Tuesday, September 30, 2014

blue notebooks (II)

Buried none too deep
with eyes mouth singing
"Green, to be green"


"I'm done!" His Royal Highness bleats
and goes to bed on rubber sheets


9/12/14, after midnight

How foolish was I to assume this specter-of-a-little-book I began in May and finished in July were to be done with me, all its speculations on art/addiction/self-definition still so unclear and nonsensical, abridged, me living more and doing more and maybe learning in the meantime. Meantime, maybe learning.

Deactivating facebook tonight. Too creepy. We'll see how long it lasts.

Wanna continue my Dylan Thomas portraiture. It feels good to draw, even so seemingly random or arbitrary a subject.

Been a real dumbass at work. Feel like shit all the time. Lonely. Horny. Sleepy. Sore back. Need/miss to be playing music. Writing no new songs. Got a few stories left to write, but I'm scared. Haven't threatened to kill myself in about two weeks but did drive off seeking retribution/flagellation one night, spitting drunk and pissed. Slept in G's yard instead of getting arrested ["proving a point"].Went a whole weekend without making an awful fool of myself, but turned around and did it on Monday (see above) instead.



...Smooch smooch, yeah, see ya later friend, my personal context of sobriety...

Tomorrow, I will sleep until the world ends.


Literal head through literal wall, all because of an ostensibly literal clown-fuck. Death to clown fuckers.

If I was ever distant, I apologize. However, if I were ever unpleasant in regard to/because of honesty, I pledge my innocence.


(Funny how so much of my life is in the hope/wish. These things I want no part of in my active, sober life become "impulse buys", more more more. They continue to rule me, and I continue to succumb. Selah. Taking a puke, worthy shot of whiskey now. Need to find shields, be evil.)

Good for It,
Good for me!


Such a rain this morning. Walked to work early (can't stand being in the house sometimes, woke after 2 hours of sleep and just left) and was soaked to the bone despite my spiteful umbrella. The rain came sideways and was thrown at me in big lashing obligatory waves from passing cars. Soaked to the bone!, I say. And of course I left my bedroom window open and now have a chilly wet mattress. Can't think of a good way to dry it off aside from cranking the AC, and now my room is cold as a tomb, but drier I suppose.

Lots of anxiety in re: K and last night's "heartbreak". Not sure why I wait until after damage is done to proceed to care.

"I used to pretend that I gave a fuck
now I do give a fuck
a little too much" [Atmosphere, "Suicide Girls" - ed.]

Also thoughts of my guilt throughout this whole months-long affair, and how that guilt was
A. The best I could muster in lieu of emotional attachment
B. Perhaps the only thing keeping my behavior as close to "the straight n narrow" as I could be (i.e. fidelity generally despite our shared lapse of same)
C. All for naught, as now I've been "wronged" in such a way that my own guilt prevents me from ever doing the same. Ah, so I'm not always the shitty abuser of power and loin! The tables have turned, and it hurts. But I'm free now, at least of this particular guilt. No interest in dating anyone, as I believe my anarchism renders me inert towards acceptance of such a structure/bastard-of-a-system; two people forced to be a singular item/device/"system" again, and for one of those two to be me? Forget it. I'm unworthy of affection until I learn to be less prideful and burdensome, regardless of how the lass may insist.


Upstairs, downstairs, and
where are the men?
The men I know
you've been holding
and folding?

A strike upon
the perilous pen,
with dreams I slept
long yet longing
and scolding.

Every displaced atom of her, I want her.

Thoughts walking along and at 2:30 am and passing others:
if you have a gun or a knife, I will give you my wallet. Otherwise, I will eat your flesh. Even if I die, I will die a victor with your blood on my lips.


I used to entertain such jubilance, not in joy but in zealous passion, a prophet and pariah for impossibilities, for Love.


great title of a Berryman poem: "Have a Genuine American Horror-&-Mist on the Rocks". Great poem, too. Political, in an admirably horrified way, as he doesn't tend to be.

"The problem is urgent, yes, for this hot light
we so love may not last.
Man seems to be darkening himself;
you must still for some reason & the others depend on him,
but perhaps essentially now it is your turn." - from, "To a Woman", J. Berryman, Love & Fame


things what amazed me on my walk tonight:
basso profundo of my feet pounding on iron grating above storm drain
- cats
- my silhouette as projected by strobing police lights
- a baby rabbit, and my wish to turn suddenly into a cat and chase and kill and eat it


Wow, stayed up until 6 am, drinking wine and chain-smoking and drawing Dylan Thomas again and finally writing a letter to S that needed so badly to be writ, though my tongue gets choked on fingered words and I still can't say everything I need to say, but a start at least. One day at a time, no sense in swan-diving into this romanticism that you've only recently rediscovered, me boy (the real shit, the ponderous slow-as-syrup-shit, stretching for years rather than shrieking lies told amongst orgasmic minutes).

Getting better at "the drinking" (slowly, slowly), certainly better at general positivity, my demeanor could use some work though I'm quite fond of the curmudgeon I've become, nay! the curmudgeon I am! No need to be cruel, I must remind myself hourly. Take no shit, aye, but fer chrissakes also give no shit. Be true, but be good, or at least good-er.

tomorrow: food stamp nonsense (pay stubs to social service office, appear well-dressed and prepared yet impoverished), laundry, Dungeons + Dragons in the evening.

Broke, so broke. A will understand, begrudgingly. K will understand, begrudgingly. What, then, am I so worried about? As per usual, lots of nothings.

. . . .The type of woman who once excited me now drives me further into seclusion. They frighten me. I am not of their game. Quick-witted with sex, slippery fresh out of the shower, drying themselves upon me, I so soon forget that the shower was only to wash  away-----------

No, I am no gorilla. But I am. And I suppose gorilla must play as gorilla play. Looking forward to being a human being again.

- "Cloud of Ticks"
- "Cockroach Bait"
- "Monsters are Real"
- "Scabs" or "The Scabs" or something less obvious but the story is obv. about scabs

Lovely titles/subject matter all. Maybe I'm doomed/destined/blessed to be a macabre fiction writer. Rather reach for the stars; for "Dandelion Wine" or "Great Jones Street" or just "Cockpit" or even just "Geek Love" (macabre again!).

Took a shit that stopped me in my tracks when I turned to flush. Impressive (disgusting!), monumental (foul!). I hope there's nothing seriously wrong with me (physically, I mean).

I am a chameleon trapped in the poor-kid's body. None will know the difference.

K, on my way out the door for a 12:40 am stroll: "Are you ok? Are you normal?"

Me, laughing, "No, I'm not normal."

(after napping away a post-practice marijuana stupor interrupted only by intense sleep-terrors [D-as-Rasputin, some sort of weird post-modern stormtrooper come to accuse and arrest?!])

Can't stop smoking tonight. Still enough time to read and fall asleep before sunrise, so one more won't hurt much.

blue notebooks (I)


my hands searching her body, finding bandages over each part I am longing to grope

two corpses found entertwined

a comic character
for each of my moods and demons
actors/actresses to play each
directed by me
I playing none

"Radioactive" she called me
as I glowed and exploded
threatening to wipe my guts
in a courtyard
on South Avenue

bandages for my ass


My hwy
thru the
hwy of
my mind.
- Stan Fick


[early draft for "most influential books" nonsense horseshit, oy, I take this one so serious.- ed.]

Ed Abbey- Monkey Wrench Gang
Michael Crichton - Jurassic Park
Michael Azerrad - Our Band...
Don Delillo - White Noise
William Faulkner - Sound and the Fury
Lawrence Ferlinghetti - Coney Island...
Kahlil Gibran - The Prophet
Allen Ginsberg - Howl
Knut Hamsun - Pan
Herman Hesse - Steppenwolf
Charles Jackson - The Lost Weekend
Stephen King - The Stand
Mikhail Lermontov - Hero of Our Time
Gabriel Garcia Marquez - One Hundred Years...
Henry Miller - Tropic of Cancer
Alan Moore - V for Vendetta
Pablo Neruda - Sea and the Bells
Flannery O'Conner - Wise Blood
Neil Stephenson - Snow Crash
Hunter S Thompson - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Lao Tzu - Tao Teh Ching
Tim O'Brien - The Things They Carried
Philip K Dick - ...Androids...


Whether wither
with refusal
a constant sigh
to pain pariahs
a sticky mess
no more'n usual
a lot must die
for lone reprisal


A certain fog
to those tragically

Leave me alone
I want to roar
and write poetry
Leave me alone
I want to burn
and write poems

And who's to
say I am
not an



Tragic white boy at the laundromat; pubescent, maybe, feet too big for chicken legs, too-big feet shoved in designer sneakers, fool weasel parents bitch bitch, I nearly passed out here, earlier, from heat and hangover and anxiety, but now am on drugs and halfway drunk and my disgust has been replaced with "happy" indifference.

Coke machine has hand-written note, sez "See attendant for Diet Coke", but I know the secret, that is, the Diet Coke button works just fine, but if you press it Twice it gives you two cans for the 75 cent price of one. O Dietz, you rascal! You shrew! I am now two Diet Cokes richer, and add to that a beautiful girl has come into my life (joking; she has simply come into the same laundromat as I) and to watch her for the next forty minutes while my clothes dry am I truly blessed.


Will I never be free from this loving tug in my loins, my compass needle dick spinning at the cunt's magnetic pole and the nipples' cardinal pull?


I am an addict with no willingness to cease being so. It affects every relationship I deign to pursue, and at great cost. I have no idea how to stop. I am going to kill myself, but the horror is in my complacency towards dying. Consequences are no longer of consequence. Too proud to seek help, too weak, too stupid, too stubborn, too defined by addiction.

Monday, September 22, 2014

The I-I-Was

from my notebook last night:
"I used to entertain such jubilance, not in joy but in zealous passion, a prophet and pariah for im/possibilities, for Love."

How far from that person I was am I. How far and miserable. Yet I, the I-I-was, used to be so unbelievably miserable, just as prone to violent rages and violent addictions and threats of suicide, though to be sure never as physically tending to actually make good on such threats. But the difference now? The parts of this which frighten me when compared to the I-I-was? The inspiration for my misery, the frustration which so shattered and tightened me. For then, so long ago, the base of it all was Love, was Possibility, was Believing In That Which Others Would Not.

"By God, I've loved!" I once wrote in a poem. "Why are no one else as interested in these fabulous failures of the heart?" I wrote in another.

That was it, I feel. I was balling my fists and standing so resolutely goddamn pissed because of the Love and Wonder and Awe that flowed through me and about me, and others' refusals to see all of the liberating power in these things. I was being spurned by friends, lovers, and the world-at-large, and it was depressing and nigh-defeating, but instead I only Loved more fiercely, Felt more fiercely, Believed more fiercely, raising myself to some sort of immolative frenzy of DOING IT ALL, IN SPITE, though never spitefully. Yet to be so Loving of Love and Others and Life that you wish you destroy yourself, is it worth it? I believed so, and maybe still do. But I didn't destroy myself, except

except I really, truly did. I smothered that I-I-was with selfishness, indifference, and a fatalist resolve to not put any such stock into Love/Compassion, as all things must end, and instead began worshiping at the altar of Self, of Death, and here is where the I-I-am has me so spooked, for a life lived, and ending, for naught but selfish compulsion and an identification with only Pain and Darkness and that bastard Self with the cold cold eyes and chilly atrophied heart (that heart! which once was so swollen near-bursting with LOVING LOVE UNTIL/IN SPITE OF/AND BECAUSE IT HURT SO FUCKING BAD) proves no-thing to no-one, especially my prideful self, shrugging and indifferent.

There are these weird mortification-of-the-flesh Jesuit-flagellation tendencies in my willingness to fill my shoes with glass and wrap my torso in barbed wire, but once it was to have a pain upon which to compare Wonder and Glory, to prevent the cultivation of a truly evil pride, though now I fear it is simply to remind myself that none are innocent, least of all I, and that Pain and Death are truly our only constant companions.


I do believe in the im/possibilities of Love, Wonder, Gawd, Life, and Glory. "To move towards beauty, and from pain". Yes, I believe that. Somewhere, deep in my cowardly guts and watery marrow, I believe it. Not a road exists which may not be retraced, retreated from, and it is up to I, and alone I, I now, to make that choice. The rope I climb back towards the realm of Idealism and Positivity will be rife with the briars of cynicism to which I have become so accustomed, but let this be my new frustration. For I cannot live without Pain and Anger, and if I may I will certainly retain some lessons from the past three or so years of Misanthropy/Cynicism/Fatalism, and especially this recent deadly Nihilism, for I understand now their inherent strengths, applicable in dealing with a cruel cold vicious world, but for Gawd's sake I no longer wish to be cruel, cold, or vicious. The world is not a reflection of Myself, it cannot be, for I know I can do better than this. I know I can kick against these pricks with all of my zeal for both the Real and Unreal, for there is no room for simply Darkness or simply Light.

The I-I-was now contains the past three years, all 27 years before that, and actually everything leading up to the I-I-am-and-will-be right fuckin now. Time to make changes. And if I'm going to be so fucking pissed and upset, I had better a damn good reason besides a selfish obsession with how I've been spurned by the shitworld we live in, and I had better be prepared to change that shitworld as willingly as I am to change myself. We can do it better. I don't want to throw up my hands and totter off a building howling about the atom bomb; I want to dismantle the entire system of thought which bore that atom bomb.

There is a loss of innocence as we age, as cruel realities creep upon us, but to consider this a Defeat is absolutely wrong. I'm only as defeated as I accept, and once upon a time I would never have even considered such acceptance. Surrender proves nothing, but putting up a fierce fight in the name of im/possibilities means everything, even in the face of Armageddon (to paraphrase Rorschach, natch).

I've lost some innocence. I have been spurned and damaged, yes. But I am bent, not broken. I will never again be the I-I-was, and to so wrongly be upset by this nearly destroyed me these last few years, and particularly these last few months.

But I will remember fondly how much the fulla-love I-I-was felt about things, and how fiercely and angrily the darkly-cold I-I-was didn't feel about things, and I will learn from both. The I-I-was is dead, long live the I-I-was.

besides, think of the ecstasies! the ecstasy of lovemaking while actually In Love, of being Loved, the ecstasy of crossing the California border, of catching bugs and looking at toads, the ecstasy I find in righteous political indignation (death to the pigs! to the warmongers! to the charlatan holy men and the greedy shitsuckers!), the ecstasies of reading reading reading and writing writing writing, of a stinking hot smoking tube amp, of Midnight Mass high as shit on marijuana and pondering the birth of ol' Jeezus Cristo, the stubborn ecstasy of not kissing ass but yes of kissing the moles on your beautiful butt. Here's to smiling at strangers.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

real talk


Maybe my "amoral" animal justification is unfounded/unjust, or maybe it's the only factor keeping me alive and safe. Is there really any reason for an "or" in that statement? Is it not extraneous? I have cloaked myself in such monsterhood, and yet I react as I have been preprogrammed to do. Do I believe it, my pain and sorrow? No. But I believe in my guilt, and I believe in my fancy. I will die proud and unbroken, yet friendless and unloved. Priorities, what surge from awful pits, me so far from who I was once so proud to be.

Friday, September 12, 2014

notes: end of tiny yellow notebook (August)

Wow so easy to be v---------

Wow, so easy to be Violent.


I fucking hate that I retain the burden of charm and gregariousness at my depraved and devout lows. Wish I looked/spoke as miserable as I fucking feel. Want to be left alone.

So much to do, so much to do, so much to do, so much to do, so much to do, so much to do, so much to do, so much to do, so much to do.


If everyone on my Facebook friends-list would just give me $10, I could easily go away and not bother anyone anymore.

Dark time to be a "writer".

I would rather read/write than be intimate with another human being. The things I've turned away, boys, the things I've turned away.


As far as dating and being subsequently intimate with someone, reading good books is tantamount to fidelity. I absolutely cannot imagine sharing my heart and life with someone who doesn't willingly read read READ. You want me to get naked? Shit, you want me to pledge myself emotionally to another sick stupid lost soul? You better be ready to talk Faulkner or Hamsun, or at least Steinbeck or Delillo.

Can't wait to drop that line on someone. "You're so sweet, and such a babe, but you've never even heard of Delillo? Sorry, honey. You can keep your family money. We just ain't gettin' hitched."


Race to the finish line, who can be the more dramatic shitty lover; me or the junkie? Holding a strong second, at least.


Life is what feels good/what feels right, and choosing between the two as per situation.

Stole a shot of rum, barfed all over the backyard. Empty stomach. Boys telling fight stories now. Dumb.


Tore apart the greasy linen from the bottom of my couch to find change for smokes. Worked!

Very nice to see A last night, though she had yet to read any of the three books I had given her. I took my William Carlos Williams book back from her. I lose more books that way, I swear.


You who would choose to be my king, not considering I consider myself to be king myself, to be King of Myself.

Laws, written by those who plan to break them

*fingerbang: smell, before guilt

*schoolmates, now realtors, dealing in property, unaware they deal in blood


Long I've been carving at my angel face, swearing beneath lies who you seek, wanting to show you without doubt I am not he without but he within, the one you seek true with word and flash of eye, the one you will not want, the one the one who will not care as your tears dry on cheek the one who wishes to be far from you and all you offer.

I choose a lazy suicide, a coward's death, but I'd hate for you to mop up my mess.

Fear not for my oaths until I have a bottle of sleep, for the temptation would be too much to keep.

Gladly would I choose this end, on my terms, all to prove how much I mean it. Deadly serious.


I've given you
what you've been churning for,
my greedy guts,
I've given you
that which we both crave,
so why do you still complain?


Thanks for the donut, haircut.

You don't play chicken with an alcoholic.

Songs for warriors with flasks under their driver's seat.


What have I made
of myself,
death of shame
of accountability,
I so proud
and your finding myself
in their company,
staring at this soul-
sucking abyss, knowing
exactly what it is
blinking towards.

I daydream
of nothing healthy,
I seek not
that which water appeases.


I think, often and sincerely, of the peace that may finally come when I admit I am an evil man.

Two nights ago, I stripped naked and took to the roofs to announce my intention to the world and my wish to leave it. As horrified onlookers watched, I really nearly fell to a gruesome maims, instead only sliding down shingles, rough as shark-skin and leaving long sticky scrapes on my arms, back, and buttocks, flesh left upon the roof and blood soaking into yet another woman's bedsheets. I'm upset about police and the atom bomb.


~holds the weird distinction of being, as far as I can remember for a long long time, the first "notes" (that is, blog post culled directly from my personal notebook/journal) of which I have had to drastically snip-snip and leave some things mummy-mum and paperbound for the sake and sensibilities of all un/involved, to be read upon my death maybe, but also a good sign that I'm becoming more gruesomely sexily honest to myself, at least insofar as 'writing' goes~


"Ma, ma,
Look what I did, ma.
Look what I did to my hands,
I broke em." [sage francis -ed.]

. . . . o pitiful me as if, head hung on stoop, so goddamn wine-drunk, stole a potted plant from the Baptist church across the street, but that was earlier, with P, finally fell asleep on shitty fly-ridden concrete in M's backyard.

I am sought-after by women but haven't the slightest how to cherish and am bad at sex unless I am truly loving her.

I am happy ["modes of happiness"] when:
        1. drunk (long-lasting, renewable resource)
        2. post-orgasm (fleeting, personal)


This is my town; the vibration of nightlife to my back, white trash mommas discussing where to find 'bars' (colloquial for Xanax, obv) while pushing babes in strollers, all alive and dying, South Ave, no lights, is all is, SAFO.

"What you once were isn't what you wanna be anymore" - Cory King/Wilco

Barfin a lot tonight. Thinking about Bukowski though I'm not that huge a fan. . . . Need water.

I hate wristbands. Stick to your hair, relegations, regulations. Fuck Nazi Sympathy.

[here I draw a swastika-buster and a Star of David]

Every waking moment I am uncomfortable and displeased.

Post-Jung, post-Hiroshima.

The atom bomb is

Look at the mouth on that pig.


I know where my phone was left, I know if she did.


parameters, system logic: Spyro, internal logic

"fly your balls off"

killed a bunch of people with a hatchet. Great closing scene with old man in woods.
"We're livin' the same life, just tryin' to keep to ourselves, be left alone."
        Monsters are real.


Is it perpetual, Fall on Florence now? How has the summer gone so fast? Time is so fluid, always quickening, I am losing.

Smells like Halloween, the leaves all rattle yet green.


I am utterly defined by the people I miss, whom I hold so dearly in my heart and whom my eyes ache to hold.

Country night is outer space.

poetic justice
emotional impotence


1. Be good.
2. Be helpful.
3. Be honest.
4. Read.
5. Write.

Coffee is ok. Don't over-do it.

Melatonin gave me hallucinations.

Weed makes me paranoid.


teat holler

I am lucky at life,
sucky at life,
and I suck at life.

cat slide as oil slick

Jung Cancer


If given the choice between smoking a cigarette butt at the end of day or dawn of day, I will almost always choose the end. Tomorrow is magnificent. Fuck tomorrow.

This thing done,
that thing done,
we're burning hairs excuse us,
we cling to tunnel walls,
excuse us.


I'm really not racist. I don't consider my honest self to be racist. Problem is these Chinese exchange students and my bad habit to refer to their befuddled asses as "Asians".


If you didn't cause the car wreck, and weren't in the car wreck, why worry about the car wreck?

First words spoken aloud, 1:53 pm, 8/18/14:
"Where's this shit even come from? Goddammit!"



"None can know the man but they who've seen the monster." - me

MONSTER: Ate some of K's melatonin gummies just to see what it tasted like? Ended up fighting drowsiness with coffee and felt crazy. Screamed and howled into an empty house. Punched a chair, pounded the table.

MONSTER: Monster want vodka.

Maybe K's schizophrenic friend was right about me, maybe she could see the


Drinking a bottle of guilt,
I'm drinking a bottle of guilt.
Some prefer milk
But I'd rather drink silt.
I'm drinking a bottle of guilt.

Ferguson is burning.

Kill cops.

My tomb contains thunder.


themes for the writings of Andrew Dietz, 2014. -----> Who am I, I who create? I create who I am? Am I who create who I am, I who create?


The book is far from finished, me boy. Ye are far from the end.