It was dark and I was shivering and trying to make myself smaller. I huddled into the corner tyring to pull the shadows down to close their eyelids incase they looked up. I felt that I was infringing, but they were infringing on me. I felt that I was commiting them some wrong, like I shouldn't have been up here, that I shouldn't have been out here seeing them and looking down on them and wanting them to go away or to never have come at all. And yet it was they that were pushing me back, they that were holding me down with my own free will, they that sent me packing the moment that I knew that the car lights that were heading towards me were theirs, that the car lights would sweep to the right as they pulled to the curb, that the car door would open showing a worn paperbag face with eyes that could see me, and thoughts that could judge me.
Prejudgement that was my flaw wasn't it? All these years I had overlooked it, seen only the results but had no idea how I had gotten there, recieved the truth of my giving mind. In my prejudgements I was the one with the power, but what I weilded put no handcuffs on others, didn't turn a key to keep you in when we ran away all those years ago. I'm sorry that I didn't go with you, and you knew that I would be. I'm sorry that I didn't take your hand as you reached out to pull me along with you, because you knew what was better for me eventhough I had no idea.
We left late in the night and late in the year. The dead leaves would give us away, but their sounds couldn't be followed like snow tracks, and you said that the time was right, that it was now or forever.
I made it as far as the road, far enough to not be seen by the houselights that looked out the windows into the prairie-dark. Panting you looked back at me and you were smiling, but I knew from the look in your face that I was not. I was worried, worried about taking another step as if the road were a rushing river of gravel and dirt that would take me powerless against its twists and turns.
11.30.2009
10.31.2009
and there were times when he wanted to be angry to yell listen up and shut up, but nothing was inspiring enough. a lethargy of energy and an emptiness inside kept him from shouting anything or saying nothing. Let's small talk and coddle, let's remark on the, and prattle about the, and not listen to each other as we pass the time away. the best way to suffer is not in silence but by sharing the unnecessary. let's face it our attention spans were too short for each other don't you think? I mean what's the maximum amount of time that you can listen to me carry on about my miserable years serving food and driving people to movie stars' homes? If you can hang in there with me, if you can come with me, if you can talk back to me then I give you more credit than I'm worth.
Hey listen let's get into this car and kept driving until we run out of things to talk about, I'll drop you off at the corner. Better yet let's fill this balloon with the hot air of our heads and float away. because it's so easy to look pretty and smile you just have to be hard on yourself all the time. That's it, just be hard on yourself all the time
so it was that we walked hand and hand through poppy fields full of purple. and it wasn't the desert that we thought that it would be, no it was simply a field. simply a small hut that we had left behind early in the morning not wanting to be caught, and so we skipped high and so we ran slow, and so we held hands as we brushed past the flowers that never seemed to refuse to bloom. and without looking back we had fun, and without out a care we shook our heads from side to side, and the mist, the dust, it all blended in our nostrils as one. and my right hip started to hurt from all the joy. tired hands in danger of head falling to sleep. but we wanted to and we wished to and we wouldn't let our selves rest for more than a day. And when it came down to me it was too much to take, because they were Nazis.,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
10.21.2009
sabado y domingo
The idols were stacked up outside the door. Haphazardly like Russian Nesting dolls. The two men, old enough to remember when the idols were new, sat at the bare table on simple chairs turned towards the open door, their backs hunched under their matching black overcoats, their sparse gray hair barely supporting the hats on their heads.
Outside the door, one of them thought, it's nice eventhough the weather is gray and old, there have been worse days when the alley way was covered in rain, when the sun was so hot it twice backed the bricks holding back the weight of the earth that framed the pathway to the coast.
I can hear it more than I can see it, always the waves continue to crash, but it takes a clear day to see over the hill at the end of the row and make out the seafoam spray.
The floor was swept clean by the constant breeze, the only light peered through the door and it lost all energy after dimly lighting the table.
I hate these bugs that gather about the door and won't come in any closer. Spain has never been the same, never regained what it was that we lost. Now there's just the dry heat or the overcast days, the music that never stops, and the ocean that never sleeps.
The fought against the heat in their black clothes their longsleeves and ties, their hats that seemed to heat their heads and cook their brains that never saw the light of the sun. They watched the world go by through an open slit forever never turning to face each other even thought their laments were the same.
A Tuesday was an infinity, the next week an infinity-plus-one. How many had they sat through? And how many more would come before they reached the bottom of the void?
Outside the door, one of them thought, it's nice eventhough the weather is gray and old, there have been worse days when the alley way was covered in rain, when the sun was so hot it twice backed the bricks holding back the weight of the earth that framed the pathway to the coast.
I can hear it more than I can see it, always the waves continue to crash, but it takes a clear day to see over the hill at the end of the row and make out the seafoam spray.
The floor was swept clean by the constant breeze, the only light peered through the door and it lost all energy after dimly lighting the table.
I hate these bugs that gather about the door and won't come in any closer. Spain has never been the same, never regained what it was that we lost. Now there's just the dry heat or the overcast days, the music that never stops, and the ocean that never sleeps.
The fought against the heat in their black clothes their longsleeves and ties, their hats that seemed to heat their heads and cook their brains that never saw the light of the sun. They watched the world go by through an open slit forever never turning to face each other even thought their laments were the same.
A Tuesday was an infinity, the next week an infinity-plus-one. How many had they sat through? And how many more would come before they reached the bottom of the void?
10.14.2009
Portable Creativity
I hope hat this is the start of a new era in creativity when there's no excuse, no special place to go, no cell to cloister away in in order to create. Creating on the go, creating in space, creating when the need to create comes to me. It is when it is best in the moment in the time of inspiration in the not caring of the other people thinking. This is when it comes out and pours out and leaves words on an empty space. Creating in the any-place and not needing to go to my space. The universe doesn't end, didn't start in a place fit for it and made for it and holding it in. This feels good, it feels sustained and able to be done.
10.02.2009
when we were artists.
remember when we were unhappy and able to create to make and produce without stopping and wondering where was the source of our outpouring?
no, I don't have any more ideas, no more thoughts run through my arms and fall like raindrops on the keyboard keys.
but didn't you just this morning see a flock of white birds circling like tornados and think to your self 'white flashing bellies in the morning sun'?
yes, but I also saw black birds that didn't stop, that flew in a straight line behind the horizon line trees.
and that was it?
yes, that was it and I went to work with a desire but without the means.
you sound like you're waiting.
yes.
for what, for what do you think will make you go, make you run afoul of language and want to jump at the mountain of being misunderstood or not understood at all?
I don't know, but I do know that it will never come, there will never be a push-from-outside, a contingent change of course, for how can a creator not be responsible for creation, how can I be the source of my creations if I do not choose to create? So why is it that I so frequently do-not, and instead not-think, not-do, wait-long?
both went their separate ways although it was hard to tell who had said the one thing and who had said the other for they were both wearing the same drab clothes fit for walking in the sort of absent minded weather both men were having. did one stop at a store on the way home to buy something to eat, for he now carried a small white bag while the other walked straight only stopping once to look out over the tall retaining walls in an attempt to view the sea through the hard fog? Once home did one have coffee while the other sat across the table staring dourly either at the other's face or the beaten wooden table top the only thing visible in the singular lighted basement room whose basement walls held in the chill and damp that they pushed the upper floors above?
no, I don't have any more ideas, no more thoughts run through my arms and fall like raindrops on the keyboard keys.
but didn't you just this morning see a flock of white birds circling like tornados and think to your self 'white flashing bellies in the morning sun'?
yes, but I also saw black birds that didn't stop, that flew in a straight line behind the horizon line trees.
and that was it?
yes, that was it and I went to work with a desire but without the means.
you sound like you're waiting.
yes.
for what, for what do you think will make you go, make you run afoul of language and want to jump at the mountain of being misunderstood or not understood at all?
I don't know, but I do know that it will never come, there will never be a push-from-outside, a contingent change of course, for how can a creator not be responsible for creation, how can I be the source of my creations if I do not choose to create? So why is it that I so frequently do-not, and instead not-think, not-do, wait-long?
both went their separate ways although it was hard to tell who had said the one thing and who had said the other for they were both wearing the same drab clothes fit for walking in the sort of absent minded weather both men were having. did one stop at a store on the way home to buy something to eat, for he now carried a small white bag while the other walked straight only stopping once to look out over the tall retaining walls in an attempt to view the sea through the hard fog? Once home did one have coffee while the other sat across the table staring dourly either at the other's face or the beaten wooden table top the only thing visible in the singular lighted basement room whose basement walls held in the chill and damp that they pushed the upper floors above?
10.01.2009
interrupted.
The still-picture photograph of someone’s greatest moment better than his left him empty. The real-colored fullness of their smiling faces, the baby’s captured laughter, or the dark sunglasses in front of a mountain range made him feel black and white on the inside. Flipping through the stacks of images, trying to hold on with fingers numbed from the sidewalk wind that pushed summer out with the light, he caught corners of people’s eyes, the flash of a red balloon, a happy dog and a baseball game. Warmth in his hands, death on his eyes. I think too slowly or thought too late, never got inside the lives they live. Three kids ran down the broken concrete, one nearly brushed him with his backpack that bounced back and forth to hard footfalls. He watched them run down the street until they ran past a gray building that drew his eyes to the dusty clouds in the purple red sky. Another one of life’s snags jerking him away from the memories in his lap.
9.11.2009
Philosophical Fridays
Contingency and Chance.
What is the difference between Contingency and Chance? Does Being hang on Chance like it does Contingency? Contingency is the framework of Being; our Being is draped over Contingency and thus are we formed and our Being’s given a distinctive character that is all our own, and yet caused by Contingency. Chance is a moment, a Grand Contingency, a large boulder thrown into a shallow lake. But Chance does not come about on its own, nor does it arise from other Chance moments or experiences or situations. Contingency is the small stepping stones that lead up to Chance’s big moment, and then quickly leaves it behind.
Chance and Contingency are very closely related as to almost be the same thing. However, Chance is often a word used with a connotation of good or bad. “You have a chance to win $10,000,0000!” or “Even when shooting sober you have the chance to have your head blown off.” Meanwhile contingency is merely possibility, and an unknown one at that. Chance can be predicted, given a statistic, used in baseball games and finances. Contingency is so unknown beforehand that it might never come to Being, even after it has been left behind. Again, Chance is Contingency’s big moment, when the Contingent becomes obvious, visible, there. In a sense Chance is the brute forming of situations, dumb and pedestrian and all too predictable and imaginable. Contingency is subtle and its effects are more powerful the less that Being is aware of its own Contingency.
Contingency is a pebble on life’s way that can make Being fall of either side of the dangerous mountain path. Or Contingency might allow Being to keep walking, but maybe with an altered gait.
What is the difference between Contingency and Chance? Does Being hang on Chance like it does Contingency? Contingency is the framework of Being; our Being is draped over Contingency and thus are we formed and our Being’s given a distinctive character that is all our own, and yet caused by Contingency. Chance is a moment, a Grand Contingency, a large boulder thrown into a shallow lake. But Chance does not come about on its own, nor does it arise from other Chance moments or experiences or situations. Contingency is the small stepping stones that lead up to Chance’s big moment, and then quickly leaves it behind.
Chance and Contingency are very closely related as to almost be the same thing. However, Chance is often a word used with a connotation of good or bad. “You have a chance to win $10,000,0000!” or “Even when shooting sober you have the chance to have your head blown off.” Meanwhile contingency is merely possibility, and an unknown one at that. Chance can be predicted, given a statistic, used in baseball games and finances. Contingency is so unknown beforehand that it might never come to Being, even after it has been left behind. Again, Chance is Contingency’s big moment, when the Contingent becomes obvious, visible, there. In a sense Chance is the brute forming of situations, dumb and pedestrian and all too predictable and imaginable. Contingency is subtle and its effects are more powerful the less that Being is aware of its own Contingency.
Contingency is a pebble on life’s way that can make Being fall of either side of the dangerous mountain path. Or Contingency might allow Being to keep walking, but maybe with an altered gait.
8.28.2009
FHC Fridays
Yesterday I sat down on the curb outside a grocery store under a lukewarm sun as cars drove by and pumped me full of expended gasoline. The stains on my jeans camouflaged me into the gum splatter cement and it was only my cigarette smoke that gave me away to the mothers carrying children by the hand, the father’s and bastards buying beer in their golfing clothes, the girls in too-shorts and flip flops smacking away the last days of the summer. Dusty clouds had covered the chilly sky all day and for once working outside required me to wear a shirt. Look at that asshole and his Ford truck, shiny black and new, chrome running board that’s never seen shit packed treads on the bottom of a boot. I flicked my cigarette in it’s direction, at least it went farther than my thoughts, and put my hands behind me on the cement. I wanted to drink.
8.27.2009
misdirection
Black or was it brown? Memory’s single light flickered and swung across her face covered by her hands. Green or blue eyes peered out between her fingers. If color exists only in our minds what else lies in wait only on the inside?
8.21.2009
Mirror Mirror on the face.
The mirror. The mirror always showed his reflection, proved that light was still bouncing off of him and that it might enter someone's eye. He was observable even if no one was looking. It would never do for him to shout as he always spoke barely above a whisper, an ironic side effect of his fear of never being heard. And the cut of his clothing was along the same lines. There were no brightly colored prints hanging in his closet, no checkered shorts, or ripped blue jeans, there were grays and browns, blacks and whites, blues and greens, and two red shirts which he never wore.
The mirror. Standing before the mirror in the morning he looked at himself to make sure that there was nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary in the way that he looked, nothing that would cause people to stop and stare take a second glance remember his face and wonder about him long after they had walked past him. He made sure that his shirt was tucked in, but not too tight. That his fly wasn't down or a nose hair peeking out. He checked his hair to make sure that it had some style but not too much fearing that a bowl cut could be just as memorable as a mullet. He stared into his own eyes, scarrily similar to everyone else's in their failure to reflect the internal thoughts of what they saw.
The mirror. Reflecting everything the mirror thought nothing. It's true that if you got really close to a corena you could see your own convex face translucently staring back at you, but most of the light was taken in and reflected back and forth sometimes penetrating the brain where it was possible that it just might be part of some infinite reflection, never making it's way back out without being translated into something else: a word, a judgement, a look, a gesture.
The mirror. Standing before the mirror in the morning he looked at himself to make sure that there was nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary in the way that he looked, nothing that would cause people to stop and stare take a second glance remember his face and wonder about him long after they had walked past him. He made sure that his shirt was tucked in, but not too tight. That his fly wasn't down or a nose hair peeking out. He checked his hair to make sure that it had some style but not too much fearing that a bowl cut could be just as memorable as a mullet. He stared into his own eyes, scarrily similar to everyone else's in their failure to reflect the internal thoughts of what they saw.
The mirror. Reflecting everything the mirror thought nothing. It's true that if you got really close to a corena you could see your own convex face translucently staring back at you, but most of the light was taken in and reflected back and forth sometimes penetrating the brain where it was possible that it just might be part of some infinite reflection, never making it's way back out without being translated into something else: a word, a judgement, a look, a gesture.
8.20.2009
Currency for Sale by a Penny Pincher
With my thumb and index finger I held two sides of a copper coin together. Kept them together as I walked down the wet cement sidewalks towards the pink lights of the bar up ahead. Pushed them tight against each other as I climbed the black and white squared stairs to the upstairs. Sitting down I lost concentration as I ordered another drink, let the coin slip, a millimeter crawled between my fingers its many legs shucking and jiving to the clink clinking of empties on the glass table top. Three burgers I ate, two ales I drank, and one night shifted into a blur.
I ambled toward the jukebox shouting Dinosaur Jr. through its ears as its maw opened for money, but it wouldn't take my pressed together low-fi coin.
A face to a monument, a face to a monument, a back face to the service entrence. And I danced with one hand occupied with the pressure of holding everything together against the garage guitars and the loose drum slaps.
I danced with one hand held high over my head against the rushing crowds that threatened to bop in, that jostled against my alabaster coat, that smiled as the beer rushed from their mouths to their stomachs to their heads.
Eyelids waved from a distance, pupils looked from afar, my coin held high dropped into my pockets and only a miracle held it together as I found it wrong side up the next morning.
I ambled toward the jukebox shouting Dinosaur Jr. through its ears as its maw opened for money, but it wouldn't take my pressed together low-fi coin.
A face to a monument, a face to a monument, a back face to the service entrence. And I danced with one hand occupied with the pressure of holding everything together against the garage guitars and the loose drum slaps.
I danced with one hand held high over my head against the rushing crowds that threatened to bop in, that jostled against my alabaster coat, that smiled as the beer rushed from their mouths to their stomachs to their heads.
Eyelids waved from a distance, pupils looked from afar, my coin held high dropped into my pockets and only a miracle held it together as I found it wrong side up the next morning.
all quiet on the Dog front
Delicious. I raised my hand among the rest, as the man on stage said " - ".
White robes and caftans sprinkled through in groups of ones and twos.
"Did you hear?" the person to my left.
prodded by an elbow-arm stuck to a chest.
good evening, the tongue felt thick, clicking on good. a tar paper runway surrounded by scraggly fields of half tall grass and shrub nothings planted by an invisible hand.
"What moves you?" and I stumbled over people sitting on the ground on blankets marking spaces that weren't there an hour before. Is this the edge? But there were more people still swaying to the marshall stack sound. I was in the canyon again, the grass shrouded walls poked up infront of me lining the background of port-a-potty's disgusting blue in the summer heat. Throwing up I spit out my last. Remained empty on the nowhere path. I shut my eyes against the searing sun gorged up from space below.
This is life, this is listening, this is now and it's happening right here in nowhere quadrant universe sector bajillion. On whose authority?
White robes and caftans sprinkled through in groups of ones and twos.
"Did you hear?" the person to my left.
prodded by an elbow-arm stuck to a chest.
good evening, the tongue felt thick, clicking on good. a tar paper runway surrounded by scraggly fields of half tall grass and shrub nothings planted by an invisible hand.
"What moves you?" and I stumbled over people sitting on the ground on blankets marking spaces that weren't there an hour before. Is this the edge? But there were more people still swaying to the marshall stack sound. I was in the canyon again, the grass shrouded walls poked up infront of me lining the background of port-a-potty's disgusting blue in the summer heat. Throwing up I spit out my last. Remained empty on the nowhere path. I shut my eyes against the searing sun gorged up from space below.
This is life, this is listening, this is now and it's happening right here in nowhere quadrant universe sector bajillion. On whose authority?
8.19.2009
lemon aide that cool refreshing drink
august: fueled by sunset desire's dream of following the road into town and then out the other side without stopping at the lights or drinking another beer or getting anything close to a breath of the corn dog air we sped through, dimming the lights with our trance like transmission.
yesterday: listening to the sounds of sawing through boards that made shapes to be nailed together to hold us in i couldn't help but think of moving and wondering if i ever would again.
may: falling through rosebuds that hadn't thought of growing I was sure that i felt secure in the lessons i had learned in the beer gardens, at folded tables with wobbly chairs, and scrawny tablecloths full of the stains of gone-by years. however, it wasn't the case at all, the ground was still soft, the spring still warm, and a rock the size of a chicken egg split open my head.
thursday: hearing the sounds of vipers we quickly picked up our impromptu picnic and headed for the sandy rocks lining the canyon, there was something out there, either in front of us or to the side to the back somewhere a thing was coming up inside our personal space. I spilled some lemon-aide on the parched tongue of land we walked upon its taste-bud-cracks sucked it up. You smiled as you ran not knowing if it was into or out of danger.
ask yourself a question and be still, not looking into the future nor gazing at the past, listen for the answer provided by the now.
yesterday: listening to the sounds of sawing through boards that made shapes to be nailed together to hold us in i couldn't help but think of moving and wondering if i ever would again.
may: falling through rosebuds that hadn't thought of growing I was sure that i felt secure in the lessons i had learned in the beer gardens, at folded tables with wobbly chairs, and scrawny tablecloths full of the stains of gone-by years. however, it wasn't the case at all, the ground was still soft, the spring still warm, and a rock the size of a chicken egg split open my head.
thursday: hearing the sounds of vipers we quickly picked up our impromptu picnic and headed for the sandy rocks lining the canyon, there was something out there, either in front of us or to the side to the back somewhere a thing was coming up inside our personal space. I spilled some lemon-aide on the parched tongue of land we walked upon its taste-bud-cracks sucked it up. You smiled as you ran not knowing if it was into or out of danger.
ask yourself a question and be still, not looking into the future nor gazing at the past, listen for the answer provided by the now.
6.28.2009
hehe so fun to be evil and dark. don't you know? don't you want to be too? and yet we can't let ourselves go.
there's something kind in being mean. there's something truthful in being mean to those that we hate. yes we hate those that we hate. you may want to be altruistic but you're lying. everyone is. everyone is. well we all know that you know your fuck head charlies too. you hate someone. you are annoyed by someone and it's you that i'm peering into. and it's your eyes that i see through when I hate the dude on the corner in the cowboy hat and cutoff shorts. hate is a part of all of us hilter you are and I am too.
dance all night and play all day
don't let nothing give it away
"Shake it Up" The Cars
there's something kind in being mean. there's something truthful in being mean to those that we hate. yes we hate those that we hate. you may want to be altruistic but you're lying. everyone is. everyone is. well we all know that you know your fuck head charlies too. you hate someone. you are annoyed by someone and it's you that i'm peering into. and it's your eyes that i see through when I hate the dude on the corner in the cowboy hat and cutoff shorts. hate is a part of all of us hilter you are and I am too.
dance all night and play all day
don't let nothing give it away
"Shake it Up" The Cars
6.27.2009
Mirror Being
Mirror Being and I let go and I let go. Mirror Being what was it that I wanted to say? What was it that I wanted to capture about the Being of one in space and time without identity? I walked through streets and no one paid attention to me. I walked through stores and no one cared. I drove down highways past cars full of kids in the backseat that pointed without care at me. Mirror Being here I sit and look and stare at the watch on my wrist and watch. Watch me. See me. These aren't demands that I make of you but that I do for me. Shit. This is going somewhere that I think is good. and Yet here I am writing in front of you, right in front of you.
Look at me and see me.
Don't turn away and pretend that I wasn't there. and there i was closing my eyes after I looked at you and you didn't look at me. Fa la la la la la I laughed as I danced down the street and in this city no one turned around to look at me. The mad man that wants to be seen, in between those that parade around in disguises and masks. Well here I am I want you to fucking look at me until your eyes bleed. I want you to look at me until you can't see anyone other than me. I want to be out there to be among you, to be apart, to be integral to the whole, i want to bebebebebebebebe, and there it it is and there it is and i look at my watch to make sure that the time is right that the time is right for me to be me.
Look at me and see me.
Don't turn away and pretend that I wasn't there. and there i was closing my eyes after I looked at you and you didn't look at me. Fa la la la la la I laughed as I danced down the street and in this city no one turned around to look at me. The mad man that wants to be seen, in between those that parade around in disguises and masks. Well here I am I want you to fucking look at me until your eyes bleed. I want you to look at me until you can't see anyone other than me. I want to be out there to be among you, to be apart, to be integral to the whole, i want to bebebebebebebebe, and there it it is and there it is and i look at my watch to make sure that the time is right that the time is right for me to be me.
6.25.2009
i walked down the sidewalk of brick built buildings, and there was nothing but the heat of the sun on my shoulders. no one walked past me and no one passed me. a cigarette hung between my teeth and my breathing kept the step of it. i wandered down roads i had ridden down on a bike too small for my age even when i bought it. left and right at the end. trees to the otherside and behind me as well. left and to the right. boston house of pizza. bhop. in the direction that i wanted to go. bus number 86, there are people who live there still. a uhaul van once parked here. once it was impossible to find a parking space and a jeep parked on top of a snowbank. once i was 23 or 24. once i was young and living in the city. once i lived on the coast but now i'm middling at the most. once i was young with a toy room full of fun. now shelves limit the mess i've made. it's not a sadness because it works. it's not anything but a comparison realization of the then and now and never more.
do do do dee do do
do do do dee do do
And the colored girls go
Doo, doo doo, doo doo, doo doo doo...
faction. (i turn my head to the east, i don't see nobody by myside)
why is it reaction and not action?
why is it external and not interal genisis from the god inside?
there's a stimulus that I just can't quit
because it pushes me against what i feel inside
but i can't tell what i feel until i feel that push from outside.
and such is the paradox, the reaction to the action reaction.
don't i want to know what's on the inside without waiting
for you
for you to ask me what's on the inside,
but you only ask because someone asked you.
floating in the space time of my time and never wondering who's the
spirit i see spectoring infront of me.
yes it's easy to react, but it's difficult to act.
why is it external and not interal genisis from the god inside?
there's a stimulus that I just can't quit
because it pushes me against what i feel inside
but i can't tell what i feel until i feel that push from outside.
and such is the paradox, the reaction to the action reaction.
don't i want to know what's on the inside without waiting
for you
for you to ask me what's on the inside,
but you only ask because someone asked you.
floating in the space time of my time and never wondering who's the
spirit i see spectoring infront of me.
yes it's easy to react, but it's difficult to act.
bah
and I've had enough
of the rhyme rigmarole rhyme,
there was a time when what you said
was profound as you mixed up your nouns
and pronouns for the his her and its.
and i've had enough of the thing meant to be another, the random
positing of a tool as a sign and there you go and off you go and where you went I
didn't foolow, that's right foolow not follow.
there is the ashtray burning butts and the sunset soaking up the smoke and the clouds gathering over a stormy head that thinks only in riddles.
there are the yams frying on the grill under the heat of an ecotane burning. that's what it seems like.
that's what you played like, and in the moon light
you didn't realize that there's something else going on in the factory of nothingness.
see i can ape too. see i can monkey around with the language English.
too.
and it's all the drivel that you dribble from your mouth like fire water burning like
neon gold that's worth less than golgotha.
of the rhyme rigmarole rhyme,
there was a time when what you said
was profound as you mixed up your nouns
and pronouns for the his her and its.
and i've had enough of the thing meant to be another, the random
positing of a tool as a sign and there you go and off you go and where you went I
didn't foolow, that's right foolow not follow.
there is the ashtray burning butts and the sunset soaking up the smoke and the clouds gathering over a stormy head that thinks only in riddles.
there are the yams frying on the grill under the heat of an ecotane burning. that's what it seems like.
that's what you played like, and in the moon light
you didn't realize that there's something else going on in the factory of nothingness.
see i can ape too. see i can monkey around with the language English.
too.
and it's all the drivel that you dribble from your mouth like fire water burning like
neon gold that's worth less than golgotha.
4.17.2009
Driving himself to his execution Mortimer Hughs couldn't remember which way to turn onto Johnson Street. All he could think of was the red wing blackbird he had seen outside of his window that morning. There is no meaning attached to this. He felt his hand land on his knee, apparently it had fallen from the steering wheel, also without meaning or purpose.
4.02.2009
I'm a Possibility-Being
What's most important in Being? Possibility. Possibility recognizes the contradiction of Being. The more-than-oneness of Being. Possibility separates, splits the coin, the heads and tails, of existence and holds them apart.
Without possibility I am trapped. Trapped in a singularity. Trapped in Truth. Gone is the mystery, the unknowing of the unknown. The ground becomes solid and life becomes a straight line from point. to. point.
Possibility is so important because it opens Being up to the may-be. Suddenly all is not known, the future cannot be mapped, and the course is splintered into an infinite directions. The past is dead because its possibilities have been eliminated by time, the past comes back to life in the different possibilities of how I look back upon it in the present and future.
Possibility breathes life into Being. Being gives life to possibility. Possibility creates contradiction, contradiction is the possibility of the possible. Being, possibility, contradiction, are all intertwined, and there are others too: mystery, contingency, time, and death.
Possibility, separating the coin, unlocking the door, setting free and in the possibility of choice binding us in permanence.
Possibility's contradiction is that it is freeing and the most binding.
Without possibility I am trapped. Trapped in a singularity. Trapped in Truth. Gone is the mystery, the unknowing of the unknown. The ground becomes solid and life becomes a straight line from point. to. point.
Possibility is so important because it opens Being up to the may-be. Suddenly all is not known, the future cannot be mapped, and the course is splintered into an infinite directions. The past is dead because its possibilities have been eliminated by time, the past comes back to life in the different possibilities of how I look back upon it in the present and future.
Possibility breathes life into Being. Being gives life to possibility. Possibility creates contradiction, contradiction is the possibility of the possible. Being, possibility, contradiction, are all intertwined, and there are others too: mystery, contingency, time, and death.
Possibility, separating the coin, unlocking the door, setting free and in the possibility of choice binding us in permanence.
Possibility's contradiction is that it is freeing and the most binding.
3.27.2009
Philosophical Fridays: Keeping low doesn't make no sense
dead being computer without sense unable to Be
sense vs. reason as if this were a real opposition and duality as if humans are made up of these two parts, separate and antagonistic. where is the truth of the broken pencil in a glass of water?
does sense just merely color my being-in-the-world? does sense just give a flavor to existence? does sense add a soothing purr to the world around me, a soft touch, a mere quality? does reason alone determine the truth of existence, the truth by deduction of being-in-the-world? how can i use reason alone to be-with-others? how can I use reason alone to be-towards-death?
being-towards-death, how can reason help me here? what is reasonable about death, about the experience of death, about the oneness singularity only my own moment of which no other moment can inform? what do I deduce from to determine death? what prior reasoning of nothingness can I reasonably experience the fact of my own death from?
thus the truths in the myriad afterlifes, all obtained by reason, and argued over with logic, and proved on paper.
your reason is contingent on your senses, but does this elevate the senses to the place that reason once held? isn't this just a flip flop? yes. senses are not higher than reason, as if living a purely sensible life is something to strive for, there is a judgement here, for sure. but the drug addict, who chases after sensory pleasure 24 hours a day is not being-in-the-world. the senses can take us out of the shared world, the being-with-others, lock us away in an unintelligible solipsim.
connected reason and sense inside and out in contradiction. unable to be ripped apart.
try to rip apart the faces of a quarter. it's easy with your mind, too easy.
sense vs. reason as if this were a real opposition and duality as if humans are made up of these two parts, separate and antagonistic. where is the truth of the broken pencil in a glass of water?
does sense just merely color my being-in-the-world? does sense just give a flavor to existence? does sense add a soothing purr to the world around me, a soft touch, a mere quality? does reason alone determine the truth of existence, the truth by deduction of being-in-the-world? how can i use reason alone to be-with-others? how can I use reason alone to be-towards-death?
being-towards-death, how can reason help me here? what is reasonable about death, about the experience of death, about the oneness singularity only my own moment of which no other moment can inform? what do I deduce from to determine death? what prior reasoning of nothingness can I reasonably experience the fact of my own death from?
thus the truths in the myriad afterlifes, all obtained by reason, and argued over with logic, and proved on paper.
your reason is contingent on your senses, but does this elevate the senses to the place that reason once held? isn't this just a flip flop? yes. senses are not higher than reason, as if living a purely sensible life is something to strive for, there is a judgement here, for sure. but the drug addict, who chases after sensory pleasure 24 hours a day is not being-in-the-world. the senses can take us out of the shared world, the being-with-others, lock us away in an unintelligible solipsim.
connected reason and sense inside and out in contradiction. unable to be ripped apart.
try to rip apart the faces of a quarter. it's easy with your mind, too easy.
3.26.2009
Brother
i heard another, the Other
his movements i was there too
scraping dry paper against his shit.
wash my hands quick and avoid the Other
the sounds, the mirror, the shoes, standing
next to me, it was someone i knew.
his movements i was there too
scraping dry paper against his shit.
wash my hands quick and avoid the Other
the sounds, the mirror, the shoes, standing
next to me, it was someone i knew.
Being, touching up against nothingness?
When I lie in bed, what touches up against my Being? Simply the sheets and the pillowcase? The air the fan pushes down onto my skin? These are not the only things that touch my Being, and in fact they may be the furthest from it.
What touches up against Being? What lies intimately close to me in bed?
The sound of tires spinning on the highway outside is closer to me than the sheets on my skin. The places that I go following that tire-sound, big rigs pull me along, the wind whipping harder than the ceiling fan. Close to me is the future, the day I'm about to wake up into, the possibilities I will choose.
I may forget completely the things that actually touch my skin, the objects that my half open eyes let in. I may not be aware of the place that I'm in, the immediate, the ready-to-hand. Being is not like a piece of paper, bound in a book, touching only the pages directly before and after. No, Being is rather like a piece of paper in a book that touches the whole book due to the words printed on both sides.
Proximity to Being, is there such a thing? Doesn't this treat Being as an object, located in space only, able to be acted on by force, composed of a substance? What is proximal and what is infinitely far away?
When Being approaches death, sees the approach, realizes it, what touches up against Being is Nothingness. Surrounded by the Nothing, filled with the Nothing, this allows my Being to drive down a road I've never been down, to go to places while I lie in bed, to imagine the day as I contemplate the past.
Nothing touches up against my Being.
What touches up against Being? What lies intimately close to me in bed?
The sound of tires spinning on the highway outside is closer to me than the sheets on my skin. The places that I go following that tire-sound, big rigs pull me along, the wind whipping harder than the ceiling fan. Close to me is the future, the day I'm about to wake up into, the possibilities I will choose.
I may forget completely the things that actually touch my skin, the objects that my half open eyes let in. I may not be aware of the place that I'm in, the immediate, the ready-to-hand. Being is not like a piece of paper, bound in a book, touching only the pages directly before and after. No, Being is rather like a piece of paper in a book that touches the whole book due to the words printed on both sides.
Proximity to Being, is there such a thing? Doesn't this treat Being as an object, located in space only, able to be acted on by force, composed of a substance? What is proximal and what is infinitely far away?
When Being approaches death, sees the approach, realizes it, what touches up against Being is Nothingness. Surrounded by the Nothing, filled with the Nothing, this allows my Being to drive down a road I've never been down, to go to places while I lie in bed, to imagine the day as I contemplate the past.
Nothing touches up against my Being.
3.23.2009
Living life like a black and white
somewhere there is a gray that I can't seem to step in only leap over.
though i know its borders and boundries i cannot get into it. yet.
life seemed like a half moon cookie, no space between, nothing separating chocolate and vanilla.
but the moon and the shadow are much further apart
than i could ever taste before.
somewhere there is a gray where I'm not so hard on myself.
it's OK in there to not achieve an ideal
to contemplate humanity's shortcomings that are not
apart from me.
to embrace the diffuse, to see the wrongness of right to leave
even a personal truth behind in a question
i can smile on a shitty day.
though i know its borders and boundries i cannot get into it. yet.
life seemed like a half moon cookie, no space between, nothing separating chocolate and vanilla.
but the moon and the shadow are much further apart
than i could ever taste before.
somewhere there is a gray where I'm not so hard on myself.
it's OK in there to not achieve an ideal
to contemplate humanity's shortcomings that are not
apart from me.
to embrace the diffuse, to see the wrongness of right to leave
even a personal truth behind in a question
i can smile on a shitty day.
3.20.2009
Philosophical Fridays: one in one in one in one in zero
Contradiction is a circular trail, a snake eating itself. Thus the sameness of the poles of contradiction can be viewed. Both poles are part of the same creature, the same Being, the same whole. Disconnected only by an imposed differentiation from outside. Wanting to not be something I often find myself, in my attempts to not be, being that very something. How can intention circle back on itself like this?
In wanting to live, I can find myself dying, but living in the dying, but dying, but living, and so the snake feeds. Infinity is a finite loop simply run over and over again. In the realization of the wholeness of contradiction do I realize the further separation of contradiction that leads back into the closeness of contradiction? And of course back again? The head of the snake and the tail of the snake. The snake is the whole, and yet there is a difference between the head and the tail, heads and tails on a coin. The whole cannot be without the parts, a snake without a head, a coin without a tails. The contradictory elements coming together to form the whole, the whole is divided to form the contradictory elements, which come back together to form the whole, which is separated into parts that have meaning, yet no meaning without the whole.
Thus do I run the circles in my mind. Contours run as straight lines.
In wanting to live, I can find myself dying, but living in the dying, but dying, but living, and so the snake feeds. Infinity is a finite loop simply run over and over again. In the realization of the wholeness of contradiction do I realize the further separation of contradiction that leads back into the closeness of contradiction? And of course back again? The head of the snake and the tail of the snake. The snake is the whole, and yet there is a difference between the head and the tail, heads and tails on a coin. The whole cannot be without the parts, a snake without a head, a coin without a tails. The contradictory elements coming together to form the whole, the whole is divided to form the contradictory elements, which come back together to form the whole, which is separated into parts that have meaning, yet no meaning without the whole.
Thus do I run the circles in my mind. Contours run as straight lines.
3.13.2009
Philosophical Fridays: A Rambling Tradition of Inexactitude
Language is the house of Being. In its home man dwells. Those who think and those who create with words are the guardians of this home." - Martin Heidegger, Letter on Humanism, 1947.
Language is the house of Being. Being is contradiction, or perhaps rather contradiction is the house of Being. Language then, and contradiction then, and now we begin to wonder. What is the connection between language and contradiction? Is it the simple representation of the "real" (real in quotes because I do not think in dualities, thus practically eliminating the need for this sentence, but I will continue) world versus the world of ideas? Is language a contradiction? Or is it that contradiction cannot arise without language? But I feel that I'm getting ahead of myself in this wordvom.
Language and Being. Dasein cannot be without language.
Contradiction and Being. Dasein is the contradiction, the creator of contradiction, and created by contradiction. Is that too contradictory for you?
Well then, language cannot be without Being.
What am I getting at? Where does this circular go-nowhere infinite road lead? There is no destination, no point of arrival, just as there was no place that we embarked from, although we did start off somewhere and the goal is to land somewhere else. Is it a truth that I'm after? Yes and No. Perhaps it's a belief, or a faith.
And one wonders about faith. Is it not contradiction? To expect something when I have no reason to expect it. What then is contradiction? Is it the absurd? That from which faith rises from? Is it absurd that we separate light from dark, up from down, the individual from society? I think always of contradictions as poles, as opposites, as separated by a nothingness, and Being is that which fills the nothingness and brings them back together. But it is absurd to think of one without the other, to think of loneliness without the idea of, and separated from, togetherness. I cannot be alone if I cannot be together with Others. So these two ideas are not distinct, existing without the other. Perhaps Being is that which does not join contradictory concepts, but instead is that which pushes them away. Perhaps Being creates the nothingness of a non-separation separation.
Nothingness would not exist without Being to posit it. Something would not exist without Being to posit it as against The Nothing. Both something and nothing would be the same if it were not for the intrusion of Dasein. Something and Nothing would be the same, would be meaningless, would be unthinkable. Meaning does not only have the connotation of defining, but it also has an indescribable function. Meaning is almost appearing. Meaning is almost weight. Meaning is a condensation of the fog that surrounds all. Meaning is poetry.
Where have I taken myself? Where have I gotten to? I don't know. These are just thought experiments on nothing and something being and contradiction language and meaning and nothing else. This is not a science experiment, a paper to be graded, a report to be filed. These are fundamental questions that no one thinks as they drive their car from home to work and never realize that they are always in the same place. What is geography to Dasein? What is location? What is a point on a map to Being that lives in language? Can I ever leave my home? Can I ever exist without contradiction. In death, I suppose, I pull the door closed behind me and become one thing. Or do I?
In death I leave the house I've lived in, no longer able to talk, no longer able to posit differences with my mouth, to form words. But does that mean that my Dasein ceases to exist? Do I become Negative, a negative existence, a not-Being? Or do I wholly join the life that is around me, do I close the contradiction, the gap that I've created, and become something and nothing at the same time? Do I fall or do I ascend? Do I dissipate or become whole, a wholeness that I can never feel now?
Only time will tell. That I can be sure of. But time has it's own problems to deal with. The linear succession of nows verses the non linear conglomeration of yesterday today and tomorrow. This is a thought trail for another day. This is another path to the clearing. This is a shady dirt trail in summer breezes with green leaves for friends.
Language is the house of Being. Being is contradiction, or perhaps rather contradiction is the house of Being. Language then, and contradiction then, and now we begin to wonder. What is the connection between language and contradiction? Is it the simple representation of the "real" (real in quotes because I do not think in dualities, thus practically eliminating the need for this sentence, but I will continue) world versus the world of ideas? Is language a contradiction? Or is it that contradiction cannot arise without language? But I feel that I'm getting ahead of myself in this wordvom.
Language and Being. Dasein cannot be without language.
Contradiction and Being. Dasein is the contradiction, the creator of contradiction, and created by contradiction. Is that too contradictory for you?
Well then, language cannot be without Being.
What am I getting at? Where does this circular go-nowhere infinite road lead? There is no destination, no point of arrival, just as there was no place that we embarked from, although we did start off somewhere and the goal is to land somewhere else. Is it a truth that I'm after? Yes and No. Perhaps it's a belief, or a faith.
And one wonders about faith. Is it not contradiction? To expect something when I have no reason to expect it. What then is contradiction? Is it the absurd? That from which faith rises from? Is it absurd that we separate light from dark, up from down, the individual from society? I think always of contradictions as poles, as opposites, as separated by a nothingness, and Being is that which fills the nothingness and brings them back together. But it is absurd to think of one without the other, to think of loneliness without the idea of, and separated from, togetherness. I cannot be alone if I cannot be together with Others. So these two ideas are not distinct, existing without the other. Perhaps Being is that which does not join contradictory concepts, but instead is that which pushes them away. Perhaps Being creates the nothingness of a non-separation separation.
Nothingness would not exist without Being to posit it. Something would not exist without Being to posit it as against The Nothing. Both something and nothing would be the same if it were not for the intrusion of Dasein. Something and Nothing would be the same, would be meaningless, would be unthinkable. Meaning does not only have the connotation of defining, but it also has an indescribable function. Meaning is almost appearing. Meaning is almost weight. Meaning is a condensation of the fog that surrounds all. Meaning is poetry.
Where have I taken myself? Where have I gotten to? I don't know. These are just thought experiments on nothing and something being and contradiction language and meaning and nothing else. This is not a science experiment, a paper to be graded, a report to be filed. These are fundamental questions that no one thinks as they drive their car from home to work and never realize that they are always in the same place. What is geography to Dasein? What is location? What is a point on a map to Being that lives in language? Can I ever leave my home? Can I ever exist without contradiction. In death, I suppose, I pull the door closed behind me and become one thing. Or do I?
In death I leave the house I've lived in, no longer able to talk, no longer able to posit differences with my mouth, to form words. But does that mean that my Dasein ceases to exist? Do I become Negative, a negative existence, a not-Being? Or do I wholly join the life that is around me, do I close the contradiction, the gap that I've created, and become something and nothing at the same time? Do I fall or do I ascend? Do I dissipate or become whole, a wholeness that I can never feel now?
Only time will tell. That I can be sure of. But time has it's own problems to deal with. The linear succession of nows verses the non linear conglomeration of yesterday today and tomorrow. This is a thought trail for another day. This is another path to the clearing. This is a shady dirt trail in summer breezes with green leaves for friends.
3.12.2009
bubblegum feeling
Being: a stretching between poles.
the meaning my dasein gives arises
from the opposites,
combined, connected.
I once did an experiment,
discovered one thing,
as long as I never looked behind me,
there was Truth without meaning.
a singular focus on only one half,
a nailing down, unaware of the floating away.
exist in irony, the basis of meaning.
I am the garden
of the weight.
the meaning my dasein gives arises
from the opposites,
combined, connected.
I once did an experiment,
discovered one thing,
as long as I never looked behind me,
there was Truth without meaning.
a singular focus on only one half,
a nailing down, unaware of the floating away.
exist in irony, the basis of meaning.
I am the garden
of the weight.
2.26.2009
ensared in protection.
protection. i wanted to write something here about protection. about how living is protecting yourself, and how there can be too much protection, too much shielding, hiding away, putting up barriers. i saw a hawk sitting at the top of a tree, protected, able to fly away, and yet we've caught hawks before, all sorts of birds and animals. humans can capture even the most protected and hidden.
is the way to go then revelation? to reveal all, to open one's self to revelation? because no matter how much i protect myself i feel more and more trapped by that from which i hide.
protection makes me silent.
silence is a distance i usually find it difficult to leap over.
when i think i have nothing to say, it's because i'm afraid of what i have to say.
to turn inward with fear and to face that from which i protect myself is my greatest challenge.
it is not the outside humans that catch me, but the net of my own making.
ensared in protection.
is the way to go then revelation? to reveal all, to open one's self to revelation? because no matter how much i protect myself i feel more and more trapped by that from which i hide.
protection makes me silent.
silence is a distance i usually find it difficult to leap over.
when i think i have nothing to say, it's because i'm afraid of what i have to say.
to turn inward with fear and to face that from which i protect myself is my greatest challenge.
it is not the outside humans that catch me, but the net of my own making.
ensared in protection.
2.20.2009
2-3 pm
it's odd to be so angry, enough to identify the feeling
because feelings I can't identify.
bad prose and illusion-comments.
it's strange to be so angry, but I guess I always was
because this dasein is mine.
it's Confrontation Friday. I find myself hiding behind a wall
built from mask-bricks, and shine a light on fear
dirty and drab in its corners.
this feels better, my anger.
because feelings I can't identify.
bad prose and illusion-comments.
it's strange to be so angry, but I guess I always was
because this dasein is mine.
it's Confrontation Friday. I find myself hiding behind a wall
built from mask-bricks, and shine a light on fear
dirty and drab in its corners.
this feels better, my anger.
2.10.2009
No Kid Icarus am I
the past isn't the past isn't past. and why does one get ensared in the steel jaws of memory? Inextricable and unescapeable no matter what the struggle is made of.
best to just lie still and let it eat you?
best to lie still and be angry, no?
perhaps and perhaps most likely not.
instead of struggling for escape from the jaws of life, instead of laying in wait for the final bite, why not dig, dig and dig, at the past and its base? why not dig until you've freed the past that was anchored in your skin all along?
I dug out a metal trap from the ground so moist and soft, I dug out a three ton weight that threatened to carry me along, and now I walk holding the trap that takes its awful bite. And now I walk carrying the weight that holds me tight.
you say you're angry but I say you don't even know
you say you're angry but I say maybe so
and let's take a step back into the past and give it its due
but you don't even have a clue because
you say you're angry and I say I don't even know
you say you're angry but guess what you can't let it go
you say you're angry but I think that anger is you
when consumed by the feeling one ceases to have the feeling and instead becomes a part of the feeling. part and parcel post. it is easy to have happiness in a bottle, but impossible to join it in that bottle. it is hard to keep anger in a bottle, but so easy to let it out and drown in its vapors.
I once took a leap of faith on the strength of the absurd. do you know what this means? of course not.
but I do.
I took a leap, a leap that would be considered by all and sundry to be absurd, as they said as I flew:
"Why jump from solid ground into thin air?"
"What does he think he'll land on that will be sturdier than the mundane?"
"Who does he think he'll become that's stronger than he already is?"
But flying I didn't think, and didn't hear them. In flight I only flew.
And my toes just barely touched down on a rock so solid, so lofty, so secure that I looked back and wondered how it was that I had thought I had any balance at all.
best to just lie still and let it eat you?
best to lie still and be angry, no?
perhaps and perhaps most likely not.
instead of struggling for escape from the jaws of life, instead of laying in wait for the final bite, why not dig, dig and dig, at the past and its base? why not dig until you've freed the past that was anchored in your skin all along?
I dug out a metal trap from the ground so moist and soft, I dug out a three ton weight that threatened to carry me along, and now I walk holding the trap that takes its awful bite. And now I walk carrying the weight that holds me tight.
you say you're angry but I say you don't even know
you say you're angry but I say maybe so
and let's take a step back into the past and give it its due
but you don't even have a clue because
you say you're angry and I say I don't even know
you say you're angry but guess what you can't let it go
you say you're angry but I think that anger is you
when consumed by the feeling one ceases to have the feeling and instead becomes a part of the feeling. part and parcel post. it is easy to have happiness in a bottle, but impossible to join it in that bottle. it is hard to keep anger in a bottle, but so easy to let it out and drown in its vapors.
I once took a leap of faith on the strength of the absurd. do you know what this means? of course not.
but I do.
I took a leap, a leap that would be considered by all and sundry to be absurd, as they said as I flew:
"Why jump from solid ground into thin air?"
"What does he think he'll land on that will be sturdier than the mundane?"
"Who does he think he'll become that's stronger than he already is?"
But flying I didn't think, and didn't hear them. In flight I only flew.
And my toes just barely touched down on a rock so solid, so lofty, so secure that I looked back and wondered how it was that I had thought I had any balance at all.
1.29.2009
Eternity
It wasn't until I was dead that I learned that life keeps living. Buried in my bedsheets, pulled high over my head, but I wasn't warm, I wasn't cold. I was dead. In the dark my eyes were open and closed. My breath was trapped underneath with me, barely leaving my mouth, warm, I inhaled it back in. I couldn't turn myself over, my arms were pins and needles, useless meat laying next to me in silence.
It was quiet, there were no clicking noises, of electronics or pipes interred arround me, no rushing cars on the gray road, no footsteps up above of people walking over me.
Stillness. Unending stillness extended out around me, it was piled on top of me, a heavy weight that I couldn't reach or move away, and I was tired, not willing to scrape my nails bleeding into it, not willing to gouge it out and have it come crashing down on me.
But the alarm clock exploaded, and it was time for the dead to begin living.
It was quiet, there were no clicking noises, of electronics or pipes interred arround me, no rushing cars on the gray road, no footsteps up above of people walking over me.
Stillness. Unending stillness extended out around me, it was piled on top of me, a heavy weight that I couldn't reach or move away, and I was tired, not willing to scrape my nails bleeding into it, not willing to gouge it out and have it come crashing down on me.
But the alarm clock exploaded, and it was time for the dead to begin living.
1.15.2009
Brrrrrrrrrrr
icicles took my fingertips
i'm tired and out of gas
12:00 was the last exit i left
mile marker 4:15
ready for the freeze to
crawl up my sleeve
the window crack
the fight to get home
stay on the road
but today's end is a
good end
a quiet wakeless slipping
into
warm
waters.
i'm tired and out of gas
12:00 was the last exit i left
mile marker 4:15
ready for the freeze to
crawl up my sleeve
the window crack
the fight to get home
stay on the road
but today's end is a
good end
a quiet wakeless slipping
into
warm
waters.
1.14.2009
Memory
Driving around looking for memory in the middle of a snowstorm wasn't the wisest thing to do. The car was disguised in white after every stop, and I didn't find any memories out there that were as cheap as the one sitting at home. Still, the radio played songs by Jane's Addiction that had to be over 14 years old, and the driving was slow, as slow as that one time when we almost didn't make it up the hill and the car flailed around like fish spawning against the current. I mailed away for a memory. Hopefully it's mine and it fits.
but when the mail came and i reached into the engulfing crisp cornered envelope it was me that was lost while my memory was found on the floor by the cleaning lady's chores.
but when the mail came and i reached into the engulfing crisp cornered envelope it was me that was lost while my memory was found on the floor by the cleaning lady's chores.
1.11.2009
That's the Way
I am the ice cream man waiting for my ice cream to
I am the music man waiting for my
and I adore my overlord
I shook shackled hands
renewing our agreement.
I am the wanderer and his shadow wondering where his
I am the trumpeter of bad news trying to tune my
and I adore my overlord
I was cast in a spell
with lips that kissed and Killed.
I am the unbounded, bound inside of me
I am the possibility, I chose to be
I am the infinity curled back on its self
and I adore my overlord
the finite
with infinite possibilities.
I am the music man waiting for my
and I adore my overlord
I shook shackled hands
renewing our agreement.
I am the wanderer and his shadow wondering where his
I am the trumpeter of bad news trying to tune my
and I adore my overlord
I was cast in a spell
with lips that kissed and Killed.
I am the unbounded, bound inside of me
I am the possibility, I chose to be
I am the infinity curled back on its self
and I adore my overlord
the finite
with infinite possibilities.
1.10.2009
unlocked. (who gives a shit)
the more i read the more i hate the more i don't care the more i wonder the more i think the sadder you seem the same you seem the more you'll never change.
you had a chance to wake up,
but you pounded the snooze button
into a heavenly eternity
of
oblivion of yes-men
but, no men
butt-lickers.
--------------------------------------------
"Of all the places I'd like to be
it's in a room with no t.v.
open windows and company
with smiling faces to say
that they missed me."
-Pants Yell! "Two French Sisters"
1.08.2009
Waiting for Susan to come Home.
because I can still see snow on the streets,
but the trees are taller eventhough the houses still face
the same direction
but the paint is different, the world is smaller
and I am bigger.
and I am bigger.
In a room that I never lived in I live
In a cold upstairs basement of thoughts I dig and
dig.
I constantly get up and look out the window
at the plowed street
looking for tire tracks in the driveway-snow.
the headphones clamp music to my ears
the desk I sit at was once yours
but I'm sorry I can't remember the way we used to be.
I saw movies of pictures moving
you jumping in the kiddie pool
my fat belly covered in green plaid.
riding bigwheels down sidewalks I don't remember
led by mom-so-young, younger than us,
and we fought with rakes, and bounced in the pool,
and you skinned the cat on the swingset,
and dad did
and grandpa did
too.
but the trees are taller eventhough the houses still face
the same direction
but the paint is different, the world is smaller
and I am bigger.
and I am bigger.
In a room that I never lived in I live
In a cold upstairs basement of thoughts I dig and
dig.
I constantly get up and look out the window
at the plowed street
looking for tire tracks in the driveway-snow.
the headphones clamp music to my ears
the desk I sit at was once yours
but I'm sorry I can't remember the way we used to be.
I saw movies of pictures moving
you jumping in the kiddie pool
my fat belly covered in green plaid.
riding bigwheels down sidewalks I don't remember
led by mom-so-young, younger than us,
and we fought with rakes, and bounced in the pool,
and you skinned the cat on the swingset,
and dad did
and grandpa did
too.
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