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.
sex:
as rage
as punishment/flagellation
as granting the flesh undue properties (hocus)
orgasm:
as separation
as alone-ness
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
turning, trucks
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.
10/20/15
Goddamn Tuesday
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
melodrama we've
come to expect
etc etc
will you feel it here,
or here, does that feel good?
Do you feel it
right between
your stupid eyes?
Magnificent beauty in accepting my Hyde . . .
Puny Jekyll,
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
and malice,
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
love lacking
sex lacking
God lacking
friends lacking
government lacking
all the world over in lies and violence,
as peace is no truth
but only a moment of calm between
gnashing chews,
and there are no innocents without,
I am left to seek
what remains of
truth and peace
within.
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.
Storm's blowin',
leaves like little bats,
wet wine licks my
scalp.
11/7?
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
hold me
within
11/9/15, midnight
Time of night
of biting light
I'm tired.
11/13/15
[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
and mossing?
Humbled I stamped
and a spineless victory
smoked from my lumps.
11/2x/15
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"
Indeed,
though not a place from
but away towards silence,
a move away from a voice.
Indeed,
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.
11/25/15
Violence in the air tonight; I feel caught in a flinch at some explosive atrocity just over the horizon.
12/1/15, 3:30ish
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.
--beat--
And that is why I'm
dead
invincible
wrong
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.
12/3/15, 1:2ish
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
ghosts ghosty
ghosts
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!
$@^@^# &^33*@@^^
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:
FUCK!!
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.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
Indeed has there been a lull
Indeed has there been a lull, my tenderteeth . . .
Where have you stuck your nose
in the meantime?
Whose juice have you wiped from your brow?
Indeed, the world is only opened wide
for such brief intervals,
and might'n it be a warrior's duty
to study such timely phenomena,
dilation which may be . . .
Indeed, I say again,
do I hate and churn and loathe.
Stay at least a hand that I raise to such folly,
O Lord.
My teeth hurt from clenching . . .
what?
Cigarettes?
Not likely; I am home to a thousand.
X/X/15
Where have you stuck your nose
in the meantime?
Whose juice have you wiped from your brow?
Indeed, the world is only opened wide
for such brief intervals,
and might'n it be a warrior's duty
to study such timely phenomena,
dilation which may be . . .
Indeed, I say again,
do I hate and churn and loathe.
Stay at least a hand that I raise to such folly,
O Lord.
My teeth hurt from clenching . . .
what?
Cigarettes?
Not likely; I am home to a thousand.
X/X/15
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
"The Crumbs of One Man's Year", pt 1
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.
4/8/15
133.6 lbs
4/9/15
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..."
4/16/15
139 lbs
4/17/15
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
06/15
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.
7/8/15
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?
7/9/15
"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
7/17/15
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.
138.9 lbs
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.
8/26/15
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.
I stink.
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
of I-told-you-so
and then
watch-me-now
and later
come-with-me
9/21/15
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.
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.
4/8/15
133.6 lbs
4/9/15
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..."
4/16/15
139 lbs
4/17/15
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
06/15
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.
7/8/15
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?
7/9/15
"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
7/17/15
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.
138.9 lbs
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.
8/26/15
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.
I stink.
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
of I-told-you-so
and then
watch-me-now
and later
come-with-me
9/21/15
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.
Breakdown of a Breakdown, Anatomy of an Autopsy
1/3/15, 4:25 am
Get up again
a thousand thousand times
to piss
but when
you've pissed
the bed as I have
you can never be
too sure.
Three times was I drunk,
yes,
and tonight I am not.
Returning to my room,
it smells of my father;
smoke and farts.
----------------------------------------------
Which want with which will,
will want with what
which witch?
>Things $$$$$$$$ past year I can never tell you about $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ all alone, by myself, awful yawning bloody things, desperate and ripping and shameful $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ and if we are ever to grow and surround each other in trunk, branch, and bough $$$$$$$$$$$$$$ for I am massively incapable without your knowing, and dangerously undefined thus without your love.<
----------------------------------------------------------------
Oceans of ink
usher from beneath my fingernails,
I finding finally
an ear which will listen
but me now lost
the heart to say.
1/3/15, 3:08 pm
Were there never a place left for me, where the doors shut in the dawn but the shades drawn in the twilight? I was allowed to wrap myself in olive skin and offer great slabs of myself, but fed only morsels tossed to a dog distant chained. I know it not to be true, or want to know it, but time again do I resign myself to angry haunches, as anger is so often poison and anodyne to an embarrassed and shrunken spirit.
What I carry for one else
is taken as something
to be held for me.
Such is love; unjust.
-------------------------------------
Have you ever felt, walking even in the wide open, that all the air were suddenly sucked from the room?
To think that I thought that there were no need for me to even love again. I see now that you never espoused such an idea of luxurious liberation from within another. Not a lie from a liar, but a cold and distant shoulder nonetheless.
The loving and living I once claimed wrote my pledge to you, love carved upon the canvas of my life, once more will be used for vengeance and spite. I've been here before. We are nothing new, we two.
Is it really any surprise that angels from afar be as villains when they speak? Harsh words as I write them bely only harsh nettles driven once more by bored hands.
I suppose I'll climb down from this cross now.
---------------------------------------------------------------
"a poem I've been trying to write for years (still sucks though):
'Watercolors'"
There was a watercolor exhibit at the local museum,
and my mother and I
softly padded from canvas to canvas;
our voices were low and not without reverence.
We had differing likes of them all,
my mother and I;
I found no merit in the realism of Airstream teardrops.
them belonging only on walls of bad-food cafes
and above moth-lit hotel beds,
or maybe only thrown to a fire.
The figures, though, nude and haunting
or haunted and staring from frame;
I could not fathom, never,
and never will I fathom,
how these artists apart,
each by age or latitude,
all knew you, and held you a muse.
and so all each captured your hair and eye,
each differed and varied,
all you, all same, all muse,
all knew what I knew and know,
and each painted you
in watercolor.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
taking out a Sun Kil Moon cd
to put in a Sun Kil Moon cd
hello, there I am
----------------------------------------
Thus far, the worst day of 2015. It was, I think, unfortunate; a series of "episodes", each stranger than the last. I am lost in a neurotic servitude. Have reached "hiding liquor in sock drawer" level of shame. Lord will me be a phoenix, please Lord. I am so small, and shrinking.
I will die burned alive after dragging my space heater too close to my bed, and catching aflame a book of fucking Stephen Crane short stories. Fuck. They will say, "[Andrew] knew [Crane] only as a journalist." Fucking hell.
Bradbury bradbury bradbury. Here's another episode.
1/4/15, 1:21 am
I am forgetting now which have been writ and which have been transcribed.
"Transubstantiation"
---------------------------------------
Do we all join hands
and understand
what waits my weight
upstairs?
-------------------------------
"Leave some for yourself"
Trouble is, see?,
what is the difference?
Falling apart, together.
But some will not.
So we go,
falling apart before those better than us.
As a bluff,
I call each the same;
Bluff, bluff, bluff...
cuz you're all too scared.
-------------------------------------------------------
ok: early morning now;
were cigarettes once a scandal?
And obviously nothing is my scandal
except those reported to me
by screaming fire and let blood,
by easy trips to the morgue or
a quest for a "Plan B" pill;
I offer not much;
my hands are spread and I am nailed so often.
But look!
How handsome!
In his coffin,
now sobbing, yes,
a fine tune with which to sing the mess;
whose tomb I borrow is ne'er; I's fancy,
but pharaoh's skin put cat aside,
never, doth he wish
w'in death reside.
Rather let him be a noodle,
or at very least a string unfound;
purposeless without a neck,
oft doth his cries fell days,
a satan's laff 'tween sultan's sleep.
Go to bed, our ringing numbers,
and let all once taught resound with slumber.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I love that I
write scritching verse
in free-hand something balanced vicious
and all eyes seek only the worst
punk among the glooming
Bitches bitches bitches
-------------------------------------------------------
How often I end up at The Flea, alone with notepad. Come for the free wifi, stay for the crippling addiction. Don't bring it home with you. Leave demons at doorstep. "He's a worthless motherfucker," says a bearded old dude in coveralls.
-------------------------------------------------
Everyone is an apologist. Everyone has some stock in the future of the system. Trust no one. Death to those who wish for "better"... apparently
"We shall be allowed one tear an hour, hanging from some cave ceiling, stalactite tears." - Anais Nin, "Elena", Delta of Venus
1/7/15
bar notes:
Eavesdropping (accidentally) is painful. Balefully boring, all of it. Forced; listen to them perpetuate within the context of this their "first date". Terrible.
bar notes:
Now that I know better the relevant subject matter, "Delirium Tremens" is a most unfortunate and gross name for an alcoholic beverage.
bar notes:
This girl, woman, girl, once forced her tongue down my throat and up into my sinuses until my eyeballs threatened to pop from their sockets. Never trust a girl (woman) who spits. I don't care if this is perceived as some sort of patriarchal archaism. I just plain don't like it.
To be fair, if a man (boy) spit as much in front of me, I wouldn't trust him either.
1/8/15, 9:13 pm
(pipes froze in my netherworld bathroom, pipes burst in the cellar, flood and mud, all things blur and run and become shit in the end)
What a Castle of Shit I've built for and around myself. Little room for others' sympathy, not that they come in droves to offer me such, and besides I act disdainfully when they do, seeing falsely it as a sign of my own weakness.
I was wrong! I was, and am, wrong. What a Fortress of Shit I've built about myself! What vile treason I've borne kept even from myself, knowing these walls would crumble and agonizingly plodding on in willful ignorance. This is my fault! Everything, all, my fault!
The last warm water I know festers in a sink of scummed dishes, stained knives and rusting steel wool, rotting kale and sodden crumbs of bread uneaten.
And if I am scorned, or am evicted, or die, I will be scorned, evicted, and dead exactly as I am, as I have been deep backwards in a memory whose elasticity dries and weakens with each grinding hour.
Get up again
a thousand thousand times
to piss
but when
you've pissed
the bed as I have
you can never be
too sure.
Three times was I drunk,
yes,
and tonight I am not.
Returning to my room,
it smells of my father;
smoke and farts.
----------------------------------------------
Which want with which will,
will want with what
which witch?
>Things $$$$$$$$ past year I can never tell you about $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ all alone, by myself, awful yawning bloody things, desperate and ripping and shameful $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ and if we are ever to grow and surround each other in trunk, branch, and bough $$$$$$$$$$$$$$ for I am massively incapable without your knowing, and dangerously undefined thus without your love.<
----------------------------------------------------------------
Oceans of ink
usher from beneath my fingernails,
I finding finally
an ear which will listen
but me now lost
the heart to say.
1/3/15, 3:08 pm
Were there never a place left for me, where the doors shut in the dawn but the shades drawn in the twilight? I was allowed to wrap myself in olive skin and offer great slabs of myself, but fed only morsels tossed to a dog distant chained. I know it not to be true, or want to know it, but time again do I resign myself to angry haunches, as anger is so often poison and anodyne to an embarrassed and shrunken spirit.
What I carry for one else
is taken as something
to be held for me.
Such is love; unjust.
-------------------------------------
Have you ever felt, walking even in the wide open, that all the air were suddenly sucked from the room?
To think that I thought that there were no need for me to even love again. I see now that you never espoused such an idea of luxurious liberation from within another. Not a lie from a liar, but a cold and distant shoulder nonetheless.
The loving and living I once claimed wrote my pledge to you, love carved upon the canvas of my life, once more will be used for vengeance and spite. I've been here before. We are nothing new, we two.
Is it really any surprise that angels from afar be as villains when they speak? Harsh words as I write them bely only harsh nettles driven once more by bored hands.
I suppose I'll climb down from this cross now.
---------------------------------------------------------------
"a poem I've been trying to write for years (still sucks though):
'Watercolors'"
There was a watercolor exhibit at the local museum,
and my mother and I
softly padded from canvas to canvas;
our voices were low and not without reverence.
We had differing likes of them all,
my mother and I;
I found no merit in the realism of Airstream teardrops.
them belonging only on walls of bad-food cafes
and above moth-lit hotel beds,
or maybe only thrown to a fire.
The figures, though, nude and haunting
or haunted and staring from frame;
I could not fathom, never,
and never will I fathom,
how these artists apart,
each by age or latitude,
all knew you, and held you a muse.
and so all each captured your hair and eye,
each differed and varied,
all you, all same, all muse,
all knew what I knew and know,
and each painted you
in watercolor.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
taking out a Sun Kil Moon cd
to put in a Sun Kil Moon cd
hello, there I am
----------------------------------------
Thus far, the worst day of 2015. It was, I think, unfortunate; a series of "episodes", each stranger than the last. I am lost in a neurotic servitude. Have reached "hiding liquor in sock drawer" level of shame. Lord will me be a phoenix, please Lord. I am so small, and shrinking.
I will die burned alive after dragging my space heater too close to my bed, and catching aflame a book of fucking Stephen Crane short stories. Fuck. They will say, "[Andrew] knew [Crane] only as a journalist." Fucking hell.
Bradbury bradbury bradbury. Here's another episode.
1/4/15, 1:21 am
I am forgetting now which have been writ and which have been transcribed.
"Transubstantiation"
---------------------------------------
Do we all join hands
and understand
what waits my weight
upstairs?
-------------------------------
"Leave some for yourself"
Trouble is, see?,
what is the difference?
Falling apart, together.
But some will not.
So we go,
falling apart before those better than us.
As a bluff,
I call each the same;
Bluff, bluff, bluff...
cuz you're all too scared.
-------------------------------------------------------
ok: early morning now;
were cigarettes once a scandal?
And obviously nothing is my scandal
except those reported to me
by screaming fire and let blood,
by easy trips to the morgue or
a quest for a "Plan B" pill;
I offer not much;
my hands are spread and I am nailed so often.
But look!
How handsome!
In his coffin,
now sobbing, yes,
a fine tune with which to sing the mess;
whose tomb I borrow is ne'er; I's fancy,
but pharaoh's skin put cat aside,
never, doth he wish
w'in death reside.
Rather let him be a noodle,
or at very least a string unfound;
purposeless without a neck,
oft doth his cries fell days,
a satan's laff 'tween sultan's sleep.
Go to bed, our ringing numbers,
and let all once taught resound with slumber.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I love that I
write scritching verse
in free-hand something balanced vicious
and all eyes seek only the worst
punk among the glooming
Bitches bitches bitches
-------------------------------------------------------
How often I end up at The Flea, alone with notepad. Come for the free wifi, stay for the crippling addiction. Don't bring it home with you. Leave demons at doorstep. "He's a worthless motherfucker," says a bearded old dude in coveralls.
-------------------------------------------------
Everyone is an apologist. Everyone has some stock in the future of the system. Trust no one. Death to those who wish for "better"... apparently
"We shall be allowed one tear an hour, hanging from some cave ceiling, stalactite tears." - Anais Nin, "Elena", Delta of Venus
1/7/15
bar notes:
Eavesdropping (accidentally) is painful. Balefully boring, all of it. Forced; listen to them perpetuate within the context of this their "first date". Terrible.
bar notes:
Now that I know better the relevant subject matter, "Delirium Tremens" is a most unfortunate and gross name for an alcoholic beverage.
bar notes:
This girl, woman, girl, once forced her tongue down my throat and up into my sinuses until my eyeballs threatened to pop from their sockets. Never trust a girl (woman) who spits. I don't care if this is perceived as some sort of patriarchal archaism. I just plain don't like it.
To be fair, if a man (boy) spit as much in front of me, I wouldn't trust him either.
1/8/15, 9:13 pm
(pipes froze in my netherworld bathroom, pipes burst in the cellar, flood and mud, all things blur and run and become shit in the end)
What a Castle of Shit I've built for and around myself. Little room for others' sympathy, not that they come in droves to offer me such, and besides I act disdainfully when they do, seeing falsely it as a sign of my own weakness.
I was wrong! I was, and am, wrong. What a Fortress of Shit I've built about myself! What vile treason I've borne kept even from myself, knowing these walls would crumble and agonizingly plodding on in willful ignorance. This is my fault! Everything, all, my fault!
The last warm water I know festers in a sink of scummed dishes, stained knives and rusting steel wool, rotting kale and sodden crumbs of bread uneaten.
And if I am scorned, or am evicted, or die, I will be scorned, evicted, and dead exactly as I am, as I have been deep backwards in a memory whose elasticity dries and weakens with each grinding hour.
Sheva
Catacylsm
gism
end
It was right THERE, and we lost it.
So close,
a mist 'pon waterfall's mawing jaw
gism
end
It was right THERE, and we lost it.
So close,
a mist 'pon waterfall's mawing jaw
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
silent car rides
His eyes sagging in their corners, he rubbed the back of his wrist across them and blinked into the smearing traffic lights. Silent car ride, she next to him, no music on the radio. He dreamed lazily about the silent car rides of his life, memories that came from that fount that tugged at the edge of pain and loneliness, the dull toothache of nostalgia and memory that he could not help but prod with the tip of his tongue. Silent car rides with angry parents on frost-bitten mornings, or with angry girlfriends on cool teenage autumn evenings, or he the angry one, strangling the steering wheel with one hand and massaging his grimace with the other. There were sounds within these silent car rides; the rustling and cracking of vinyl or leather jacket sleeves being bent by their silent wearers, a nauseating sound, or the exaggerated nasal exhalation with chainsmoking billow lungs. The turn signal was obnoxious, a smug metronome.
Sometime in the midst of all of these infuriating tactile memories, smells of the hollow past and its forgotten sins, he had driven into their driveway, and he sighed, the silent car ride finally over.
Sometime in the midst of all of these infuriating tactile memories, smells of the hollow past and its forgotten sins, he had driven into their driveway, and he sighed, the silent car ride finally over.
Monday, December 1, 2014
My Pyramid
It is the king's laughter, here and now,
it is the king's holy gizzards by which I clamber
so clumsy and so loudly mute,
stumbling upon feet of miles of sentence;
the last mile
the HOLY mile.
I miss my challengers,
I miss the dust between us
of which we are too busy to speak.
And so I wait,
wait wait
with darkened pencil and sharpened room
and capture all of the deep fates
with looms a-spinnin' and wrapped
to beg some grace to come lurching to my bedside.
Naught else to do;
wrapped in papyrus,
brain ajar,
heart preserved.
Ah, my pyramid, my unfair,
my long journey to be unhurt and unafraid
ends here,
and I am left
October sometime, 2014
it is the king's holy gizzards by which I clamber
so clumsy and so loudly mute,
stumbling upon feet of miles of sentence;
the last mile
the HOLY mile.
I miss my challengers,
I miss the dust between us
of which we are too busy to speak.
And so I wait,
wait wait
with darkened pencil and sharpened room
and capture all of the deep fates
with looms a-spinnin' and wrapped
to beg some grace to come lurching to my bedside.
Naught else to do;
wrapped in papyrus,
brain ajar,
heart preserved.
Ah, my pyramid, my unfair,
my long journey to be unhurt and unafraid
ends here,
and I am left
October sometime, 2014
bad vibes, last month or so
10/31/14, 7:30 am
If I were to be asked
to be lashed to the tracks
in the name of you and your eyes,
my hesitation would naught,
only welcoming knot
to be bound wrist and ankle to morning,
and sung through the night,
sung as bards sing their knights,
I who lay down my bone to stone,
hot blood splash cold steel,
I make known the deal
forever dreaming I die
in you and your eyes.
Verde, te quiero verde,
Te quiero en la noche verde
y la mañana ya verde,
y sà comprendo que estas palabras
son ya en los canciones
de los muertos.
------------------------------------------------------------
Halloween morning blows smokey blue, a gentle rapping of skeletons in all the gutters and leaves trickling down Campbell Avenue. No rest for the wicked, weary, nor Wiccan, and here me still nursing a bottle of red (red?) and all three; a vampiric thirst for blood and breastmilk moistens my lips and dries my throat. Imagine toads, trampled beneath hooves. Imagine dolphins and chimps, both dirty rapists, their skull-meat dripping from the end of my pirate's rapier. Imagine there's no Heaven. It's easy if you try. Certainly a Hell. Certainly more than sky above. John Lennon was an asshole and a wife-beater. George is the way-2-go.
Had I known this marker yet (ya) held such vitality, long would I have been abusing it, long would it have since ran dry! I mistook it another limp cock drained for my Dylan Thomas portraits yet here it goes a-scratchin' and a-bleedin' 'cross the fucking page. Dylan Thomas, I will draw you this morning!
[here I draw a terrible sketch of Dylan Thomas, and then proceed to spit wine all over it, purposely]
11/3/14, etc
Sooner or later, all luck runs out, and when you've been as fortuitous as I, have slipped by for thirty years generally unfazed and largely indignant, never wholly without a jangle in my pocket nor a teat in my mouth, that final fall from grace is a steep one, that straw-broken plummet bound to be screaming and bloody.
I remember leaving the bar, or so I tell myself, and I remember coming home, making it home I should say, in what felt like twenty long, cold minutes. But this is too easy, and not the case at all. There are at least three hours missing, and at a little past 4 K found me standing in her doorway, swaying. "Your room is beautiful," I apparently was able to mutter, and she bolted out of bed in time for me to crumple into her arms, my face a mess of blood and swollen flesh.
Sleep was blessedly without dreaming, and I awoke at 9:30 (by the grace of Daylight Savings) to make it to work only about eight minutes late. There were panicked calls to my mother the night before, K wondering if I should need an ambulance, she and my mother not understanding the full story, wondering if I had fallen or maybe beaten the shit out of myself, but the knuckles on my right hand are swollen, and the tell-tale marks of where someone else's teeth broke my skin riddle the back of my hand in a soft semicircle.
But none of this occurred to me while walking to work, and I did not remember speaking to my mother, certainly did not remember her telling me to "Fuck off", believing as she did that it was but the latest Fuck-Up in a long series of Fuck-Ups from her eldest and prodigal son. Instead, I am distracted, you could say, by my left eye swollen completely shut, by the purple bruises turning both temples into a Quasimodo brow, the long deep scrape from right eye to right ear that was surely my head hitting and then dragging across rough sidewalks, the blood matting my eyelashes like goth makeup, the blood oozing in my mouth where the inside of my lip broke against sharp teeth.
Sharp teeth, I am nothing but sharp teeth, a golem of sharp teeth. The world owes me a living, doo-doodle-doo-doodle-doo. I've learned nothing. Fuck this.
_-_-_--------_-___-__-_-_-__-_-_-_-_-------_----_-_-_---___-_-___-_-__-
Went for one of my evening walks, face swollen and discolored, found myself staring at a beer-and-a-shot on the cool patio of a local alcholic's haunt. Got beef jerky, pack o' smokes, my trusty notepad and trusted pen, and a crippling affliction with motherfucking devil-ass cunt-mouth alcohol. Help?
Haven't really eaten in two days; my mouth hurts too bad. This beef jerky ("Sweet n Hot") is a godsend, sweet protein and sodium.
My bones move by the grace of grudge and guilt alone. It's a lonely way to be. Someday, I'll be rid of both. Not today.
And now I can control my phone without touching the touch-screen. Am I psychic, telekinetic? Am I dead, a ghost? Can ghosts operate Android smartphones?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't know much,
but I know the sound
of bone knocking bone,
chiming wooden in the breathless wind.
I am routinely surprised and impressed
with the strides I take upon this stale earth,
at the path of fire behind me
which explains with great shudderings my guilt,
which does nothing to assuage fears,
which bolsters my inability to admit defeat.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
Goat's breast,
who says?
Cock-cup,
a chalice
to suck,
stroke vein
with
tender tip
and
tooth'd lip
--------------_____________-------------------____________---
Dream about Nyquil.
Dream about storage,
dream about chortling
with chunks of spent amoeba
running our assholes ragged
on some alien planet
costa rica
Dream you are who she wants you to be
for once be
who she wants you to be.
(He, shaking hand, extinguishes another cigarette and laments the evening's follies)
"This is horseshit.
I want to go to bed, early rise, impress my benefactors
and nullify my contrarians.
I, myself, am not a contrarian.
Yes I am, of course I am,
no I am not."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''_______________________----------
He took one final drag from his cigarette,
and proceeded to slip backwards upon his heels.
The wife had dripped butter on the floor earlier
and had neglected to give much of a rat's ass
when it came to mopping it up, the greasy spot.
He had meant to quit, that day, finally quit smoking.
Walking to the bank, he had his second-to-last.
Upon arriving home that gently late afternoon,
he had his last, and enjoyed it.
If I were to be asked
to be lashed to the tracks
in the name of you and your eyes,
my hesitation would naught,
only welcoming knot
to be bound wrist and ankle to morning,
and sung through the night,
sung as bards sing their knights,
I who lay down my bone to stone,
hot blood splash cold steel,
I make known the deal
forever dreaming I die
in you and your eyes.
Verde, te quiero verde,
Te quiero en la noche verde
y la mañana ya verde,
y sà comprendo que estas palabras
son ya en los canciones
de los muertos.
------------------------------------------------------------
Halloween morning blows smokey blue, a gentle rapping of skeletons in all the gutters and leaves trickling down Campbell Avenue. No rest for the wicked, weary, nor Wiccan, and here me still nursing a bottle of red (red?) and all three; a vampiric thirst for blood and breastmilk moistens my lips and dries my throat. Imagine toads, trampled beneath hooves. Imagine dolphins and chimps, both dirty rapists, their skull-meat dripping from the end of my pirate's rapier. Imagine there's no Heaven. It's easy if you try. Certainly a Hell. Certainly more than sky above. John Lennon was an asshole and a wife-beater. George is the way-2-go.
Had I known this marker yet (ya) held such vitality, long would I have been abusing it, long would it have since ran dry! I mistook it another limp cock drained for my Dylan Thomas portraits yet here it goes a-scratchin' and a-bleedin' 'cross the fucking page. Dylan Thomas, I will draw you this morning!
[here I draw a terrible sketch of Dylan Thomas, and then proceed to spit wine all over it, purposely]
11/3/14, etc
Sooner or later, all luck runs out, and when you've been as fortuitous as I, have slipped by for thirty years generally unfazed and largely indignant, never wholly without a jangle in my pocket nor a teat in my mouth, that final fall from grace is a steep one, that straw-broken plummet bound to be screaming and bloody.
I remember leaving the bar, or so I tell myself, and I remember coming home, making it home I should say, in what felt like twenty long, cold minutes. But this is too easy, and not the case at all. There are at least three hours missing, and at a little past 4 K found me standing in her doorway, swaying. "Your room is beautiful," I apparently was able to mutter, and she bolted out of bed in time for me to crumple into her arms, my face a mess of blood and swollen flesh.
Sleep was blessedly without dreaming, and I awoke at 9:30 (by the grace of Daylight Savings) to make it to work only about eight minutes late. There were panicked calls to my mother the night before, K wondering if I should need an ambulance, she and my mother not understanding the full story, wondering if I had fallen or maybe beaten the shit out of myself, but the knuckles on my right hand are swollen, and the tell-tale marks of where someone else's teeth broke my skin riddle the back of my hand in a soft semicircle.
But none of this occurred to me while walking to work, and I did not remember speaking to my mother, certainly did not remember her telling me to "Fuck off", believing as she did that it was but the latest Fuck-Up in a long series of Fuck-Ups from her eldest and prodigal son. Instead, I am distracted, you could say, by my left eye swollen completely shut, by the purple bruises turning both temples into a Quasimodo brow, the long deep scrape from right eye to right ear that was surely my head hitting and then dragging across rough sidewalks, the blood matting my eyelashes like goth makeup, the blood oozing in my mouth where the inside of my lip broke against sharp teeth.
Sharp teeth, I am nothing but sharp teeth, a golem of sharp teeth. The world owes me a living, doo-doodle-doo-doodle-doo. I've learned nothing. Fuck this.
_-_-_--------_-___-__-_-_-__-_-_-_-_-------_----_-_-_---___-_-___-_-__-
Went for one of my evening walks, face swollen and discolored, found myself staring at a beer-and-a-shot on the cool patio of a local alcholic's haunt. Got beef jerky, pack o' smokes, my trusty notepad and trusted pen, and a crippling affliction with motherfucking devil-ass cunt-mouth alcohol. Help?
Haven't really eaten in two days; my mouth hurts too bad. This beef jerky ("Sweet n Hot") is a godsend, sweet protein and sodium.
My bones move by the grace of grudge and guilt alone. It's a lonely way to be. Someday, I'll be rid of both. Not today.
And now I can control my phone without touching the touch-screen. Am I psychic, telekinetic? Am I dead, a ghost? Can ghosts operate Android smartphones?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't know much,
but I know the sound
of bone knocking bone,
chiming wooden in the breathless wind.
I am routinely surprised and impressed
with the strides I take upon this stale earth,
at the path of fire behind me
which explains with great shudderings my guilt,
which does nothing to assuage fears,
which bolsters my inability to admit defeat.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
Goat's breast,
who says?
Cock-cup,
a chalice
to suck,
stroke vein
with
tender tip
and
tooth'd lip
--------------_____________-------------------____________---
Dream about Nyquil.
Dream about storage,
dream about chortling
with chunks of spent amoeba
running our assholes ragged
on some alien planet
costa rica
Dream you are who she wants you to be
for once be
who she wants you to be.
(He, shaking hand, extinguishes another cigarette and laments the evening's follies)
"This is horseshit.
I want to go to bed, early rise, impress my benefactors
and nullify my contrarians.
I, myself, am not a contrarian.
Yes I am, of course I am,
no I am not."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''_______________________----------
He took one final drag from his cigarette,
and proceeded to slip backwards upon his heels.
The wife had dripped butter on the floor earlier
and had neglected to give much of a rat's ass
when it came to mopping it up, the greasy spot.
He had meant to quit, that day, finally quit smoking.
Walking to the bank, he had his second-to-last.
Upon arriving home that gently late afternoon,
he had his last, and enjoyed it.
Friday, October 31, 2014
October: various poems, epitaphs, and apologies
So
Laudly do these claims doth emit,
though nothing more than paper spit...
Loudly do I remind thee often
no rest I'll find 'til pauper's coffin
I know, now,
that there exists no cage to burden me,
no clipper's clippers may touch my soul,
here I am flinging hands about miserably
Two words: blue eyes, never loved.
Ha!
Bitter churning tongue and nail
the cap'tal dome; upset, a grail.
Obama stole from me my youth,
and wrapped my guts 'round velvet spoons.
butter, but, her
boilin' burning
one more chair to no one there,
offered towards a churly churning
one spoke trench
disposed midair
pair o' shits,
dismaimed in number
angels 'pon such silken clouds
hand in hand the towers fell then,
all past borne present aloud
Slipping faces crane towards feeling,
something blonde to laugh alive,
forgetting that such final feelings
oft to lend a laugh to die
For all things end 'pon brutal summit
and all things die 'pon flowers fair.
Be fair to him who'll quench your numbered
pains thrust towards a heart unpaired
for it is he and he alone
who may yet be your saving stone
for he who loves you left alone
finds naught within which to atone
a fault nor fracture nary sees,
he who smells only the flowers
bending branch on brutal tree,
not the hate of waning hour
ice crack towards a sprinkling fall,
and still they grin and stand aside you.
I would not share a mask at all
If I never were to rot inside you
She slips in shit and lands in gold,
and triumphant sez, "Look what I'm worth!"
You fool, you've only married stone
and asked a cactus for your worth.
---------------------------------------------------
Even at my most doveful lows and quietudes am I so consumed with an anger,
with vicissitudes
with venom and with teeth
grinding mailboxes and murdering mailmen
Cool as a cucumber do I slide
along the weekenders
Weekend drunks shouting into their palms
Weak brutes, brutish
and so I ain't takin my boots off tonight
I find myself deadfully
thinking
Let her screw up
To splay upon a lathe
the pen rendered sick with plastic tips
toxin radiante from radiator gaskets
and hatching grasslets
shimmering shimmering steam
when my words mean nothing
but my stare it all
The way my eyelids dance
across the air
speaking these tongues,
foreign tongues
of guilt?
"Epitaph" (10/19/14)
Andrew T Dietz
was drunk when he slipped.
Shaving in the shower,
his own throat did he slit.
Andrew T Dietz
was drunk, so they wrote.
Shaving in the shower,
slipped and slit his own throat.
-------------------------------------------
*living the definition of self, definition-of-self dictating who-you-are, choices-you-make, who-you-become and are forced-to-be
Don't Worry-
I am a vampire
drinking guilt only!
Relax,
relax relax
I drink gouts,
I do what I want.
10/22/14
I don't want to kill myself, John.
John, I don't want to kill myself.
Lofty Jew-breezes,
the same recycled words,
I build nothing upon nothing,
I listen to Campbell but
can only imagine myself the hero.
And how foolish!
how unhealthy is this!
For what will I learn?
Challenge, challenge,
I lay blushed and nude
with soft cock
and weeping arms,
for only you to see.
An elephant I am!
a mammoth, a cyclops!
For these secrets we curdle
and sour our smiles.
10/28/14
Assemblies of God girls
with their fat asses,
Me with drunken blood
and sharp-toothed smile,
a mercenary mouth
and time to kill.
10/29/14
My blood sounds, heartbeat
pushing stone waves
upon heavy ears, each
a wave a wane
a-wavin',
the ants go marching in.
A psychedelic holocaust
did I once subject
my brain to,
such unfair pairings
and gleanings
and knowledge sought
without deserve.
So here I lie I lay
and lie
and feel atomic waves
of blood against
my stony eardrums
and I excuse myself;
"Excuse me."
---------------------------------
Public exposure
intoxication
pubic
urination
I hope you got a good look at my dick
Because you'll probably never see it again
-the Smiths
(DEATH TO YUPPIES AND COPS)
Laudly do these claims doth emit,
though nothing more than paper spit...
Loudly do I remind thee often
no rest I'll find 'til pauper's coffin
I know, now,
that there exists no cage to burden me,
no clipper's clippers may touch my soul,
here I am flinging hands about miserably
Two words: blue eyes, never loved.
Ha!
Bitter churning tongue and nail
the cap'tal dome; upset, a grail.
Obama stole from me my youth,
and wrapped my guts 'round velvet spoons.
butter, but, her
boilin' burning
one more chair to no one there,
offered towards a churly churning
one spoke trench
disposed midair
pair o' shits,
dismaimed in number
angels 'pon such silken clouds
hand in hand the towers fell then,
all past borne present aloud
Slipping faces crane towards feeling,
something blonde to laugh alive,
forgetting that such final feelings
oft to lend a laugh to die
For all things end 'pon brutal summit
and all things die 'pon flowers fair.
Be fair to him who'll quench your numbered
pains thrust towards a heart unpaired
for it is he and he alone
who may yet be your saving stone
for he who loves you left alone
finds naught within which to atone
a fault nor fracture nary sees,
he who smells only the flowers
bending branch on brutal tree,
not the hate of waning hour
ice crack towards a sprinkling fall,
and still they grin and stand aside you.
I would not share a mask at all
If I never were to rot inside you
She slips in shit and lands in gold,
and triumphant sez, "Look what I'm worth!"
You fool, you've only married stone
and asked a cactus for your worth.
---------------------------------------------------
Even at my most doveful lows and quietudes am I so consumed with an anger,
with vicissitudes
with venom and with teeth
grinding mailboxes and murdering mailmen
Cool as a cucumber do I slide
along the weekenders
Weekend drunks shouting into their palms
Weak brutes, brutish
and so I ain't takin my boots off tonight
I find myself deadfully
thinking
Let her screw up
To splay upon a lathe
the pen rendered sick with plastic tips
toxin radiante from radiator gaskets
and hatching grasslets
shimmering shimmering steam
when my words mean nothing
but my stare it all
The way my eyelids dance
across the air
speaking these tongues,
foreign tongues
of guilt?
"Epitaph" (10/19/14)
Andrew T Dietz
was drunk when he slipped.
Shaving in the shower,
his own throat did he slit.
Andrew T Dietz
was drunk, so they wrote.
Shaving in the shower,
slipped and slit his own throat.
-------------------------------------------
*living the definition of self, definition-of-self dictating who-you-are, choices-you-make, who-you-become and are forced-to-be
Don't Worry-
I am a vampire
drinking guilt only!
Relax,
relax relax
I drink gouts,
I do what I want.
10/22/14
I don't want to kill myself, John.
John, I don't want to kill myself.
Lofty Jew-breezes,
the same recycled words,
I build nothing upon nothing,
I listen to Campbell but
can only imagine myself the hero.
And how foolish!
how unhealthy is this!
For what will I learn?
Challenge, challenge,
I lay blushed and nude
with soft cock
and weeping arms,
for only you to see.
An elephant I am!
a mammoth, a cyclops!
For these secrets we curdle
and sour our smiles.
10/28/14
Assemblies of God girls
with their fat asses,
Me with drunken blood
and sharp-toothed smile,
a mercenary mouth
and time to kill.
10/29/14
My blood sounds, heartbeat
pushing stone waves
upon heavy ears, each
a wave a wane
a-wavin',
the ants go marching in.
A psychedelic holocaust
did I once subject
my brain to,
such unfair pairings
and gleanings
and knowledge sought
without deserve.
So here I lie I lay
and lie
and feel atomic waves
of blood against
my stony eardrums
and I excuse myself;
"Excuse me."
---------------------------------
Public exposure
intoxication
pubic
urination
I hope you got a good look at my dick
Because you'll probably never see it again
-the Smiths
(DEATH TO YUPPIES AND COPS)
Saturday, October 18, 2014
tiny blue notebook (this one is yellow)
9/25/14
hallucination: flying saucers above Cherry + Nat'l
9/26/14
Day-drunk:
*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
beautiful
at least
the corn grows tall
you
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,
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.
9/27/10
Mosh moves
in the peach pit
at the applecore
show
rap:
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.
9/28/14
"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.
9/29/14
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.)
9/30/14
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."
Selah.
My (awful though loved) neighborhood today smells strongly of human feces.
-------------------------------------------------
Imagine
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
10/10/14
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.
--------------------------------
10/14/14
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
Goddamn,
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--
no
daring a hand--
no
daring me
All-man
Cracked and
able to wound
and be wounded.
Please, get off of him.
I wait for sunrise.
hallucination: flying saucers above Cherry + Nat'l
9/26/14
Day-drunk:
*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
beautiful
at least
the corn grows tall
you
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,
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.
9/27/10
Mosh moves
in the peach pit
at the applecore
show
rap:
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.
9/28/14
"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.
9/29/14
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.)
9/30/14
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."
Selah.
My (awful though loved) neighborhood today smells strongly of human feces.
-------------------------------------------------
Imagine
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
10/10/14
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.
--------------------------------
10/14/14
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
Goddamn,
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--
no
daring a hand--
no
daring me
All-man
Cracked and
able to wound
and be wounded.
Please, get off of him.
I wait for sunrise.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Grey Hound. (05/2005)
I wrote this while on a 36-hour Greyhound trip in May, 2005. I was twenty years old, and returning from Florida to Missouri to attend my sister's high school graduation, not knowing at the time that the trip would precipitate my moving back to Missouri, visiting Panama City Beach again only once, in early June, to cram as many of my possessions as I could into the back of Tim Eisenhauer's two-door Honda, and leaving the rest, including (idiot!) my collection of 40+ shot glasses, to an unknown fate, lonely and abandoned on the Emerald Coast.
I'd like to note that at this point of my life, I was as fascinated by amateurish chemical stimulation as I was by Alan Watts and amateurish Zen fancies.
I've been looking through lots of old notebooks, and would like to start transcribing some of this old shit, and with as little amending as possible, but sometimes it's just too tempting to exchange a good word for a better one, or just trimming an unnecessary word if that be the case, especially as I was then just a grubby little knucklehead, and have now matured into an an older and slightly more experienced shithead.
Also, I'm currently eating saltine crackers with anchovies, olives, slices of onion, pepper jack cheese, horseradish, kimchi, and hot sauce. It is wonderful, and I have the salted breath of a sea dragon.
The bus rolls out of Panama City at 11:10 Tuesday morning. The ocean and sky are the same dusty blue. Fishing boats plow oily wedges through the bay, the still pines stand tall and aromatic.
Not much sleep last night. Lots of last minute rustling, packing, saying farewell to friends too late met. I awoke only due to the grace of legal stimulatory drugs taken shortly before sleep. Legal or not, moderation is key, and of late the dependence on such capsules of tightly-wound energy has made me weary, though with boundless energy. They deprive the body of the need for sleep until, the next day, after the effects have begun to wear off, when sleep is not possible due to employment responsibilities, and we have no choice but to eat a few more Zoloft or Adderall or concentrated caffeine-and-ephedra pills. And the next day, the same, cyclical. It takes a toll on body and mind, but we are fully stimulated. Stimulation is key.
I see from the window a fenced-in area containing an entire herd of grey Triceratops.
After two or more days of this wide-eyed sleep-deprivation, one becomes a sort of hyper-stimulated zombie. The feeling is such as looking down at oneself, mind and body completely independent of one another. Tasks are completed without thought while the brain reels and soars and considers.
Sleep during these spells is fitful. Spastic dreams of grey nudes with lidless eyes, limbs quivering with a seizure heartbeat, rushing about and scream-muttering terrible things. Black fish with glowing eyes swimming through blood rivers, open-air markets in which the fruit pulsate almost erotically in tandem with that same seizure heartbeat. Awake immediately, forget it all, sit up straight, drink some water and eat a few dry crackers to soothe the nausea, try to stop your skinny calloused hands from shaking. It will only scare and cause guilt.
Old contact lenses, covered in protein scum, steal a bottle of Visine to squirt into your eyes until they swim in their sockets. Temporary relief. Months pass in a matter of hours, feel the seizure heartbeat slow, eyes become heavy, still an entire day of work ahead, steal a bottle of No-Doz, eat a few. Everything is looking up now. No sleep again tonight, perhaps a few glasses of whiskey will coerce your stuttering brain into compliance.
Backhoes uproot layers of topsoil, making cuts into which more transplanted palm trees will be inserted, the illusion of Eden, the Fountain of Youth, for the degenerate old fat and ignorant. Florida, with flowers.
Bus transfer in Ft. Walton. New passengers. A white man with plastic pants and a Ziploc bag full of prescription pill bottles, a Hispanic man with two laundry baskets full of clothes. An amorphous crowd of filthy undershirts, the smell of peanuts, patriotic sunglasses, dragons airbrushed upon polyester, bad teeth, thinning hair, shark-tooth necklaces (me), infants, pillowcases, shrunken heads, wind chimes. Family members and loved ones, or those indebted to the passengers through hate, semen, marriage, stand outside looking sunken and lonely, watching us leave.
A couple has brought aboard a baby that looks like a pale Giger painting of the Buddha, yet somehow still endearing. It sleeps like an amoeba.
Faceless suburbs. Vacant lots much more appealing. Learn to embrace the empty, the open, too often cluttered. The sky looks much bigger here, given epic proportions when accompanied by the ocean. Same out West, with the seas of sand and leviathan mountains.
We get pulled over in a corporate facsimile of a town called Navare. Policemen come on board, give us all a good look. They are looking for someone, a man (women are exempt). As they search the restroom, examine our forearms for distinguishing tattoos, take our licenses (I am one of four suspects), I look at the blue sky and for a maddening moment I think it is an organic membrane, thinking I see a branching network of vessels and veins. I realize with a little disappointment that it is only a gnarled pine tree being reflected in the window.
The stainless steel chamber pot is filled with a thick black pot liquor that sloshes about as the great whale banks the waves. I brace myself against a slimy stainless steel handle to ride the turbulence and avoid pissing all over myself.
Continuing, I watch out the window. I imagine the landscape exploding, nuclear blossoms in time with the drumbeat, the silent poetry of a fireball engulfing house upon house, trees splintering, billboards being twisted and blowing apart in graceful slow motion, a global holocaust as I watch from the safety of a Greyhound bus. The beauty in such ideas.
No soil, just sand; creamy, bloody.
For some reason the reappearance of the Ivory-Billed Woodpecker comes to mind.
Wake up in Alabama. No more sand, we see farmland. Deciduous trees. After a brief stop at a gas station, the air is filled with the smell of Cheetos.
I meet a young rapper named Marques, though his MC name is "Smoke". Both being young musicians, we hit it off and enjoy Steak Night at Shoney's during a six hour layover in Birmingham.
The South begins to melt slowly towards the Midwest. Limestone bluffs, cedar trees, pastures. Montgomery greets us with the smell of hay, Nashville with a gorgeous sunrise.
I wake up, find myself seated next to a large man leafing through a Hustler.
"Is this Indiana?" I ask drowsily.
"Nah, Kentucky," he says.
I haven't been to Kentucky in years, and tell him so.
A man got on the bus sometime during the night. Short, balding, with a grey ponytail. He stinks of sweat, cheap cigarettes, rot. His teeth are rotting and angled, and his eyes twitch and glisten behind huge maroon-framed spectacles. Oversized grey shirt, stonewashed jeans, a wallet chain slapping his leg like an inert chrome cock as he limps slowly along.
Taking a five-minute break somewhere in Tennessee, he wanders into a Hardee's against the bus driver's wishes. Time to go, he's still buying his cola, he gets left behind. All around me, the bus erupts in men slapping the backs of seats and hooting and clapping like gibbons, watching the man chase after the bus, little legs pumping, Hardee's cola splashing, wallet chain suddenly electric and alive, a charmed cobra.
Once he has convinced the bus driver to let him back on the bus, he is greeted by chiding.
"We knew you could move fast if you wanted to..."
"Haw haw, you're sick..."
"Only a five-minute break, haw haw..."
"Think twice next time, ain't ya..."
In Evansville, he speaks to me while sucking on a cigarette, spittle flecking his thin lips.
"Been in jail four months. Gotta get home to Springfield, Missouri. I tell my girl, be there with open arms, y'know? Get a motel room 'cross the motherfucking street, cuz I'm gonna tear you up, y'know? Down in Florida, I was in this corn field doin' stuff. Not so much a corn field as a forest..."
I tune him out. He is a fool, and from time to time ejects a viscous liquid from his mouth, ejaculated upon the ground with a disgusting squelch from between his reptilian tongue and decomposing teeth.
Demonbreun
There's a demon brewin' inside of me
Down in Nashville, TN
Goddamn girl, I'm so lonely
Down in Nashville, TN
The sunrise looks alright to me
Down in Nashville, TN
There's no place I'd rather be
Than down in Nashville, TN
No idea where I went to sleep
But now I'm in Nashville, TN
Sunlight, purge the dark from me
Down in Nashville, TN
I'd like to note that at this point of my life, I was as fascinated by amateurish chemical stimulation as I was by Alan Watts and amateurish Zen fancies.
I've been looking through lots of old notebooks, and would like to start transcribing some of this old shit, and with as little amending as possible, but sometimes it's just too tempting to exchange a good word for a better one, or just trimming an unnecessary word if that be the case, especially as I was then just a grubby little knucklehead, and have now matured into an an older and slightly more experienced shithead.
Also, I'm currently eating saltine crackers with anchovies, olives, slices of onion, pepper jack cheese, horseradish, kimchi, and hot sauce. It is wonderful, and I have the salted breath of a sea dragon.
The bus rolls out of Panama City at 11:10 Tuesday morning. The ocean and sky are the same dusty blue. Fishing boats plow oily wedges through the bay, the still pines stand tall and aromatic.
Not much sleep last night. Lots of last minute rustling, packing, saying farewell to friends too late met. I awoke only due to the grace of legal stimulatory drugs taken shortly before sleep. Legal or not, moderation is key, and of late the dependence on such capsules of tightly-wound energy has made me weary, though with boundless energy. They deprive the body of the need for sleep until, the next day, after the effects have begun to wear off, when sleep is not possible due to employment responsibilities, and we have no choice but to eat a few more Zoloft or Adderall or concentrated caffeine-and-ephedra pills. And the next day, the same, cyclical. It takes a toll on body and mind, but we are fully stimulated. Stimulation is key.
I see from the window a fenced-in area containing an entire herd of grey Triceratops.
After two or more days of this wide-eyed sleep-deprivation, one becomes a sort of hyper-stimulated zombie. The feeling is such as looking down at oneself, mind and body completely independent of one another. Tasks are completed without thought while the brain reels and soars and considers.
Sleep during these spells is fitful. Spastic dreams of grey nudes with lidless eyes, limbs quivering with a seizure heartbeat, rushing about and scream-muttering terrible things. Black fish with glowing eyes swimming through blood rivers, open-air markets in which the fruit pulsate almost erotically in tandem with that same seizure heartbeat. Awake immediately, forget it all, sit up straight, drink some water and eat a few dry crackers to soothe the nausea, try to stop your skinny calloused hands from shaking. It will only scare and cause guilt.
Old contact lenses, covered in protein scum, steal a bottle of Visine to squirt into your eyes until they swim in their sockets. Temporary relief. Months pass in a matter of hours, feel the seizure heartbeat slow, eyes become heavy, still an entire day of work ahead, steal a bottle of No-Doz, eat a few. Everything is looking up now. No sleep again tonight, perhaps a few glasses of whiskey will coerce your stuttering brain into compliance.
Backhoes uproot layers of topsoil, making cuts into which more transplanted palm trees will be inserted, the illusion of Eden, the Fountain of Youth, for the degenerate old fat and ignorant. Florida, with flowers.
Bus transfer in Ft. Walton. New passengers. A white man with plastic pants and a Ziploc bag full of prescription pill bottles, a Hispanic man with two laundry baskets full of clothes. An amorphous crowd of filthy undershirts, the smell of peanuts, patriotic sunglasses, dragons airbrushed upon polyester, bad teeth, thinning hair, shark-tooth necklaces (me), infants, pillowcases, shrunken heads, wind chimes. Family members and loved ones, or those indebted to the passengers through hate, semen, marriage, stand outside looking sunken and lonely, watching us leave.
A couple has brought aboard a baby that looks like a pale Giger painting of the Buddha, yet somehow still endearing. It sleeps like an amoeba.
Faceless suburbs. Vacant lots much more appealing. Learn to embrace the empty, the open, too often cluttered. The sky looks much bigger here, given epic proportions when accompanied by the ocean. Same out West, with the seas of sand and leviathan mountains.
We get pulled over in a corporate facsimile of a town called Navare. Policemen come on board, give us all a good look. They are looking for someone, a man (women are exempt). As they search the restroom, examine our forearms for distinguishing tattoos, take our licenses (I am one of four suspects), I look at the blue sky and for a maddening moment I think it is an organic membrane, thinking I see a branching network of vessels and veins. I realize with a little disappointment that it is only a gnarled pine tree being reflected in the window.
The stainless steel chamber pot is filled with a thick black pot liquor that sloshes about as the great whale banks the waves. I brace myself against a slimy stainless steel handle to ride the turbulence and avoid pissing all over myself.
Continuing, I watch out the window. I imagine the landscape exploding, nuclear blossoms in time with the drumbeat, the silent poetry of a fireball engulfing house upon house, trees splintering, billboards being twisted and blowing apart in graceful slow motion, a global holocaust as I watch from the safety of a Greyhound bus. The beauty in such ideas.
No soil, just sand; creamy, bloody.
For some reason the reappearance of the Ivory-Billed Woodpecker comes to mind.
Wake up in Alabama. No more sand, we see farmland. Deciduous trees. After a brief stop at a gas station, the air is filled with the smell of Cheetos.
I meet a young rapper named Marques, though his MC name is "Smoke". Both being young musicians, we hit it off and enjoy Steak Night at Shoney's during a six hour layover in Birmingham.
The South begins to melt slowly towards the Midwest. Limestone bluffs, cedar trees, pastures. Montgomery greets us with the smell of hay, Nashville with a gorgeous sunrise.
I wake up, find myself seated next to a large man leafing through a Hustler.
"Is this Indiana?" I ask drowsily.
"Nah, Kentucky," he says.
I haven't been to Kentucky in years, and tell him so.
A man got on the bus sometime during the night. Short, balding, with a grey ponytail. He stinks of sweat, cheap cigarettes, rot. His teeth are rotting and angled, and his eyes twitch and glisten behind huge maroon-framed spectacles. Oversized grey shirt, stonewashed jeans, a wallet chain slapping his leg like an inert chrome cock as he limps slowly along.
Taking a five-minute break somewhere in Tennessee, he wanders into a Hardee's against the bus driver's wishes. Time to go, he's still buying his cola, he gets left behind. All around me, the bus erupts in men slapping the backs of seats and hooting and clapping like gibbons, watching the man chase after the bus, little legs pumping, Hardee's cola splashing, wallet chain suddenly electric and alive, a charmed cobra.
Once he has convinced the bus driver to let him back on the bus, he is greeted by chiding.
"We knew you could move fast if you wanted to..."
"Haw haw, you're sick..."
"Only a five-minute break, haw haw..."
"Think twice next time, ain't ya..."
In Evansville, he speaks to me while sucking on a cigarette, spittle flecking his thin lips.
"Been in jail four months. Gotta get home to Springfield, Missouri. I tell my girl, be there with open arms, y'know? Get a motel room 'cross the motherfucking street, cuz I'm gonna tear you up, y'know? Down in Florida, I was in this corn field doin' stuff. Not so much a corn field as a forest..."
I tune him out. He is a fool, and from time to time ejects a viscous liquid from his mouth, ejaculated upon the ground with a disgusting squelch from between his reptilian tongue and decomposing teeth.
Demonbreun
There's a demon brewin' inside of me
Down in Nashville, TN
Goddamn girl, I'm so lonely
Down in Nashville, TN
The sunrise looks alright to me
Down in Nashville, TN
There's no place I'd rather be
Than down in Nashville, TN
No idea where I went to sleep
But now I'm in Nashville, TN
Sunlight, purge the dark from me
Down in Nashville, TN
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.
Summation:
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.
-------------------------------------------------------
9/14/14
...Smooch smooch, yeah, see ya later friend, my personal context of sobriety...
Tomorrow, I will sleep until the world ends.
"WOULD GLADLY SUCKLE"
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!
9/17/14
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.
9/19/14
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.
9/21/14
I used to entertain such jubilance, not in joy but in zealous passion, a prophet and pariah for impossibilities, for Love.
9/22/14
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.
STORIES:
- "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.
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.
Summation:
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.
-------------------------------------------------------
9/14/14
...Smooch smooch, yeah, see ya later friend, my personal context of sobriety...
Tomorrow, I will sleep until the world ends.
"WOULD GLADLY SUCKLE"
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!
9/17/14
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.
9/19/14
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.
9/21/14
I used to entertain such jubilance, not in joy but in zealous passion, a prophet and pariah for impossibilities, for Love.
9/22/14
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.
STORIES:
- "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)
9/2/14
Dream:
my hands searching her body, finding bandages over each part I am longing to grope
love:
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
to-buy
litebulbs
bandages for my ass
------------------------------------------------------------
My hwy
lover,
goin'
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
addressed
assigned
to those tragically
immobile
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
archangel?
-----------------------------------------
9/9/14
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.
Dream:
my hands searching her body, finding bandages over each part I am longing to grope
love:
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
to-buy
litebulbs
bandages for my ass
------------------------------------------------------------
My hwy
lover,
goin'
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
addressed
assigned
to those tragically
immobile
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
archangel?
-----------------------------------------
9/9/14
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.
BUT
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.
post-script/epilogue:
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.
"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.
BUT
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.
post-script/epilogue:
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
9/16/14
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.
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.
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.
notes
~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~
8/9/14
"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
IMPORTANT.
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"
DREAM:
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
impotence
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!"
----------------------------------------------------------------
8/19/14
"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
MONSTER.
-------------------------------------
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.
8/9/14
"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
IMPORTANT.
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"
DREAM:
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
impotence
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!"
----------------------------------------------------------------
8/19/14
"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
MONSTER.
-------------------------------------
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.
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