Tuesday, April 12, 2016

"The Crumbs of One Man's Year", pt 2

10/7/15, 2 am

. . . Thinking not of its charm, but of its inherent swallowing comfort as a precursor to a lazy, sloppy death, if such a need should arise. It is there, and will always be. As of tonight, I have no use for it, but it and I are winking towards each other across a gulf of day-to-day illusion.

      as rage
      as punishment/flagellation
      as granting the flesh undue properties (hocus)

      as separation
      as alone-ness

so feverishly aware of self that all else fades

10/10/15, ~2 am

The fuck am I doing? Drinking, and on a school night!

Christian County Truck Story:
To be fair, there were plenty of Chevy pick-ups in Christian County.

Ozark is spooky.

10/13/15, 9 am or so, eh?

I think I'm in denial
or am writing to my Future Self in code
the Me between now and then must remain
on course to establish the cipher
tunnel of vision: tunnel of rooftops, trees
turning, trucks
here and there a chimney like stone-plated
mushroom stalks, Gawd's own hewing
showing few such angles.
October breathes through dry-leafed gill
and the moon hung fat and high.


Goddamn Tuesday

Feral Day, coffee and bacon edits, up late whiskey brains storming, burnt some sycamore and ate French toast

10/22/15, ~9 am

That piercing, violent romanticism that once was as vital to me as blood and breath has been stifled by both experience (time + pain; education) and will. Whether an ember still glows that may one day again be stoked until it roars is irrelevant or, at least, an item towards which I am currently largely indifferent and uninterested except in this speculative sort of musing and reflection.

Is there a third party between pessimism and optimism with which I may align myself? I see no use for unnecessary hopes, but likewise have no use for assumptions of the worst possible outcome, though I expect the latter and am routinely pricked into industrious action by the former.

There is a third way; The Way, the Tao.

10/23/15, 1:50 am

-Oy, maybe there is something wrong with me.

-Is that a joke?

-Well, seems like everyone believes there to be something wrong with themselves, and so I hesitate-

-Do you feel cooler if you admit your faults?

-Well, no, they're usually embarrassing, and sometimes terrifying. And I assume everyone else feels the same. I call it "Harry Potter Syndrome", though I'm sure Campbell or Jung have some classical nomenclature for the idea. But, you know, like, everyone wants so badly to be singular that they look for prophetic signs even in their faults, their mistakes. And they're all wrong. Has there yet been a singular human? Is that not our curse, of sorts? All blessed with a fiery singularity, yet tethered without reason nor warning to the Whole Egg? If each is special because each feels special, and "feeling-is", is not no one not special?

- . . . Well, you know what they say about assuming . . .

-Yeah, it makes an ass of you and me and me and you and me and me and me and me and you and you and me and you and you and me and me and you and me


I'm a gin wonder,
Taking that shot with this pen in my mouth.
I wonder sometimes
if poetry is telepathy,
and I look westward
with periods slanting
and jerk off hard enough to
come with all of the
melodrama we've
come to expect
etc etc
will you feel it here,
or here, does that feel good?
Do you feel it
right between
your stupid eyes?

Magnificent beauty in accepting my Hyde . . .
Puny Jekyll,
poor soft puny Jekyll . . .

Oy, again! Oy!
my price now,
some solvent me,
destitute of gut and manner,
rich in rich secretitude,
all these things which are mine!
See me curl up upon the stacks,
glittering teeth are rotten and warm.
If I find my home without,
and if I find my home within,
what then for you?
Are you at the gate with morning star
and malice,
Or you poised for subjugation,
bent and at the ready for any lock'd [person]
to consume your hard nipples?

Ah, oy, mine is the third, then;
a glass dome with only the air I feel we deserve.

10/23/15, 3:55 pm

ideas for bummer aphorism calendar:
*Lonely is the wife who stays loyal while her husband wars.
*Within each newborn child is the latent potential to be the next Idi Amin.

10/24/15, 10? pm

Nixa sunset nuclear pink, their water tower substituting for a ham-fisted mushroom cloud against chemically brilliant backdrop. Girlfriend called and made a lot of noise about disappointment. I stared at the sunset while someone else answered her complaints. I'm not sure what he replied, but she didn't seem to care for it, so I stopped and bought pizza and whiskey at a gas station and then took a wrong turn and drove southeast for a while getting drunk on the company dime and dropping sausage and cheese everywhere, finally realizing I was lost twenty minutes later, a twenty minute dream of Halloween in Christian County, watching curling leafless trees beat their blood-vessel silhouettes against a smokey horizon.

11/3/15, ~2 am

"I'm more of a part-time drunk these days," he says, tugging with his teeth at the plastic seal on a small bottle of whiskey. "I tried it out as a full-time career in my late twenties, but there's no upward mobility. These days, it's just more medicine."

The mysteries which sing to me of how incomplete I am are the same which complete me.

If happiness is only to be found
in that which is truth,
in that which is peaceful,
and in this search I find
love lacking
sex lacking
God lacking
friends lacking
government lacking
all the world over in lies and violence,
as peace is no truth
but only a moment of calm between
gnashing chews,
and there are no innocents without,
I am left to seek
what remains of
truth and peace

Lo, do I yet want
to wrench the sun from the sky
and drown it
in my vitriolic spit.

11/5 or 6/15, midnightish

I turned and bared my teeth. I turned and bared my teeth. I turned and bared my teeth. I turned and bared my teeth. I turned and bared my teeth. I turned and bared my teeth. I turned and bared my teeth. I turned and bared my teeth. I turned and bared my teeth. I turned and bared my teeth. I turned and bared my teeth. I turned and bared my teeth.

Storm's blowin',
leaves like little bats,
wet wine licks my


Never been held so immediately accountable for all the wrong things.

I believe in transparency in regards to both honesty, as a human, and as a ghost, not made for secrets, but of them. I know what I mean.

And I know the boys which tug your eyes;
I know their hats
and their way of walking.

Who or what am I
that others should hold me in any regard
besides that which I wish them to
hold me

11/9/15, midnight

Time of night
of biting light

I'm tired.


[in addition to a brief murmuring in re: the terror attacks in Paris, I have written the words "Laser yoga". Must to meditate on these singularly two words further; already was I bored with the Eiffel Tower's fetishization]

At what cost, love?
And did I yawp,
prowling along damp-frost wood molding
and mossing?
Humbled I stamped
and a spineless victory
smoked from my lumps.


My private life is a luxury which I will never concede. And I mean not private as secret, but private as that which I and only I know, of which I and only I am part.

11/24/15, 1:30 am-ish

"I have longed to move away"
though not a place from
but away towards silence,
a move away from a voice.
I still make bad habits
of gathering so much so near
"If only to have it at hand
when it comes time to throw it all away."

^@$!!& showing up, sleeping in-car in-street (drunk?), I going out with Cardinal peaking above overall bib to get a nightcap; subsequent rage, unfortunate harsh words . . .

Inner Sanctum has been breeched,
Magic Circle has been crossed.
If she knew these molars I grind
to keep me bones from splitting
and veins throbbing with venom
to bursting orgasm full.

Enraged now that I am only filling a role, unsure how to proceed, stage direction comes from a chilly headache.

It's like gigging frogs.


Violence in the air tonight; I feel caught in a flinch at some explosive atrocity just over the horizon.

12/1/15, 3:30ish

Can't look at myself in the mirror.

Can you read this, Andrew? You literally could not face yourself.

Don't forget - This type of revelation is hard-sought.


And that is why I'm


These days, I'm half-ice, half-chimney. Born for the winter, you see. Getting turned by the rolling breath and imagining which words hot and pregnant let loose such a volley. I imagine them hard words, coolly raging. But then I've always been a bit of a projectionist.

Too easy to lose yourself to the world. I choose the darker path, uncharted, within. None inside but me and my bones. We wait out long nights, tinkering. Sharpening stones. Finally alone.

My sobs freeze to dead moss.

No word as of in re: the condition of my soul, and whether it's been properly winterized.

12/3/15, 1:2ish

Lost alcoholic revelation
on the drive home.
Drinking in secret.
Bare toes twinkle
along unimaginable precipice.

The way we are
The who that we become

Do I have any dignity left?
Do I at least walk with urgent dignity, as I imagine?

What if I stopped

Magic circle is real, and made from salt ground from the bones of those we push away.

"Cursed Realms of the Winter Daemon" indeed.

I've got good days and bad, same as anyone else.

I will not be part of a collection.

Maybe it's too thick and constant,
maybe ink a bloody vein starving,
maybe a sound like broken glass,
makes bad noises, human noises,
maybe inky too inky
too real and familiar
these ghosts on a sheet,
maybe inky ghosty
ghosts ghosty

12/4/15, 12:53 am

What light was cast upon all things I had previously found to be blighted and pallid tonight when Sarah called me. Tragic little joy I keep cuckolded in my arterial folds.


BEST PRANK EVER? This man hid behind chemical addiction and emotional pratfalls for over a decade to disguise his experiments testing the upper limits of the tenuous nature of mental stability and, thusly, reality!

$@^@^# &^33*@@^^

last selfless act? one with no reward, not even a personal satisfaction in doing the "right" thing? nada?

I've been selfish ever since.

felt deserved, as if I earned it, thusly cherished

I will not accept that which I fundamentally do not deserve.

"dead in the eyes"


Approaching the world and its (our) conflicts through the context of poetic vision, applying godhood to it which deserveth it and demonology to that which deserveth that . . . being one no more clear, but the over-arching message is more urgent:


Never underestimate my ability to get myself totally worked up.

Why fight so hard to be who you are? Why not let be and be who you are not?

Dreams do not come true.

Wherefore art thou Discipline
At what price Discipline

1/10/16, ~1 am

I suppose I'll just exist between jerking off, trudging around with come rags and waiting to recharge.

Want much to do with spider-bite girls, want much to do with their lips and eyelashes and want much of nothing to do with anything of flesh, though, really.

I expect to freeze to death long before I die of loneliness.

1/11/16 ~4 or 5 am

David Bowie is dead, long live David Bowie.

Indeed has there been a lull

Indeed has there been a lull, my tenderteeth . . .

Where have you stuck your nose
in the meantime?
Whose juice have you wiped from your brow?

Indeed, the world is only opened wide
for such brief intervals,
and might'n it be a warrior's duty
to study such timely phenomena,
dilation which may be . . .

Indeed, I say again,
do I hate and churn and loathe.
Stay at least a hand that I raise to such folly,
O Lord.

My teeth hurt from clenching . . .
Not likely; I am home to a thousand.


Tuesday, February 9, 2016

"The Crumbs of One Man's Year", pt 1

3/4/15, 12:18 am

Snow, the White Death!
Pillowing drifts of powdered bone!
The last storm, rich and swollen.

They could remember naught before,
and expected naught hence;
indeed the future lost all meaning,
white eyes blind and clawing hair,
not a heart even yearning to hope.


133.6 lbs


trigger: "Raiders of the Lost Ark"; lotsa liquor drank in that movie, lots of shots . . . instead I stuffed my face with popcorn and took frequent smoke breaks

"It was apparent to her that his condescension was a marvel." - Stephen Crane, "Maggie..."

4/11/15, 2:30 pm

trigger: packing house, found adderall, afraid someone may sniff that I am in town, waiting for my Ma

"He could not comprehend their desire to cross the streets. Their madness smote him with eternal amazement. He was continually storming at them from his throne." - Crane, "Maggie..."


139 lbs


When I was young, a recurring fantasy was everyone disappearing from the world save myself, and perhaps a few friends, but all structures left intact so I could finally climb on all of the things I was never allowed to climb on. This is essentially still my most base dream, myself alone, climbing like a spider monkey upon all of the structures which had been forbidden.

"He dreaded the depths of feeling he would eventually have to face, when he could no longer call upon his eccentricities for relief." - Bellow, Herzog


O to know the word!
To know which eye to flash
to have you squirming pathetic
in your dreams,
a pen-stroke a staple
'pon each of your bony wrists.
I watch the struggle from afar,
never more distant,
lest am I ever to let this guard down again.


It can't be healthy to walk around as if I'm at war with everyone I see, holding my spine so rigid as if t'were an ivory tower, holding my head above the murk awash, the sea of shit.

Is this why it upsets me to see others joyful, or at least in contentment? Why do I insist on them agreeing with me that it is all for naught if it is indeed all for naught?


"the skeleton at the feast is you"

anger... = toothsome

Buffalo, MO observations:
red barn roof faded to a rusted salmon pink, pretty tattooed blonde at the gas station prime prey for a methamphibian (the devourer of potential, the distorter of youth, the dream-chewer, the skin-sucker), traffic sluggish, day muggy but cool in the shadows, I need to take a shit, Tom Petty on the radio... "into the great wide open", south 65


Finishing songs I started writing seven years ago.
The good ship Carl Jung.
More sweat than man; might be the codeine.
Your words still mean so much to me.
Modern life was war, or so I thought.
Now, though, I understand.

7/20/15, 2 am or so

Watching heat lightning; been watching it for a while now. Flashes punctuate the atmosphere, and still there no clouds. The stars are louder than the cicadas.

I embed toothpicks into my gums like a mouthful of needles. I leave my teeth in the ashtray. Been dreaming in blues and reds lately, been day-dreaming in blonde. Been staring at legs. Smoking candy, eating cigarettes. Tonight we heavy-lidded considered Trinity and her children; gods borne of the atom to rage black suns across glassy New Mexico. Our childhood willingness to devour science fiction as speculative inevitability has made us most adept at processing the implications of emerging developments in the world of science and technology; yet us, the wide-eyed and dreaming, are the only few who truly fear what speculative inevitability hath wrought. The fall of man and the death of language: one I eat, and the other I smoke.

138.9 lbs

My backpack of clothes contained nothing seasonally appropriate, and my books were heavy. I sweated and sweated. I shared the couch with a big hound dog, both of us farting our way to purity; surely the godhead rumbled in my angry and curdled stomach.


As first week in Ozark:
ghosties, feelin' ghostly myself, all these new smells in my night-nose: Ozark smells, Ozark smells like bonfires and trash fires, diesel engines and two-stroke engines, hay dampening in fields, how rocks smell and moths smell, dog hair and the sick-sweet smell of old t-shirts bought secondhand.

I, a boyfriend now. Me? No boyfriend material, but a boyfriend all the same. May the mantle dictate the willful act, subsequently. I will still need my weird alone time. She at least pretends to understand this well enough at least enough. I find pretending to be exhausting and so only have this weird half-cocked grin, cracking a face that I hope is no longer a mask.

Will be transcribing tonight: into a date book (Russian) used now as a journal, into which I will transcribe poems I have already written and which I will read two nights hence at baby's first reading.

Transcribing as soon as I finish this cigarette: [cigarette burn in notebook]


You can find justification in anything, y'old drunk.

It's hot in the poor places tonight.

Mark 11: 23

sun's coming up, Specials singing "Free Nelson Mandela" time capsule-style, gonna go back in my weird new room and listen to Annalibera as I fall asleep (be still, mine heart)

I love adding to the weight of these notebooks. Bit by bit doth this ink'n sink'n to such pages, oft repeated yet nunca the same, each a little fookin' snowflake, bearing witness to such plethora of sin and glory while bearing sucheth weight as had never thunked and plunked and called a sentence. You fookin' snowflakes, y'are!

Christ, it's dreamy out here. A toast of smoke to feelin' alright.

9/2/15, 3:38 am

Preparing to embark on a weirdo drive to Kirbyville, hoping to avoid seeing any greylings.

Mondo weed hit: "kissing the dragon"


"Fuck it, I'm just gonna get drunk,"
I've said once or twice,
in my black boots
like some Parisian warrior.
"I've sweated through my t-shirt
and only left the sweat to dry."
I remind myself.
I stink.

still 9/2, after 4 am

Got too weird to take a nighttime drive. Probably for the best. Remember Prudence, Dietz.

Paranoia, paranoia, here I come to get everyone

Delicious September night:
dewdrops on my teeth,
nothing on my mind.

What if nihilism is nothing frightening but instead a system by which the parameters of what truly does and does not matter are much stricter?

I find it relieving to declare officially the war between myself and an ignorant, chaotic universe. I find it innately human, and a reason for living. A kicking against the pricks.

9/5/15, ~2 am

Must to get mind and body sharp. Must to improve. Must to recede to shadows, improve, and reemerge.

The moths are choosing the red light. My music echoes through the storm door, 'cross the deck, and onto and back from my neighbor's garage and collection of boats. I collect action figures.

----- -, from work- flirtatious problem, Lolita of angst, of stare. Woman, child.

Smoked that one fast.

9/8/15, 4:02 am, wine, "Agents of SHIELD"

What night roars upon such gloomy cinders,
with tremulous fingers holding aloft
which globe of fragile glass
as words in light for all to admire?

9/20/15, 1 am

They in their black ships of plague,
ruling both the skies
and the browbeaten earth,
while I cramp on a couch
constipated and somberly plotting
my eventual triumph
of I-told-you-so
and then
and later


I can smell resentment; I hear it in the voices of lovers chiding each other, when no one else seems to notice. How much do I notice? How different am I, really? Who has not asked this question before, and how few come away unchanged and with an answer.

If we are all the same, why the violent skew in priorities?

If we are all different, how possible then is peace?

Put a candle on my brow
And lash a pumpkin to my feet.
The hogs are in the field a-plow,
and long to taste the farmer's meat.

My job is the only thing keeping me from violent relapse into vicious action. For the time, it is worth it.
A steep step upon broken landscape, a school to which thought be not chained, these things forced and waiting expectant, striving for a submission the king will not grant
1-14-15, 5:24 pm

How fortunate that I am well-liked,
for how exhausting it would be
to live these days not so.

Breakdown of a Breakdown, Anatomy of an Autopsy

1/3/15, 4:25 am

Get up again
a thousand thousand times
to piss
but when
you've pissed
the bed as I have
you can never be
too sure.

Three times was I drunk,
and tonight I am not.

Returning to my room,
it smells of my father;
smoke and farts.


Which want with which will,
will want with what
which witch?

>Things $$$$$$$$ past year I can never tell you about $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ all alone, by myself, awful yawning bloody things, desperate and ripping and shameful $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ and if we are ever to grow and surround each other in trunk, branch, and bough $$$$$$$$$$$$$$ for I am massively incapable without your knowing, and dangerously undefined thus without your love.<


Oceans of ink
usher from beneath my fingernails,
I finding finally
an ear which will listen
but me now lost
the heart to say.

1/3/15, 3:08 pm

Were there never a place left for me, where the doors shut in the dawn but the shades drawn in the twilight? I was allowed to wrap myself in olive skin and offer great slabs of myself, but fed only morsels tossed to a dog distant chained. I know it not to be true, or want to know it, but time again do I resign myself to angry haunches, as anger is so often poison and anodyne to an embarrassed and shrunken spirit.

What I carry for one else
is taken as something
to be held for me.
Such is love; unjust.


Have you ever felt, walking even in the wide open, that all the air were suddenly sucked from the room?

To think that I thought that there were no need for me to even love again. I see now that you never espoused such an idea of luxurious liberation from within another. Not a lie from a liar, but a cold and distant shoulder nonetheless.

The loving and living I once claimed wrote my pledge to you, love carved upon the canvas of my life, once more will be used for vengeance and spite. I've been here before. We are nothing new, we two.

Is it really any surprise that angels from afar be as villains when they speak? Harsh words as I write them bely only harsh nettles driven once more by bored hands.

I suppose I'll climb down from this cross now.


"a poem I've been trying to write for years (still sucks though):

There was a watercolor exhibit at the local museum,
and my mother and I
softly padded from canvas to canvas;
our voices were low and not without reverence.

We had differing likes of them all,
my mother and I;
I found no merit in the realism of Airstream teardrops.
them belonging only on walls of bad-food cafes
and above moth-lit hotel beds,
or maybe only thrown to a fire.

The figures, though, nude and haunting
or haunted and staring from frame;
I could not fathom, never,
and never will I fathom,
how these artists apart,
each by age or latitude,
all knew you, and held you a muse.

and so all each captured your hair and eye,
each differed and varied,
all you, all same, all muse,
all knew what I knew and know,
and each painted you
in watercolor.


taking out a Sun Kil Moon cd
to put in a Sun Kil Moon cd
hello, there I am


Thus far, the worst day of 2015. It was, I think, unfortunate; a series of "episodes", each stranger than the last. I am lost in a neurotic servitude. Have reached "hiding liquor in sock drawer" level of shame. Lord will me be a phoenix, please Lord. I am so small, and shrinking.

I will die burned alive after dragging my space heater too close to my bed, and catching aflame a book of fucking Stephen Crane short stories. Fuck. They will say, "[Andrew] knew [Crane] only as a journalist." Fucking hell.

Bradbury bradbury bradbury. Here's another episode.

1/4/15, 1:21 am

I am forgetting now which have been writ and which have been transcribed.



Do we all join hands
and understand
what waits my weight


"Leave some for yourself"

Trouble is, see?,
what is the difference?
Falling apart, together.
But some will not.
So we go,
falling apart before those better than us.
As a bluff,
I call each the same;
Bluff, bluff, bluff...
cuz you're all too scared.


ok: early morning now;

were cigarettes once a scandal?
And obviously nothing is my scandal
except those reported to me
by screaming fire and let blood,
by easy trips to the morgue or
a quest for a "Plan B" pill;
I offer not much;
my hands are spread and I am nailed so often.

But look!
How handsome!
In his coffin,
now sobbing, yes,
a fine tune with which to sing the mess;
whose tomb I borrow is ne'er; I's fancy,
but pharaoh's skin put cat aside,
never, doth he wish
w'in death reside.
Rather let him be a noodle,
or at very least a string unfound;
purposeless without a neck,
oft doth his cries fell days,
a satan's laff 'tween sultan's sleep.
Go to bed, our ringing numbers,
and let all once taught resound with slumber.


I love that I
write scritching verse
in free-hand something balanced vicious
and all eyes seek only the worst
punk among the glooming
Bitches bitches bitches


How often I end up at The Flea, alone with notepad. Come for the free wifi, stay for the crippling addiction. Don't bring it home with you. Leave demons at doorstep. "He's a worthless motherfucker," says a bearded old dude in coveralls.


Everyone is an apologist. Everyone has some stock in the future of the system. Trust no one. Death to those who wish for "better"... apparently

"We shall be allowed one tear an hour, hanging from some cave ceiling, stalactite tears." - Anais Nin, "Elena", Delta of Venus


bar notes:
Eavesdropping (accidentally) is painful. Balefully boring, all of it. Forced; listen to them perpetuate within the context of this their "first date". Terrible.

bar notes:
Now that I know better the relevant subject matter, "Delirium Tremens" is a most unfortunate and gross name for an alcoholic beverage.

bar notes:
This girl, woman, girl, once forced her tongue down my throat and up into my sinuses until my eyeballs threatened to pop from their sockets. Never trust a girl (woman) who spits. I don't care if this is perceived as some sort of patriarchal archaism. I just plain don't like it.

To be fair, if a man (boy) spit as much in front of me, I wouldn't trust him either.

1/8/15, 9:13 pm

(pipes froze in my netherworld bathroom, pipes burst in the cellar, flood and mud, all things blur and run and become shit in the end)

What a Castle of Shit I've built for and around myself. Little room for others' sympathy, not that they come in droves to offer me such, and besides I act disdainfully when they do, seeing falsely it as a sign of my own weakness.

I was wrong! I was, and am, wrong. What a Fortress of Shit I've built about myself! What vile treason I've borne kept even from myself, knowing these walls would crumble and agonizingly plodding on in willful ignorance. This is my fault! Everything, all, my fault!

The last warm water I know festers in a sink of scummed dishes, stained knives and rusting steel wool, rotting kale and sodden crumbs of bread uneaten.

And if I am scorned, or am evicted, or die, I will be scorned, evicted, and dead exactly as I am, as I have been deep backwards in a memory whose elasticity dries and weakens with each grinding hour.



It was right THERE, and we lost it.

So close,
a mist 'pon waterfall's mawing jaw