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.

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