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.
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..."
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.
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.
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
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.