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.