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 granting the flesh undue properties (hocus)
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
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.
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
come to expect
will you feel it here,
or here, does that feel good?
Do you feel it
your stupid eyes?
Magnificent beauty in accepting my Hyde . . .
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
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
all the world over in lies and violence,
as peace is no truth
but only a moment of calm between
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.
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
Time of night
of biting light
[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
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.
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.
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
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!
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.