Saturday, October 18, 2014

tiny blue notebook (this one is yellow)


hallucination: flying saucers above Cherry + Nat'l


*stole 2 ashtrays
*bottle of vodka in my pocket
*I can conquer the world.

Why "drugs & alcohol"? Why not "drugs, alcohol?"

family: in Audi: Texas plates: kill em all


All-day sirens
a shriek of memory
too much lost to start anew

Why not build
a life from memory?
Instead why not
built a life anew
with you
with you?

At least
At least the sky is
at least
the corn grows tall

and you and you
drive me to drink
to drink
impossible things
and fly upon
impossible wings


"Toying on Page"

Toying on page,
dancing dancing,
messing about.
Free as to be,
to be as free.

I'm shitting,
and toying about
with a little book
and a tiny mind.

9/26 (27)/14

Sitting in I's house, on a cinder block. Listening to Talking Heads (I think?). Might be a no-wave compilation. Head a pickle jar at this point, difficult to discern details. I showers. I smoke. I smoke and drink water, warm water. And I drink beer, I drink warm beer. I drink warm beer.
     Correction: it's the Police. I shrug. I do like the band, however. However, this ulcer is back on my tongue, and I will find no peace in 2014.


...Here is my heart! It is warm, still, and it is violent! It has a purpose, and it would be a disservice to have it beneath wicker, fear, and selfsame pride! Take it, chew it, if only that I may feel and Live.


Mosh moves
in the peach pit
at the applecore

Staying home tonight to give myself a haircut
A rough-shod chop-job
perched upon a tea cup
Pinky finger out straight
Dreamin' 'bout the D-cups
In need of a tug job, settle for a...?

With clarity comes...
-not liberation
-am I more suspicious?
-actual joy in re: the mundane?
-am I more suspicious?
-improving critical thinking
-less muscle ache (unrelated to actual clarity, but same causation)
-am I more suspicious?

Pig-strobes illumine my yard and flicker through the house; unlucky speeder caught on Campbell at my doorstep. Glad I don't own a car. Also, though, wouldn't mind owning a car.

So happy at home, phone service cut off, bought a tall boy, plenty of paper n pens, in bed asleep by 2, these joys.


The social media-fostered notion of definition thru public statement: rendered moot by my compulsive note-taking, or enforced as a technocratic alternative? For surely I know somone will read this, someday, and it will further my self-invention at least in their perception of who-I-am. Good thing I'm generally honest, cordial. Like Twain said, and I paraphrase, it's much more difficult to remember the lies you've told than to keep up on the Truth you-are. (That is an absolute bungling of the aforementioned Twain's original quote, and selfishly reinterpreted.)

My handwriting seems to have gotten worse, but this notebook is so fucking compact and I am forced to write in it at obnoxious goddamn cramped angles. Lends it some mystery, I suppose, as it appears a shorthand legible only to me, a cipher. Good thing, as I apparently left my tiny blue notebook (this one is yellow) at D's, and mefears he may have flipped thru it and read some crazy shit, but methinks it unreadable due to the very limitations in indecipherable cleanliness of verbosity-upon-page.

half-remembered lyrics I wrote 2 or 3 years ago:
"The cattle are wasted,
all slaughtered in pasture,
and somebody somewhere
is falling in love."


Why not be still, my errant joy? O these constructs I rely upon, based on nothing, are honest and complete nothing, but still I imagine how she smells and our wedding, and still I don't think she knows my name. Even so, these things, errant erect delusions, give me cause to live and look forward to another day. And she will never know! Romanticism lives after all, safe and healthy within my compulsive crushing!

"future widows"


Awaken suddenly at the buttcrack of 6 am, convinced by my so jealous mind that I hear... what? moans n groans and hidden voices slicing through the shrinking walls. Surely the product of a guilty conscience.


"Forsake me not when my wild hours come;
grant me sleep nightly, grace soften my dreams;
achieve in me patience till the thing be done,
a careful view of my achievement come.

Make me from time to time the gift of the shoulder.
When all hurt nerves whine shut away the whiskey.
Empty my heart towards Thee.
Let me pace without fear the common path of death."
- from "Eleven Addresses to the Lord (#3)", J. Berryman

Kant's "categorical imperatives", inc. "Act as if the maxim of your actions were to become through your will a general natural law,"; dubious at best? Fascist at worst? Or maybe I'm being pessimistic; must there always be an "at best/worst" range of value? Kant could have been using hyperbole to suggest nothing more than the immutable and blessed strength of human will... but to claim a re-/writing of natural law? Seems... unnatural.
     I'm misreading/misinterpreting this, overlooking the fact that he says "Act as if," an improvable notion, then.


M gave me a lovely new pen (already lost. - ed.). Gel ink, all that. Flows like a ghost.

Had folks over last night. The boys got high as hell at the dining room table, the girls sat on the porch and drank beer with too-long names (I prefer the monosyllabic myself; Bud, Coors, Busch, Stag) and stressed out the too-high boys.

Anxious for the First Frost to creep into our lives. Kill the bugs (at least send them into hiding), and also the weirdos (sent into hiding, that is, not killing them for chrissakes). Sounds a little misanthropic (duh!), but living in this neighborhood one tires of the constant threat of weirdo ("boogan") activity. Last night there was a shirtless young man with a tire iron pacing between the apartment buildings and muttering aggressively to himself. No thank you!

"And still my heart sweats!" (-Japandroids, - ed.)


I pray to grow old
and tired and mean,
but O! never to be fat.

Noticing the cashier's nametag:
"Your name is Tesla?"
She, sheepishly, avoiding eye contact: "Yeah."
"That's your first name?"
Again, same, "Yeah."
"That's wonderful. Are you named after the inventor?"
"No, I'm named after the band."
"Well, the band is named after the inventor, so... Do you know of the inventor?"
"Yeah, I looked him up. He was a smart man."
Me, nearly bursting now, so much to say: "He was incredible." All I say.
She: "Yeah... he was a smart man."

My (awful though loved) neighborhood today smells strongly of human feces.


being thoroughly threshed
at 30.
Shit, imagine again
to be so thoroughly threshed
at 25
or 20
or 15!

4:54 am, mouth
brimming with spit
and ulcers;
I have no idea where I am.

Raise a fist
in adulation
While we piss upon
the ground

10/5/14 (4:35 am)

Why do I write? Because nothing haunts me as much as a thoughtful and affecting sentence, and because I wish to harness this energy.

Finished story #2 tonight. Pretty good, I guess. Made K cry, but I thought it was funny. And maybe a little heavy-handedly moralistic. No, cautionary. To whom? To me?

Learning to love reading my own stuff. Reading, writing; can't decide which I enjoy more.

Ailments, head-to-toe (massively incomplete list - .ed)
*earache in right ear after pouring too-hot Neti pot water through my sinuses; probably an ear infection, need to look into folk remedies (pour piss into it?)
*small scratch on right eyebrow, inflicted by a cat who didn't appreciate my tormenting him
*deep burn on right index finger, blister finally popped and now just a wet, stinging hole


"But this is an old and never-ending story: what formerly happened with the Stoics still happens today as soon as a philosophy begins to believe in itself. It always creates the world in its own image, it cannot do otherwise; philosophy is this tyrannical drive itself, the most spiritual will to power, to 'creation of the world', to causa prima." - nietszche somewhere


First words spoken aloud, 10/7/14, 6:19 am:
"Oh my god. What a fuckin' asshole."

When my voice becomes ash
becomes ashen and tall
tall and corpsely
a vampire
asking to drain the venom
from the blue veins
of transparent tits


Sick and tired of this beatnik shit.

("Framed picture of the Sun" - new idolatry, godhead, infrared)


If I must be real and honest, Lord let my interim be meek and kind. Let me be good.

Throw a tower;
I can bend.



Beautiful redheads,
I come to hear her speak,
I come to find she is idiotic,
no matter what I lay before her.

All kinds of me;
here are our men...
dyin' over here

maybe I should have listened
to that story you were to tell.

Here I am aloft and asunder,
such wonderful words come across paper,
listening with pounding heart
to the words between tongue.

Daring a vam--
daring a hand--
daring me
Cracked and
able to wound
and be wounded.

Please, get off of him.
I wait for sunrise.

No comments: