ideas about things--correct me if i am wrong (oh wait there cant ever be a wrong perspective! a triumphant victory of relativism) but unique perspectives, add flavor to life, it makes it interesting, worth being apart of and embracing. hell, if everyone was the same we'd be rooted in traditionalism...not that that's bad but i like to live somewhat comfortably in the modern world. having said that, i heard elliott say something that at first made me get start toward the ladder to climb up a smug pedestal but then i realize he was right. responding to an interviewer among the things he said was a sure way to fail was killing your emotions. i always thought a logical approach to things was the most sure way to succeed. but elliott is right. the man majored in political science and philosophy at Amherst. i am just a political science major who dabbles in philosophy and literature at notre dame. im trying to do something, like elliott, i dont like for 4 years. but in the end, we both are cowards. still i realize the necessity for logical thought. in order to achieve a lifestyle where i can pay off my debt and sever my ties to a life to hard, gut grinding, work i need to succeed logically now, and fail to be true to myself. the more i thought about it i realized i was always rushing for fools gold. but once i found some splinter of myself, i could never go back. and i cant now. we live constructively and progressively. everything must play its part. i forget i am alive sometimes. the times when i am not in the belly of a whale with a deep blue jail around me, floating somewhere between the notes climbing up and down some lonely cleft every day. its a medicine that causes more illness. i can tell its no good just because, but if that makes me human then why try to deny that the small bit of felicity i found in it. people will say, you should live this way if you want to be this or that. they say dont do that or this, or that, or whatever. its because they think in terms of checks and x's. they want some pie in the sky at the end of the day. really, its just that you finally get what you tell yourself you so desperately need/want. with death you get something greater than life. somehow through living by some set of rules and lifestyle you can make the portal to everlasting life open up by dieing. you have to live like a tailor. it makes me laugh. no one can ever know for sure, thats why people do it. because they would rather be safe than sorry in the long run, even after multiple trials and errors. its because people want to want something they can never have because without it there would be no incentive to live past realizing that very concept. eventually we just get sick of it.i guess it makes sense, thats why old people are religious. everyone counts on tomorrow to bring some change that they cant administer themselves. some people never realize it or crawl into themselves. i'd like to think that i wasnt a child even now, but i am. id like to believe i could forget about things i care about that other people think are a waste, but i cant, not right now anyhow. plans.maps.instincts. stars. thats what guides a ship straight. i guess we can interpret the prerequisites however we want.

i haven't talked in a while. i think its somewhat like that awkward silence in a conversation when your significant other interlocutor just lays down some heavy, heavy significant life changing comment that you dont know how quite to respond to appropriately, almost as if you want to answer the earth shaking comment that just hurled out of their mouth and hit everyone with an acme anvil, with another anvil so everyone is doubly dazed and amazed. but its not even that. its like i am at the uneasy exhale that comes immediately after, still groping for understanding, for even words to say something or anything, comforting, insightful...intelligible? its in certain situations micro and macrocosmically that a simple action will do. that of course is predicated by the setting straight of the head. tonight is a good night for farmer chords. if only, if only my throat was not as sore as the economy. only these days can someone get away with something like that.

i was fascinated at first that our stories were the same. then i realized we were both cowards, how noble.

midnight rolled into confusion.its the only time you can hold a setting sun and say, "how paradoxical living is at this very moment" i laughed. then i became depressed. i just sat by myself at tried to look up at a sky polluted by a autumn city in an autumn season. i have become an question mark. i see the eve of 1929. the lights always look the same outside. i am

people think they know things you don't. they make a mountain out of a mole hill whenever they can to shove your face in the dirt and pile dead weights to your already battered and sinking heart. they say"you mean this" or "you mean that" or "actually that is not right" you just smile and let it burn, i do. i think it is laughable. the incessant talking head with nothing to anchor its lofty, ever rising, prostitute of a human brain. selling space for egoism. laughable. sincerely humorous. (they will have their facts and no one to share them with. it is the principle of it all) a gadfly raging with ceaseless, nonplus facts and arbitrary melodies, endlessly eating away at your sanity, lays their eggs of perpetual motion, perpetual, bothersome activity beneath your skin. they hatch and crawl around beneath, growing ever larger with steaming, boiling blood and rage. why get angry at such simple things. i used to stay below it all, in a deep blue jail. life felt cool, and damp there. i am still learning to feel again. getting mad at things is a joke. i am scared today. i read elliott ithought about leaving a lot. it is a shame. i never knew how far he had gone before he stepped through the gates of ends. i think abandoned all hope when i entered into myself.once you crawl in and forget about everything its a long way back. i said to newt the other day, "what does it all mean" he replied "it is about spiders and lemmings" i said "newt, you are a fool and a thief! Dr. Hoeniker invented that months ago! how can you drop eves on such a brilliant man and claim his nobel prize!?" newt stared back with stale slate eyes, dull and lifeless, "do you think that old bag hoeniker invented something like spiders and lemings on his own? really, such a ingenious philosophy was not conceived by one man, alone, locked in his basement for a year to contemplate all of everything. i invented it over a trip with Paul on a visit to london." "Paul is involved in this!?" i said. "well, really it was me, he suggested the spider--thats like him you know" said newt "you know how he does tend toward the arachnids--quite curious really." still such a raw philosophy is too premature for revealing, i know this too. but it was the fact he mentioned it that made me connect the lines in my head and the ripples grew. i leaned back in my 40 dollar plastic desk chair and, time quake. there are circles within circles, how moronic and nearsighted i can be sometimes. newt just laughed, ayn did too. she said the humor derived from my limited intellect and the scales on my eyes made paul laugh so hard she could hear the echoes in new york. i am not much a fan of a hyperbole. ayn does it anyway. i was living in the middle of nowhere then--it was the fall of 2008, it was the second revolution of my circle. i have yet to determine how long my outer circle takes to complete one revolution. i would say that it is 16 years. that is when motion stopped. and subsequently it began again on an epistemological journey. i wonder where the travelers rest. i am not a particularly patient man. my two year revolutions are bearable, and quite frankly i remain ever pessimistic and frustrated at my nearsighted approach to life. i was living it, i am living it, but i missed it completely. just think of the things i could have invented in my head--social constructs, a blueprint to save myself and the world. my dissertation was delayed four years. im not sure how long it will be until it clouds drip into ink and form on paper a meaningful moan and complaint on life. it serves me right being solitary. waiting never helps anyone. it only makes them wiser and more tolerant. it is paradoxical, they hate it. i do. maybe i am too priggish. too confidant. yes. all too confidant in fact. how do you like that newt! you are always lifting the clever little things i invent and calling them your own as if all of us here are a collective brain trust at your disposal, your private crutch to hold you up atop the rest of humanity. well. as you know i have a history of katherines. ayn remarked that i am a man with no sense of direction. she gifted me a compass and circular spectacles for my birthday last april. "hopefully that gets you on track with life, and the other, you are always blind to the best of things that sit right in front of you" i doubt ayn has ever been wrong with such things. hopefully history never repeats itself again but learns from its mistakes and builds on it self to something greater. i was never asked to anything. i dont think it is because i am an esoteric soul. i think it is because i lack the refinement necessary to hold anyone close, and have anyone desire to come anywhere near me. if i told you a secret, hoeniker would say, i knew it all along, newt would already know because he always steals things of value from hoeniker, ayn would find out, call paul, paul would send his deriding laughter over the pond and i would be sulking. i hope there is a new queen. i know who she may be. it curious thing about attraction is, when you convince yourself of the initial notion, the irony is you are always late. i should have stayed north and wore my glasses.

i promise i wont go there tonight, today not back down mainstreet in the rain. im not going to let you see me waterlogged, floating in empty space. even thought i know im just alone, and i cant help myself to anything good. i tell myself i am falling down, i kick and cuss at the mirror that talks back wishing me worse, its christmas time in a black sheet havoc, blowing cinnamon slate storm clouds out at the ailing october air, im suffocating myself to feel ok, sometimes thats what you got to do, my lungs are screaming more when i swallowed a setting sun over a marble grave. i watch and wish for faith, wanting to forget i live in a bubble carton cell. it only one week until i can forget who i am and see the only thing that reminded me that its here and now, golden bronze singing a somber melody, i know you miss me. swear to me you wont get that way when you curse the heave droning beat and shallow valley breaths, ball your bourgeois hands in to an angered fist, i just turn up the music and forget everything. they love you only if you are shining with lime light pixie dust then forget you when youre walking home, its ok, i tell myself it is anyway. its no way to live. so why think about anything at all. to save someone else.

i am inconsolably humored. the Fry brothers are possibly the creepiest looking persons i have seen in my entire life--the resemble a sort of child's villan only older, strung out, sunken eyed, with a dark completion and aura the same, most defitenly more real than than a colored sketch filmed at high speeds and projected on a static screen. its no small wonder the mid west breeds organic musical minds.

some lyrics to a new song :)

bite the bullet and navigate the chemical clouds, the heart break anchor thats screaming out loud, it’s cross you inherit, that you're born to mourn, cradled in the womb of a storm, from the coterie, Catholics, with their stringent tradition, to the evangelical cannons with their canvassing missions, are convictions of the world in a white cap cell, living a paradoxical hell.

The global arena is a modern circus confound, we’re ecumenical clowns just singing out loud

it is 10:10 Am pupils constrict the night before it can begin again,
i am inside a dark ocean.
i am a wake.

evaporate
condense
fall down the side of a glass
evaporate
condense
fall down the side of a glass

words, brazen, strike with tenuous partiality, breaking soldiered bond between routine and monotony.

it is about the circular spectacles i have discovered, I remarked on the fondest of occasions, breaking out of the spider webs that always drape the corners.

gray men, gray women walk in lines to their compartmentalized lives, filing out of yellow taxi cabs, yellow like the sun spots on a starling--the irony is the same.

gray clouds obfuscate eidetic minds, the beautiful confusion of a droning kick drum and a diverging imagination.

invent, invent, invent, skyscrapers, tarmac, leather bound briefcases, highly mechanicalized clockwork, 1000000 dollar shirts shoes and cuff links, motor vehicles, microprocessed people.

evaporate
condense
fall down the side of a glass

evaporate
condense
fall down the side of a glass

spiraling forwards. living permutations of memory. timequake, like vonnegut says. i have been here before. i am here. i have been to tomorrow two years ago. it is not the love song of Alfred J. Prufrock. euphemistic metaphors. if life is measured in coffee cups. i have lost count of how many. tautology. verbiage. wrest myself from my hands. turn failure into a picture. run. walk. crawl. inanimate laughter.

evaporate
condence
fall down the side of a glass

10:35 Am

my chemicals
are rebels
there is a war of the alphabet and numbers
mostly double digit C, H, and O's.
but now.

forvever meets tomorrow.

tomorrow meets today.

shake hands burning hydrogen and frozen carbon slate.

it is all just empty space.

some one said "big bang, or i supposed BANG!" and people mobilized in masses to protest things that are plausibly certain, they grew into themselves thumping a God leather bound at the argumentative men with electrostatic hair and circular spectacles. The ones with gray matter that slurs a monochromatic world. it is fine and decent! said a hoeniker. this was just an illusion of the first occasion of lies. for he had been introduced to the seduction and pillaging of peoples good intent since childhood. it was the quintessential hand in the cookie jar redux--ironically it was the hand rather than the face that turned the brightest of embarrassed reds. it was almost so comical that even someone as esoteric as me could laugh. and i did. i said, "it is a pity", then pointed my finger and thought to myself, "this is what the midwest does to embellished souls...it makes them criminal" of course, every good parent knows how to deal with a cookie theft, ground them. what a whimsical, novel, thought. incarceration. indeed, enforce the federal confinement method, assuming guilt always. Oj got away. "its a pity" indeed. but what about the origin and end of the world i asked. we steadily work to its end while arguing about its beginning. curious. i said, but what if we discover the end before the beginning, then BANG! would be appropriate on more than one level--mostly because it provides a iconic onomatopoeia of suicide and also enlightenment. though i think the former is more valid. regardless, do you not believe it will end up this way" i said. hoeniker was a brutish man. his eyebrows always overgrown and nearly as mad as he was. always pensive too, yet you would never want to know what genre of super cell was bellowing about behind those stale gray slate eyes, sometimes i swear i could see the lightening illuminate his pupils--though they looked like death 99% of the time. He answered, "spiders and lemings". i supposed that meant he ardently cared not. what he really meant was people are fickle, and uncompromisingly inane. we are stuck with in a trap yet one after another, they line up to be bamboozled by the same shoddy trickery, the same carnival smoke and mirrors. you can stretch anything until it breaks i suppose. anyway, hoeniker was a bastard, a damn smart one too. he told me "it isnt about discovery, its about stagnation" so he died a stagnant man. i think he meant longevity, but stagnation makes sense too. someone is always bound inside their bubble of western, eastern, or middle eastern thought. some how its always the west's fault. BANG!. i realize now that all the discover amounts to nothing, because of the simply principle of spiders and lemmings. you are stuck in a circle, follow everyone to the next rippling ring and though things are easier to understand from afar, and you know all about the predicate circles, you still know nothing, its merely stagnation. hoeniker was right. he lived both lives--he was a scientist after all, i wonder how far out he got. he told me when he was a child he lived in europe, africa, asia, and even antartica. despite all his travels both corporal and intellectual, he became stagnant, and died that way. what a statement, what a death. BANG!, just like that. you can never wonder then where we came from, it is quite evident-stagnation. where we go is stagnation. for both imply in some odd humor that all the work that goes on is to move from stagnation to attain stagnation. you go there anyway. living is a tautology i suppose.

im always looking for a new window, a brief smile, circular spectacles, they make the world seem like everything is connected on the second time around, i am not sure i'll ever be ok after living through this for two decades, all i know is my name. everyone's got a lot of happiness pushing them along in their happy little hearses, tract, make sure you shatter the windows and drag them through the mud and blood and booze, its happy hollows eve every night and every day, i cant separate the reality of everything from blue smoke and stars, call your failures art, but thats what youve been living so far, victim of your own misery, tell me how do you want to be? everyone has their perfect plans, everyone knows better than you how to solve everything, just let me be, floating far from everything, nothings going to cure my kill these days, im just wasting time, just wasting words on my breaths, margot said "every breath is a gift, if you weren't so selfish maybe you might want to live" that is probably true. i cant even share my sorrow. so sorry k.r.,n.m. and everyone else that i keep pushing away. i want to change, i cant fill in the blanks. i never wanted you to see me when i am this way, shooting my mouth off at my outerspace. tomorrow is going to be a bright and shining morning.

no life. a phantom grins and whispers, a choking laughter, its gonna take away your fever, and thoughts inside your head, i cant navigate the terror pent up in your smile and awkward rigid walk, i cant keep it all together. i swear company doesn't mean anything to me, but the closer you pull yourself the more it burns and bleeds, you never noticed just seen the color crimson race through your white clothing and said " youre kidding" everything was beautiful and nothing hurt played backwards in my head. still reliving memories from 2 years ago, swore id crawl into a different skin but they think you are a freak anyway. and when i sit here to waste, terrified, blue and bellicose, pumping poison through my veins, i wish that loneliness was enough for me, but i know i am never gonna change, happiness is an empty emerald cage, sparkle, bubble over, and and in the morning all you got is rain, all you got is rain. "shine on me baby, cause its raining in my heart, shine on me baby, cause its raining, in my heart." i put myself in destructive situations and take the path well tread to oblivion, i cant help myself

Oh I've been hanging like curtains drawn over a window overtly concealing such disdain and storm blown vacancy, circles of emptiness like an open frame begging for a portrait, I wish it would have been that way.

A blank page. curiously intimidating. The words that fill this very emptiness have potential to change the world or to slip on forever unnoticed. We were all blank pages once. I think I am going to write a book.

why am i sitting here trying to hide when all this stupid shit collides, trading my mask for a pass into a midnight flu, i shiver and shake, earthquakes tremble up my ambushed arms and shake out behind my head, i saw a lion lose its roar inside those pitch black swells, projected, reversed and upside down, funny how everything really is a mess, more than me, then all the chemical clouds floating from your chap-lipped smoke drift off down the atmosphere dissolving into iron cage particles. searching for new melodies in a bryter layer of life, i cant hold it all down like everything is a joke, about the midnight riding the coattails of an afternoon shining brightly, rain clouds like a faithful dog, drowning sleep ushered in the softest sound, a cool and quiet morning, i knew where i belonged but never went there, its always a revolution always tieing my hands behind my back, finding sleep in someone elses face, tears me back down to nothing, beautiful confusion, you dont want to see me anymore, but ill be here tomorrow just like you have to be. everything adds up to something worth nothing to anyone, but maybe you or me, if you wanted it to be that way. I am sorry i cant see things the same anymore.

"i sit here shooting blanks out at emptiness. there is nothing left to kill, maybe time i guess. sit and spin the world on its flip side and i listen backward for its meaning. lonely makes me blue, Envy turns me green, Hate might paint me red, If I load my magazine But not just now when it's easy to stay clean When no one sees where you're bleeding, and im a stick man."-e.s.
i dont want to live inside myself anymore, got a hand full of cold damp air, and a head full of holes, heart full of anger without an enemy to choke--maybe i just dont care, i keep playing a distant misery off of a disease, and everyone's asleep to what goes on inside the borders of a page, wrote for me to see tomorrow or in a century, i dont know what to cure the sickness or the pain, got a city full of saints trying to keep me clean, shooting out their mouths tiny whispers to the Eternal to set me free, im grateful for everything, maybe some day i can know what it all means, and dissolve the supercell bellowing in off a fall inside of me, i dont know what i need, i just know what i dont when everything seems so abstract and out of place, make me love a girl to replace the chemicals and mirrors that catch me, make me love the world to live for another day worth saving, its not so far gone as it seems, i just cant.

today i feel a little shyer than i was yesterday. its finding yourself behind the eyes of someone else watching you walk across open space. awkwardly arranged. you can smile when the timing is right and join the ranks to be blown to oblivion, its a war of attrition falling in love with an empty glass or her picture you cant hold onto inside your head. when you think you are crawling close, you'll always be a freak to them.

if you mix musical notes strung out like black birds on a telephone wire with Lennon’s circular spectacles, or Paul’s clever use of the key of B, or Ben’s or K.D.’s dust bowl chords hailing from 1929, or Smith’s brilliance, or his storm cloud, drunken, garbled speech, my world blooms, bleeding a Technicolor independence day, marked by the ushering of outerspace, the quiet, cold, dark, breath of a memory that goes right through me, it rains inside but I am content. Living in an airless cell it serves as both my anchor and my alleyway. “In the safety of a pitch black mind” looking at life in frames holding pictures and silhouetted outlines I have left to connect the dots, follow the arrows, sketch the lines, write the words the end, a fond farewell to the continents, to all the oceans, to all the souls I would have loved to know, to the Georgia summer caught glowing in her eyes five years ago, to the Midwest’s only rose I tried to hold too close.
In a parking lot below an artificial light, there was a broken open vessel, an emerald ocean, somebody’s suicide; it is the concept of a rose. It scattered all the light, made the tarmac look like a midnight sky, incandescent constellations painting heaven here on earth, in the sully fountain of my guilt and shame, a projection of remedies, a 40 hour walk 4 years of stations of the cross, every one I'm grateful for, heard from a pulpit without a face our sorrow is piling up to turn tomorrow into a bryter day, I don’t know if I can show my face, my 5 year old wishes on a copper coin down the mouth of a morning, someone collects the light, spills out the belfry where the seraphim chime, you can climb up to the pinnacle of time, and slide back down, still the same, just older in appearance, and quieter inside.

I don’t know who I am trying to deceive, all the words and pages of text I put between you and me, just clouds my mind. I know where I'm supposed to go but I haven’t got the time, they told me I haven’t got the time. It is older inside.

i spend my days in the midnight of your eyes, watching life replayed upside down and backwards on a silver screen. ceilings grow faster and drown me out living everyday like a memory. if you could settle down, see the salt of the earth, breaks your crown ive been overdosed on misery since i was born into the midwest.
i fake it through today with some help from the drugs i take then ill crash and feel like shit, and think about running away and never coming back, then tomrrow seems like a memory ive lived a thousand times, happiness is changing names and shapes under the dim light i can see things through. no im putting all my hope in some future mistake, i wont ever know until its already too late. and my faithful blackeyed dog is a hundred miles away in a basement grave alone in an empty room. i dont think i can ever be saved but thats ok, cause a man in black said "ill do just fine" if thats how its going to be then thats how it goes i suppose. i cant keep a good attitude.

that happy boy you saw beneath the shallow plastic and shining paint, was just a joke, embarassed midday heat tried to hide and keep from show and telling everthing that is already clear to me, i wrote out my life on the devils pined to the wall, tattooed tongues born from the fine lines on my fingertips ink well still dark poison running scarlet marrying a time that wont ever be fulfilled, like nothing ever is. then only the sun can separate my lights from my darks stretch it out as long as it goes going no where at all.

"if my woman were a fire she'd burn out before i wake, and be replaced by pints of whiskey, cigarettes, and outerspace. then somebody moves and everything you thought you had"

-matnsas

i forget sometimes that i can make my own fate.

im an esoteric kind of soul. a connoisseur of eclectic novelties. still life, fashioned antiquity, sepia, neo-revolutionary, modernism--the great wave of personal discovery. its like how chopin killed edna pontellier. people do germinate like lima beans sleeping on a damp paper towl bed in plastic bags hung on windowsills to crack the walls of the solitary cells they are born into and grow toward light. its becoming an admirer of every work of art. that is what it all is. i love the world through the eyes of a kid. there is potential for everything then. music filters through me in colors and contrasts. i slip out of the skin i am in. what ever is dark and light comes out on the steps. it brings me back from when i become an old man and his sea. but its ironic. what does it amount to? if it brings more people into contact into enlightenment with the human condition, does that then make something worthwhile. is it that it compels people to do great things, does that then make something worthwhile. is it that it draws people to a higher end, religiously, morally? does that then make something worthwhile? something about the sorrow we share. if not that then what is it? hope? but that implies the former. if not sorrow than the quest for happiness and contentment, that still implies the former. so then i say, if it is sorrow what is the womb from which this is born? it is from greed. how to cure greed? it is impossible for being human is to be selfish, without it we cannon survive. so we can derive the paradox of the human condition, that we are called to live together yet when man comes into contact with eachother it destroys itself. so are we not meant to live as islands? this is equally destructive. so which is the worse evil? it would seem to live alone, yet this leaves man unfulfilled. for being empty requires that something occupies the open space, this is physics and common knowledge. yet we cannot escape its detrimental effects. the answer lies in a universal commitment to abstain from all thins orthogonal to the fulfillment of an eternal consciousness. without this, the human condition would be comdemed to death at birth. if that is so, then what is living worth? under this view, nothing. assissting and facilitating other peoples attempts at life are inconsequential, so therefore attempts at longevity will come apart and de-evolve into chaos. with an eternal conscious game theory suggests man will aspire to achieve what is necessary to accomplish this because it is a want. with out the desire for anything things would remain inanimate, and isolated--even molecules. so this provides ground for the evidence that community, though paradoxical, is essential. because greed elicits an eternal conscious, heaven can exist simply because it is invented inside one's mind. it becomes, then, a reality. without the ability of desire ingrained inside every thing both mundane and consequential, so an eternal conscious is born. longevity and preservation are the goal of man's existence. community provides a means to achieve this as a blank slate slowly becomes filled with color of experience, knowledge, and a developed conscious make people more able to achieve their goal of longevity simply because it gives them the advantage. everyone is aware that a task is more efficiently and quickly achieved when many hands do the work. this solves the dilemma of man's inherent sorrow. it in actuality is a most acute selfishness. and it is curious that this communal sorrow is shared in the same way, bore on all the backs of humanity, of those who are in touch with their burgeoning conscious. so living becomes easier.

Reel my past connected by bits of yarn and fiber like a spiders web in a windows corner, brushed faces, in faint blue lines, veins of life--pledging to the night as the smoke fills their lungs and fluid drowns like a knife’s hackneyed incise, tearing arterial cavities and hanging them out to dry like a quilted shirt strung high on piano wire across an alley with tenement mentality like the rats beneath--cluttered and woven knots like sneering waves atop one another at sea; with the wanting, the wanting of a beach.

A dandelion’s feathers fluid to the stiletto and rhythm of natures breathing, like fractions, fractions of (who we could be, Giants in a distant slumber waking only to Your call) won't you help me I've been falling from who I used to be, human. Memories cascading like the soft whisper of rain, gray vapor consumes them again like the soiled ill fortuned
greedy fingers of a beggar’s hands, fingertips smearing ash across the foreheads of my puerile reveries lain to rest on a tattered box spring mattress, springs bent, all but distant, all but distant and well forgotten. my immortal beloved, now an effigy—frame wasted to the ground. What was once beautiful is now like a bloom of shivered glass, barely sutured to the frame, precariously floating, reigned by gravity and crass. Synchronicities of beauty and mortality, hand in hand, a finely knit atrocity, bliss and shameful statues as ignorance’s pigeon, flightless and castigated with crimson tides—and oh that smile in their eyes fornicate candor, an unbridled hemorrhage that is always guilty. Acquaintances bereft of a lurid morning, like twine spun and portioned at convenience, fastened to a finger to mark a chore—now a somber despondency which changes with the weather. Truth like rust, veiled in the unforgiving dusk, asphyxiating any plumage from the tree of purpose--bleak and arid. A faint surge and notion shivers silence,
The seraphs quiver emptied to poison me with such fascination, to the most alluring, the first sign of spring, crocuses and lilies, pierced the linen white like a picket fence to stop my coveting of things, to dance like the butterflies among the doves, flying only ankle high, like a temporal sieve to confuse what I believe? Hastened patter and streaming lines--but to no avail, I would not have death as my bride. Acquaint with me the tempest that clouds your anxious vision, she was a primrose through the brass looking glass from the splintered warp deck, a calyx unscratched by the freeway wreck, but through a carpenters hands-- logged surface, hollow, and flawed—requited my glance, “she is so dead, she is so dead!” The insects whimper in my head said she that was all along. And my eyes ruse my mind; a coronary motion sickness confirmed in my bloodied cries what am I to think, we all can fall from grace sometimes. A tragedy tacit within our hearts as the distant slumbering giant lay exposed to the sanctioned derision” et tu Brute?” a meaning forever left grasping to the still frame motioned hand sutured like rail road tracks to the corners of my head, keeping me with the calm steady throb, of living still turning within me. Each breath an april morning, a gilded sunrise, such beauty in every step the ant makes, I was to be humbled by such an inspiration, a faith without bound, a love deeper then any valley or ocean trench, a devotion, a piece I had long missed. Such fraility plagued my mind now addled by a fouled breeze and silk screen veil that forwarned. an adultery
The widowed spider that sleeps on such a nest and collects the winged flying pests, like a menagerie of feasts, a timeline of succeeding events drains away. So streches the filaments and fragments, filibustered and fractured, a streaming line individual frames still negatives, sections, separated by empty space, the pictureless frames of a life left to live.


if you dare replicate the tellings of a wearied soul, misfortune will meet you too.

E=/=hf + (- C10H12N2O) + (C8H10N4O2). makes me fit into the end of a sentence.

trip
then stumble

and stand.

revolutions,
revolution
cyclical things.

i dream permutations of yesterday.

everynight.

things that are devious, anfractuous i mean.
they put you inside a deathbox on a hill.
roll.
rolling.
rolled.

see you say farewell to direct confrontation.

ferris wheels.
and tires
and bottle caps
and fortune wheels
and silver coins
are found in a carnival. one built on a scorch and burn, outsourcing, insider trading, the gop and the dems, the president and the patriot, the minister and the murderer, exchanging. musical chairs. pockets are where the secrets remain. ride the merry-go round.

it is ambivalent.


there you be above the bourgeois and their maelstrom of circular motion.
ripples.
come in multiples.
and grow grow from the inside.
that is how you know you are never safe.

bottle up that royal red exhale bending over backwards lampposts in a ghost town gale, spoken softly over the end of the world, hiding in between my friends conversations with an empty audience in an echo chamber fading out into the cool dark cell, time rolls away with a rip tide current, navigating the swells that you know arent worth it, fixed my glare on the end of a sentence trailing off. it doesnt mean much to me, but im trying to keep today in the palm of my hand next to the shivered distilled winter that spells out the end in me once again, its a paradox of gray that whispers today--my blue blooded curse. "this is the place where dead men talk to all the pretty nurses", everything becomes a matter of when. flaming suns spiral and retreat, park benchs arms seemed warm to me, red baloons and a suicide trap, drifting off inside a somber melody, and today seems like a memory i've been before. cause it becomes "all about taking the easy way out of here, i suppose".

"Sun's rising on a choppy glare
Rain dropping acid bought up in the air
A distorted reality's now a necessity to be free."
-e.s.

life as a wallflower well spent in the barrel of a gun. carolina mornings breaking open with an impending doom, nature's chorus bleeding out fissured wounds, smoke is rising off the shallow well, peering back on georgia's shoulders, cant connect the pieces any more. failure hangs on a circle comes back around again singing unholy hymns talking loud holding hands, to m o r

put me on the fringe of lunacy where the ghosts and specters linger whispering their subtitles of crimson rot and ginger, whisper whisper, whisper whisper, ferried soul, moonlight in shards of silk the gown of a bride without a corpse. so the window is a lonely suitor. better to become rags and riches, decomposed into spindles and fibers woven with dexterity one atop the other, old hands, scars, black, yellow, blue, shale, seamy skin. swallowed whole by the frameless nightmare of the formation of words in a toothless mouth. unhinging of jaws. riptide eyes roll back behind my head. scratch, and screech, are not the same thing on the horizon of lunacy. become intrepreters of the sea after a night inside an open boat. it is the lament of the sunflower. only they know, all things less suited for the light. invent your misery they say. miss, misses, midnight. is an alliteration accordingly. clever. i am well aware. but you say where is the bottom of everything. i say at the the top of nothing. still justice remains epistemologial. as does life. hold close your sorrow. no one can care as much as you do. that should be your answer. so leave it at that. i have become a silent movie. a mime i mean. its more comical than sad. i didn't mean it to be. i wonder how much i say is a lie and how much is a relative truth. i have discovered no one wants to know you. i think i will remain asleep. dormant. dead. it suits me well. i slip to the place where sidewalks dont go, not where it ends. words words words are useful little things, i laugh a lot even sing. words words words are like a sack of gold, the more you have the more you know. so laugh too. so tell me if you read any lines both actual and fictional, on and inbetween. i wonder if there is an echo? hello
i do not know the measure of the words i even propose.

untitled childrens novel

CHAPTER 1: Relative Movement.

The toad sat, aplomb, quiet, collected, by a stream, smoking citronella tobacco leaves in his hand-crafted ivory pipe. From two ghoulish yellow orbs he watched with a stoic sincerity, the river, and listened to its quiet whisper of forward progress. Low spindled fog rose off the water and met with the pipe’s smoke to be carried off down stream with the dawdling current. It was a morning of occasion, for it was his birthday, and like all things that are endowed to move forward so did the driftwood world of water gliding insects dancing on the waters skin along with the twigs and autumn’s leaves; all caught entangled, swirling and whirling about, living within the river. And to this particular toad, having been birthed from the very brook he now watched, it was pleasing to reminisce on life’s journey thus far. For, having once been nothing but a lowly pollywog not three years earlier he knew what life was like in the river, and being a seasoned toad he knew what life was like out of it. And upon such an auspicious morning as it was, the sun shone a little brighter on the brook at Mandrakes Estate.

“Mr. Mandrake, it appears you have slipped past time once again my old friend”, said Morton the neighboring newt.
“Ah, sure nonsense, sir, it is my disposition to remain wrinkled and warty, you never can tell a toads age by just looking at him, you always know by the cane they are carrying,” retorted Mr. Mandrake whimsically.
“Ah!, well I should have given you a cane for your birthday two years ago! Well, nonetheless, the happiest of birthdays to you” replied Morton.

I Have Become A Silent Movie

Recently I was retracing footprints on a trail once trodden and I came across a quote by Thoreau. He said “How vain it is to sit down to write, when you have not stood up to live.” Ironically at the same time I came across another set of footprints of my past—some story written by some nascent indie girl, the kind that wear those spandex leotards under and over skirts, jeans, and dresses with tall striped and poka-dotted and other genres of outlandishly decorated socks. The chameleon kind of groupie girl that assumes which ever shade of black or ambiguous shape the trend is, so when you go to look at yourself in the mirror you are looking at hell, that kind of girl. Maybe even the kind of girl that when you ask about her life she points to the collaged Ran McNally atlas of tattoos on her body instead of something modest like a scrap book. The kind of girl that wear large wooden balls and various other trinkets on their ears and around their necks, you get the picture, well she was a writer. Really anyone can be one, but she thought she was, a “writer”. I suppose she took Emerson too seriously when he said something to the effect of (I always imagine this interpretation of his quote as him saying this to one of his die hard fans, possibly some little kid about 8 maybe who asked for advise and wants to be some great realist novelist when he grows up) “listen you little shit, you can't just write from you head, seriously, what the f#&$, what kind of idiot thought that up. Dude, go live life, get high, get crunk, get laid, then write about it” completely paraphrased of course, but that’s what he really meant, so she thought. I think he forgot to tell the kid and “you'll also die of either a STD, ODing, or a failing liver or any and all of a combination of those at age 22, but hey at least it was fun and you can write about it now, right?” these days that is. If I was that kid I would have punched him in the balls and called him a faggot and screamed “Not if I'm dead ass!” I would have felt better knowing that my recently dethroned childhood hero could share some of the pain I was experiencing, and that probably would have given him something to write about—so really it would be a win-win situation. I digress. I was sitting in a corner terribly humored to the point of almost inflicting myself with wounds to quiet the laughing, as she wrote a story. Who am I to say its not a masterpiece? Right? Well, really, it wasn’t. If you like reading some droning clichéd pulp fiction monologue about a girl and a guy and the guy lied and made the girl feel like shit and a guy cheated and a girl then some scandal and a mom and drink and a guy vomit and a girl and blah blah blah………so my point is made. She thinks that I think Emerson is a dick, and an asshole, and frankly the very idiot she is and he made me out to be—clearly he never read a fairy tale and she forgot she was living one. Wow really confusing, but really, I haven’t talked to her in 4 years, and counting, but its partially true—she would think that, and I partly agree. But I am more inclined to think of all the faithful acolytes as such endearing buffoons who actually read the literal extreme of what he said. Its like the sheer irony they are living is too comical. The professional writers and disillusioned amateurs, they cannot comprehend that they are being beat to death with their own literary device—and my laughing rampage continues. It wasn’t, “go kill your life kids”, it was “hey find the truth by living, and write about it cause that is real, that is beauty.” I'm sure Emerson like me would have stared at the pile of freshly conjured up vomit and said, “ What the hell am I doing? What is this? Who am I?” not “HELL YES! That was so REAL, I can't wait to wake up in two days and write about this after I marry the dorm lavatory and contract gonorrhea!” What I'm saying is that living isn't and doesn’t have to be a continual multi-sensory satisfying experience that involves countless entourages with Captain Morgan and the toothless Sorority chick that only looked decent after 10 shots of Smirnoff or Bacardi, it is more than that, way more. Experiencing the sunrise, a new day, a new beginning, new life stuff like that, that’s what he meant—and I'm sure the occasional outing shot of vodka could slip in, maybe. I mean part of the fun is figuring it out—living that is. One day when she wakes up I should still be around laughing, cloistered in my corner. Who cares if I didn’t live life to bottom of billions bottles and public toilet bowls, to the tops of brain cell destroying euphoria discovering that I do indeed have 10 prehensile fingers and toes, to unprotected fornication and STD infestation, at least I will have had a good laugh. I think that is something even Emerson would have appreciated. Anyway her name was _______, I found out too late like I always do.

im a five hour fall from an avenue call, cant break apart the sound, theres a sun setting east and a traveling preist, gonna cure my demons now, cause its all over and done before. you can straighten your spine and walk a white line, and boast a confidence shroud, while the face beneath crippled, recedes close to the ground, i found my love in an continental park where the trees are skeletons with out clothes, the sky still gray turned blacker today chemical clouds bellow below, and the light post to me seemed to be a metaphor for something else, the modern circus elite clutterd like leaves under the park bench sitting on top of the world. its hard to manage but i make by with what i can do, when i'll suddenly wish to be alive someday soon. im a poison cough hard to get off, always trying to fall asleep. pushed down a drain of happier days before i met you. i wrote a message down in ink tied to a black book, said "everyone's wrong, i know what to do". then you become what you hate to be.


my finger tips shiver and shake. cant navigate the still cold pain draining out from behind my eyes. no one knows how i fill my holes in a solitary cell. its ok, trying to stay in between chemical reactions, fending off a fall, you go down anyway. running away from anything that knows my name, pushed into a suicide game. alphabet town. red and yellow, gray, avenues. stones cut into place pave the way. sign read edison and elliott, in an midwest summer. it felt like a movie scene from the 50's with ghost in the machinery still. dont let me go there again, it doesnt matter anyway. i know it goes to a dead end but i cant look away. i cant tell myself to become someone who will start changing things with themself. in between the black and white, distored fingers splay across an existentialists fate, you can make it for yourself connected some how across the horizon to someone who keeps whispering an alphabet to you. you know what do to.

triplets, i like b and g also c. dm c bb f gmadd9 gm f am c bb f a, in circles.it is misery. you know a sorry soul wrote that.

i still act like i want to stay a black balloon on a string, sooner or later you'll come back down, never too far, and never get it right. some how i felt that the formula for becoming involved cost more than its worth to me. and once you shake hands with trouble you can never go back into the morning. always living chasing a frame of mind. a change of clothes still leaves a skeleton anyway, you can paint whats inside. living deaf, and dumb, and blind, you know where you have to go but a holy man dressed in black told me "you'll be fine, maybe its just the devil you're trying to hide", thats how it goes i suppose. my arms are aching for the distilled cold dark poison locked inside a wooden box and stretched anxiety, used to write my name over embarrassed eyelids,and a faithful midnight. don't go there again.

"ill fake it through today, with some help from johnny walker red, and the cold pain behind my eyes that shoots back through my head, two tickets torn in half and a lot of nothing to do, but its all right, cause some enchanted night, ill be with you."
-e.s.

uncoiling vengeful laughter sits like a blackbird on a wire. pensive and reposed. the lead ball came hurling in off the electromagnetic combustion of a storm. i watched nature become the whipping post of its progeny. then you believe in anything close to the summers on the atlantic. dust bowl fields burn august red, november too. it is a comedy of errors that you never see until a dead bird beats his wings, there is no merit in any attempt to rectify. that is when the wild things bloom. thats when the bottom of everything meets you in an austere alleyway that is narrow, narrow, then you are lucky for the dead weight trouble, walking a tight rope wire, sitting like a black bird, taking a fall.

its a modern circus about turning cast iron keys bearing your stubborn anvil stake, as coy dragon crawls across your face drawing out all the rain, subscribing to the foolish love of holding on to everything. but its balanced and transgresses back and forth across the divide between night and day, that elusive horizon of where you're never placed no i just think of the days in terms of pages i've never read, then you assume a place in front of an emerald slate letting go of everything.

sitting inside a white balloon, a white wall cell. pulses surge and retreat along set of narrow steps. radio waves break upside down, where everything is ok, exactly how i am supposed to be. miss misery turns everything from November to June. like standing on the side of a lie, you know its a long way down.

i love the threshold of patience that fate so inconspicuously serves and decides for each man. i love the beautiful confusion. the chaos of tangled neuron endings that knew how to connect before anxiety crept in to hold hands with time to separate endings and fill the gaps. its a perfect storm--it is doomed from the start. then the end comes, and the wait is worth the while. no one will ever know this exists anyway.

you know. i procrastinate apologizing. its a necessary evil--apologizing i mean. when i mean i am sorry, i should simply say sorry, and the world should appreciate that. but when i am not, why ever lie? its a comedy of errors.

today is a new month with 30 days to make a fate better than the last. its how the eternal November has settled over my eyes nearly a decade ago. when i awoke at 6:26 am the coffee pot spit hot vapor into the air, like a dragon slowly coming to life, it always roars and mumbles nonplus profanities at the morning light. it must fulfill its purpose to its human counterpart. i said, "Mr. Coffee Pot, you should do well to put any thoughts of self-effacing sorrow out of your troubled little mind. rejoice my dearest friend, for without me to brew for, you would cease to be of any use." to which he most candidly replied with a wit and air of most sardonic proportions, "I am most grateful! i cherish living in mediocrity, in circles, in hell!" I smiled. then i said, "you know, i am talking to a coffee pot." Something about the blinking red LED lights that read an obstinate 12:00, conveyed to me he didn't care. I suppose the obvious has a way of diluting things. i walked over to the gaping bay windows looking out over Great James Lake, named after my late great grandfather, James Churchill who won it off a vagabond Swiss trapper in a bet over the number of sides on a penny. apparently there are 3. the Swiss man claimed that he thought the question was phrased strangely, but being outnumbered he couldn't argue. but finding a loyal coffee pot is nearly as hard as finding the right girl. there isnt a price you can put on either, less two decades of fruitless searching. Last May we went to the Jersey shore to revisit the roots of my alter ego's past. That was a blast from the past. I never did like going back, it reminded me of how time stands still for most people, 6 years some how seems like a month. A week after we got back i inadvertently knocked the glass basin pot off the corner of the island countertop in our kitchen. Rest in pieces--the best coffee pot i ever had. Always such a gentleman. so civilized. farewell. that is what i would say for a eulogy. people try too hard to sound overly human. no one likes someone who loves people that much. i don't. my coffee pot certainly didn't. but that is just a metaphor, or a shadow, i am never too sure which. the curious thing about making such an audacious proposal, is that people aspire to it, and when they finally become what they want they suddenly are lost. like my coffee pot. i set him free.

ヒマワリの悲しみ

it is a paradox. that i am sitting so high while living from below. comfort comes in a foreign tongue. midnight bleeding on fibers pressed flat and bleached white as if to complement the irony of the darkness of the confessions of man's soul. some how melodramatic prose found its way into my hand, grew,and grew into the stalk of a sun flower, into a small building and bloomed its gilded pedals, ribs, like a Ferris wheel. worn hands aged 75 on a five year old face stretched the constellations across the top. the face behind the face has become just the same. the weight grows with age and earth whispers to the children, "please, come back home. please, come back into the ground". then pride of a lion is broken. 1. then 2. then 3, and 4 and 5, then 8, then 10, and 13, and 16, then 20, they fall between the cracks in the soil and grass. they say then, "do you wish to try, try, try, to touch the sky again?" "i need sunshine!" we reply. "i need sunshine! where do you go while i am away?" we say. inside outerspace morning comes, and the city slowly rises again. it is the lament of a tire. round and round we go wearing thin but staying in one place. so everything returns to where it began, to ヒマワリの悲しみ.

october sun, ember in the sky, hanging above the ground many in the orchard, did the land become dry? sitting beneath the clouds, tiny soldier's shields swallowed the light, many ushered night, many ushered night, the bark whispered back, i am buried below. i carried in the urn, ashes of a civilized world, floating sky. ukiyo. . karakas no hone. underneath the skin, underneath the sky. mother breaths on your heels. holding you to the ground. i saw the soldiers at work, inside the capillaries of the earth's skin. when came the great wind and ocean from the sky.憂き世. karakas no hone wa, bara, bara.

if you re read my history you will find the blooming of a rose. please, do. please, dont. fate. it undergoes photosynthesis and phosphoresis. organic phosphates i mean. picking up pennies when walt whitman's lover stares at you from in its cameo. somehow the eyes stay fixed and brazen. but it is laughable. and how they add up. brown to green. green to firing synapses. and the end of slavery comes. but still there is segregation. the north and south remain adversaries. one tells the other to march on, and the other complains to the other one both back and forth. focus. intently. "her eyes are like champagne, sparkle, bubble over, and in the morning all you got is rain". Mr. ritter said that--not the confectionery company.

a great Christian existentialist once said:

if there were no eternal consciousness in a man,
if at the bottom of everything there were only a wild ferment,
a power that wtisitng in dar passions produced everthing great or inconsequential;
if an unfathomable,
insatiable emptiness lay hid beneath everything,
what would life be but despair?

-kirkegaard.

therein lies the fate of the human race. yet even the revelation is met with more despair. for freedom is inextricable tied to knowledge. the analysis knowledge is tied to mans conscious. mans conscious is tied to his emotions. then there is a battle between the heart and head. the heart will win. and so man lives in misery unless what one wants and what one needs can be the same. all too often tangible goods are more alluring then the fruit of wisdom and long awaited awards somewhere off on a horizon with a setting or rising sun. man is born to mourn. we are born to seek joy. what fills your holes and echoes in your head as a good is something terribly paradoxical. so you think you make your fate, but you never do. man has but limited free will--the ability to move slightly, in a claustrophobic wooden box. so happy are the weak of mind and conscious. they are a paradox too. trial and error makes man commit suicide. becoming a knight of faith make man brittle, to some its just a joke, its merely a frame of mind that makes man fulfill his life. is God a verb? or is it a frame of mind? nevertheless, it is an universal sorrow or joy. i am sad to say as the days pile up on my shoulders i am most unwillingly becoming a humanist. john dewey wrote of the religious vs. religion which asserts one can fulfill the empty frame of life by being religious with out religion. i would contend this is impossible. undergoing a religious experience, as dewey defines it, is universal. this connects man regardless of difference, yet it only solves part of the human condition--that of disunity as a race, even though, the aforementioned despair would suggest man is meant to become an island under one perspective. what does man work for as a whole--this eternal consciousness Kierkegaard refers to. accordingly, the state of mind and want of purpose must be fulfilled in the human conscious. as man grows to understand his condition he his freedom of will ostensibly, shrinks to that of nothing. accordingly, a set of ethics must be followed to fulfill the hollow shell that is life. Christians say it is God. This is a truth in light of Christianity. there is no other structure of living one can walk by that fulfills this other than religion.

a testament of margot and the nuclear so and so's lyrical genius

Honey broadripple is burning
and the girls are gettin sick
off snorting coke up in the bathroom
while their boyfriends pick up chicks
and darling i'm lost
i heard you whispering
that night in fountain square
trashed the streets makes me wish that i'd go home
there?was love?inside the basement
way back home we used to lie
in a sleeping?bag we shared upon
the floor for?almost every night
oh darling i'm drunk
everything that i had loved has turned to stone
so pack your bags and come back home
yeah i'm wasted
you can taste it
don't look at me that way
cause i'll be hanging from a rope
i'll be hangin from a rope
if my woman was a fire
she'd burn out before i wake
and be replaced by pounds of whiskey
cigarettes and outer space
then somebody moves
and everything you thought you had has gone to shit
we've got a lot
don't ever forget that
and i wrote this on airplane where the people look like ants
and when a woman that you love is gone
she was bombing east japan
don't fucking move
cause everything you think you have will go to shit
we've got a lot
don't ever forget that
yeah i'm wasted
you can taste it
don't look at me that way
cause i'll be hanging from a rope
i'll be hangin from a rope
yeah i'm wasted
you can taste it
don't look at me that way
cause i'll be hanging from a rope
i'll be hangin from a rope

it was december in west Lafayette after a recent snow fall. i was wearing my sambas. for all the comfort and fashion the boast they are no quintessential leather boot. you would be warmer walking in a box of tissues. my feet were numb and began to feel as if my digits had congealed into one lifeless lump of flesh ending somewhere where my ankle disappeared into my socks. i walked to the corner of chauncy square where an greek restaurant appropriately named ATHENOS was located--run by a typical first generation fresh off the boat an organic greek man, black moustashe, gold chain necklace, sporting button up and a dr.phil hair cut. as i walked through the door a hearty, "hello sir, if you wanta use o'r warmth you betta buy somthin". i said "ill take a coffee". "Ok! hey adeipho, getta this kid a coffee...best coffee in town you can find for $1.70" i wanted to walk the 500 yards up hill to the student union and buy a cup of starbucks. i took it outside and returned to the bus stop.

i thought it was because i lived underground that trouble came around. a single solitary cell where the days come and go inside the halogen shells. somewhere the cycles of everything turn into one droning note. i thought it was because i lived inside myself that the nature of the game was without an aim and ended there too. then youre never afraid of anything but that. i thought it was because i have no self control. nothing matters anyway, it will always be 1929 somewhere inside. everyone is foolishly intelligent, absurdly intelligent, obfuscated goals founded in a quixotic hope of fulfillment of some sort. i only know what people tell me. i reuse, reuse, reuse, reuse, reuse, and refuse, then reuse. its a shame to have never spread your mind over the table side and flood everything. its cause i have nothing to follow that makes me alive unless i am with trouble. but that gets me nowhere anymore, i cant know that or i will soon follow you out the door.

today i am an one word letter.

concerned indifference, indeed, a curse with a remedy found in the bottom of things. the human condition is more laughable then ever from a window washer's perspective. everyone a king everyone a queen, a servile tactician with dysentery of the mouth. the irony is it is all a facade, they don't even know it. and it doesn't even matter. i prove my own point.

when you awake in someone elses skin. then you know you're wearing two different shoes. some how the smile's echo gets lost behind the dense gray (matter, day, etc.), fire escapes and outer space. my ancient algorithm, crippled mechanical motion stumbles in with a chap lipped stutter when the words come spilling out, profound but lacking light, im sad today i cant find the time to be sad anymore. still that prodding iron anvil anchors you down, rifting Genesis into segments of negative ends. all i want is to bury my love for being alone. peoples lives stack up in volumes on shelves to stay alive, or on the archway or corner stone of a building. puts money in their pockets and hell in everyone's life. and i dont know what to be sorry for anymore. you never know whose suicide you are helping to create with every step down that hardened road cause you'll always be swimming below an adulterous sea.

"put a penny in the slot and watch an artificial light shine"
-fr

it is curious to want to find trouble, but its only a remedy.

beautiful confusion. i saw myself in the window of opportunity hinged on a listless expression of every face i have been, passing like the movement of a hand. i am someone inside myself. its the cello. its the gray. its the anger with out an enemy that sits inside a potential fall. its my scream pent in someone else's lungs. i suppose. i felt that the chords resonated in a dust bowl field, harmonized with the grains of wheat and sand, something about the horizon where the beige earth and the blue midwest sky meet in a subtle clash that is more metaphorical than it seems. everything is like that now a days. some how. indeed beautiful confusion. absurdity. they paint us with larger mouths then heads and our genitals more audacious and consuming than our lower extremities. they paint us no longer as bipedal. they are right. its the lament of the shrew. kumquats, indeed.

it makes me curious that imitating animals leads to trouble for the race. no, i lied. things are all too obvious, laughing is a drug like that. so are opiates and amphetamines and psychotropics and other fantastical nonsense. you are a joke if you do. that's what no one is afraid of being a joke. therein is enough humor for a lifetime.

everyone belongs somewhere. its difficult to believe your future is being made every second of the day you are awake and asleep. so become a constructivist or a sad sack then a philosopher so the mindless fools can have things to worry themselves with and think about that is orthogonal to their existence. the problem is i have been at the top of a breath for 4 years. arduous living. gadfly obfuscating opportunities often craft a comfortable chair, but life isnt a spectator sport to my dismay. so how is one to know? by running into dark rooms blind and laughing of course.

did you know that Dr. Hopperheimerhausen revealed a most secretive fact of the human condition to me. yes. He claimed after being blown to oblivion and clawing his way back the obscure order of the chaos we push down our throats and that circulates in our arteries and capillaries numerous times, that you can make your own fate. there's an existentialist for you. i always find it terribly humorous that they who find no hope in longevity for the amazing race some how craft a airless cell in white cap swell. endings are nearly as certain as beginnings, without either one the other could not endure. thats what i told him. he found his happy high holding close to the ever indelible phrase coined by elliott in the instrumental "im gonna get to heaven". we all make that same promise. but it falls apart like everything else. the man of 55, looked at me with glazed over eyes sunken beneath brows like a garden over grown, through his horn rimmed glasses, blankly, intently, patiently. he then said "what the hell have i been living for my whole life?" I said, "kumquats, indeed". we both laughed. that's a secret.

"give me your eyes, i need sunshine"

I heard you say we’re all going back into the dusk where we came, carrying a cross on our backs, and everything that burdened each step, all falls away when you reach that holy land.

But if it comes down on that day to a judgment on the fate you made with all your checks and x’s, your shades of gray, well, I don’t want anything to do with that

And you still say that its your fear of God that binds you in your bubble to watch the world go on
But you act just like nothings wrong and swear your gonna cure every curse in this world gone to rot
From your hermit cove your anticlimactic cell, where you're always waiting on a fall to send you back down to your hell, Maybe then were made to hate ourselves to grow into something we’re not, something were not.

what is a pink moon?

why do people fall in lines.

today, today, i am sad to say, i am a humanist.
i believe in rationality. i believe that 2+2 equals 3, it also equals 4 and 5. i believe in the indelible fate that we make, and the suicide we submit to.
black soot mounds turn out mushroom clouds and polydactyl children. its the old money. they see only revolutions of metal teeth and aggregate numbers. its the race to many things for bipedal beings. fascinating. quixotic fools gold. laughter in the barrel of a gun or a black balloon. Elliott said "bottle up and explode. over and over." you never know until you go down that lane. curious.
tomorrow i will be a Christian.

i








































tried to fill my glass with

outerspace

today

lennon knows.

circular spectacles are keen.

bullseyes.

bullsyes.

comedy. infinite comedy. teaspoon sized sunsets. make me laugh. only inside.
i like cupped palms.
the lines look like .
you can hold a column of air.
man likes to pretend we are God.
atheists say we are an accident.
Christians say we are a perfect masterpiece.
everything is a symbol for something else.

i want to be blown to oblivion. a man said i was strong. what he meant was you have an esoteric personality. thats why smiles are so common. people can make them complex and simple, still they're just subtle daggers. you know, i believe mr. vonnegut was a genius. he cared too much about not caring about anything. i am the same way. but i am a child. and its not as if i am blind to my own elementary approaches to life, its simply i think the best option lies in the solitude of a grain of sand. blue blood does things to you, so does living underground. its not that i dont care, i dont want to not care. its fear. thats what galvanizes the clockwork. so sorrow becomes indifferent too. you have to feed things. i wonder that the two holes were too cliche, its horrible to say, but i think there was more than just two. i know we all think the same thing. georgia, georgia. it is a 5 chapter hymn i wanted to say too. if i were an alcoholic and heroin addict. but im not. so things arent the same. then even trouble is a perspective. then what do you share? im so tired these days. thats what happens when you are addled inside, and doomed outside. but its not about the cross you inherit.

i am sad about looking up at the fate that has been piling up faster than i can think. numbers lock you into a greater good, its sick. what to make of the intersecting lines of destiny. its the illusion of a freedom of will. but it moves slow, so you chase a carrot every day. its ok. you don't know what i mean, less yesterday more today anyway.

today, the world is drowning in the irony of a shadow. for certainly the brighter i insist i am, the darker, the longer my shadow grows, and when i am a december night, cold, dry, and gray, my shadow stays faint and close. then there is harmony. no more ying and yang, a balance of good and evil, right and wrong, a divide between the quixotic reveries of mice and men, no. there in the absence of light pupils dilate and you become awake... curiously, vigilant. "company and grief sit like a doc leaf sits beside a stinging netal". it is the irony of a shadow, the wretched faithful black eyed dog, so servile, so spiteful, so sly. today the world is drowning in the justice of the poet. their agile and adroit fountain pen fingertips paint frames over everything. such clever prose. like:

the word ubiquitous.
it is indigo.
and fluid and flowing and chilling all at once, falling away.
distant.
reposed.
ubiquitous like a rose.


i think it spills from the tongue too nicely. they invent, invent, invent! always crafting emblematic devices, that make recantations and observations intricate, elegant, works of art. damn things indigo. damn things fluid and flowing. damn irony, cliche and certainly damn ubiquitous. there is a proper poem. live. life. still fates both dark and light, far and near, are spliced uncompromisingly together. irony. yes. today, the world is drowning in the comedy of the game. a most dangerous game. there is night then day and longer gray. binocular vision is piquant. what is down is up. antipodal existence. it makes sense. chemicals received. okay. metaphorical stages of locomotion. ah the birth of an idea. the ink for a pen. how the absence of nothing and something are the same. ubiquitous, ha! indeed. it is intoxicating. it is a joke, a daedalic composition of potential. it is an orderly mess. an awful awful fiasco. it is a masterpiece. what a gift.

i am become king, destroyer of worlds. hoisted high upon a potential fall. i cannot stop. the laugh. and the static electricity a charge that comes with a shock, crossing metal with metal inside the confidence of a narrow stairwell headed home. particles and chemicals, organic hydrolysis. OH's for everyone. C10H12N2O. like a bird beating wings. or. inhaling. nothing. swallow the moon. perpetual eternal. shifted frames. both chronological and epistemological. hair brained inventors forged allegiance with ink and paper and gray matter. so prefrontal addresses go, above and below everyone the same. hydrolics. boyle blood. because of C10H12N2O and glasses. puncture, rift, repose.puncture, rift, repose. pocketed hands. puncture, rift, repose. laugh. boom.