17 Mar 2019

Don't be an ass

I berate myself in that voice, the rough authoritarian self-despiser: Don't be an ass [by which I mean, a silly-ass jackass like somebody on the TV show of the same name] and play the game of trying to meet someone. It's a game that some playas will freak at you for calling a game. Game?! One of them berated me because it was enjoyable to express rage at a bad week by making me a punching bag, sure told me off right good, and if I care that you care then it's your victory, a suicide troll, a deep game. I'm supposed to take you seriously? In all this noise? You ain't signal bitch, fuck outa here with that sheeeyit. Fuck all y'all.

That game isn't the whole world, I'm mercifully distracted for a minute by watching my friend's kids find a metal chest with their magnesis ability in the river of the Hyrule forest. I'm watching them play Zelda, eyeing the little yamaha keyboard. I wanna play music, participate in some way, but I'm paranoid, with a flush palette bloating out against the corneas. I'm not entirely free of the fear of dizzy spells, not quite feeling back to active yet, still pacified, fried. Almonds. Pax Canadiana. It's hard to do fragments. But some people do well with that. Hats off to all y'all. Not fuck all y'all, tapada marnin tooya! Tula lula rula!

Nobody wants me lucky charms! I say no body instead of no one, cause "one" sounds like a free-floating intellect, disembodied, sterile, omnipotent in cerebral realms I can't navigate but impotent in flesh - and "body" emphasizes the corporeal warm-blooded source of energy I feel so empty of, free from. I don't want that kind of freedom, want a bond instead, deep desire for the prison of devotion that is a bond to a body with a mind, a package to love, some body to love, like Freddie sang of, the feeling from which great songs are born, with hackneyed lyrics but rhapsodic voice.

There's a theoretical object of theoretical love, impersonal, because I don't want to describe how personal it gets sometimes in this mind o' mine, constrained online, in the infinitesimally niche way I'm online. It's still mostly empty, the substance is like a proton in a mega-parsec sized cube of vacuum. It's a cube, not a sphere, cause I'm Aristotlean, not Platonic, I don't do spheres, cubes are convenient for this right-angled human-brain, I like to visualize it as a room of space, with the surface that is the "floor", a direction, orienting, which might be arbitrary from the perspective of a proton, or the being looking in at it from the outside.

Coming back to "don't be an ass!", the voice is sheriff droogan, dragon, drogan, whatever it is, once chief of the Santa Monica PD, now kind of a big deal in Randall Flagg's America. He's scolding the "Rat Man" for impulsively pumping his shotgun and pointing it at the prisoners in the prison truck as it drives through the psycho mob toward the dismemberment machines in the New Vegas town square. "Don't be an ass!" Dragen growls with a withering contempt so potent it could describe my exasperation at myself for trying, once again, to find love, and the latest petty setback that scatters the small heap of self worth I've miraculously salvaged once again, ephemeral salvage washed away, as before, rinse and repeat. Self pity. Cop to that, cause the man who despises himself still respects himself as he who despises. Such romantic metaphors, to me they are, which is all that matters, to me, such purple prose for what purpose? Purple-vein dick jokes, really. No dagger in my heart, just a catheter in my cock, blocked.

Don't be an ass, Drogan says, and don't you dare kill the prisoners for being smart asses for God, before Flagg has MC'd their public torture and execution. You'd be like that guy who was supposed to shoot the judge, but for fuck's sake preserve the head so it can be recognized when it's air dropped over the God Squad in Boulder. And he couldn't even do that. So at least get this show right, don't fuck it up for Drogan. Torture and executing kinda blend together when some body is being drawn and quartered. Farmer John's gonna think about his mother as he's going out in the most horrific way one can imagine.

When I'm not an ass I get shit done, dunno now if it's worth doing. When values are up for grabs, it gets to be a pretty freaky eigenstate. The Eigenstate is the freeway that connects to hidden variables all over the multiverse, possibilities and timelines, fractal fractures, infinitely progressing possibilities in logarithmically increasing smallness of gradation. Things are different than ten years ago, I feel sheepish now talking like that and using such words, when I used to take myself more seriously. Gotta put the sarcastic tag on it now like an FDA label. May contain nuts known to the state of California to cause paranoia, and delusion. But, entertaining delusion, monetizable possibly if you only lean a little bit on the multiverse, the slimmest bit is a good bet, monetize delusion to stay in purchasing power for musical doohickeys. A Whoopi Goldberg contraption.

12 Mar 2019

Don't Stop Me Now

I'll never be interviewed. But I've got the best take.

On everything.

Da da da da daaaah, ha da da ha haaaaah, ha de daaaah, daaah de daaah ah aaaaaaaaahhh oooooooooooooeeeeoooooo-oooooeeee.

I need some kinda cry therapy maybe. Nothing can permeate my armor of medication. Enlightenment, cursement, ecstasy, robust depression - you get to miss robust depression. And still sing "I'm in love with my car". It's a good running joke, that joke's got legs! It runs at hundreds of horses.

Even if something could penetrate my armor of medication, there'd be a kevlar underbelly, a scab lattice of cynicism. Except for this depiction of a Live Aid concert in 1985, the movie cuts through me, leaving me misty-eyed. The elegiac cliche "that [recently dead musician/performer] taught me how to be weird!" was a syringe, pricked right through my scabs, pumped me full of that chemical that I hardly ever feel so it grabs my attention, that precedes crying, that only throbs for a second or two, but then I was getting those pangs on the regs for a while. Rami Malek had something to do with it too. How to be weird. Except I was watching smurfs when Freddie was teaching, but I appreciate retrospectively. Can I nostalgize about times I wasn't born? I dunno but fuck it, I will anyway. There's all kinds of manifestations of weirdness. There's the monday morning kind. Let's fuck it up, business-like. The show must go on, civilization's too big to fail. But there was nothing too big to fail really. In the shadow of the mushroom cloud. It's okay if it reminds me of an Abba song, that's the water I'm swimming in, a mystic droning in, drowning?

I'm teetering on the edge of becoming Jeremiah, the cult leader, reaching such a pure level of self-righteous entitled rage as to tap into some demonic power source from beyond Jupiter. Except I wouldn't tap into that power, if I even knew how to sell out in an alien language. They accept venetian latin as an interchange, but I don't travel through time the same way I travel in space, so that's not an easy requirement for me. I'm not like them but I can pretend. I'm not even drunk but I'm quoting song lyrics constantly, they're in everything, like cancer. Maybe I'll partner with Cancer, Candace Cancer, we'll be workmates with benefits, she's like Fry's alien worms from that vending machine sandwich that had expired in ancient times, Cancer will be my manager, she'll improve everything about me, focus me into a laserbeam of precision and get results! Like Freddie Mercury, ready? Pure, crystallized abortionist on a glass focal point. Rapidly changing minerals in rocks, dynamite with a laser beam.

Good enough for Now.

Don't you see, don't you see, don't you see? Don't... you... see? Do you see? My name is not Jeremiah, I would never want a name like that. It's a cursed name, circa 1670 something... Don't you see, don't you see what's coming to me, what's got... to come... to me? Or am I looking into a mirror and bashing my head into the mirror asking "tell me what to do, tell me what to do," crying: "tell me what to do" - i'm telling my reflection to tell me what to do, my bloody headed rejection, that pretty hair getting bloody, but it's dark hair so the blood is just an extended silhouette, hair clumps bobbing in peripherals, popping in and out of a frame of jagged glass: TELL ME WHAT TO DO!

And I see a smile on the other side, and I start taking instruction, cause I'm learning high venetian latin, a second century dialect, I know what to do! What that is, I'll tell you... sometime... I promise... you forget things... I already paid you, remember? You don't remember? You don't see?

Wishful thinking, continue the gaslighting, keep the fire burning. Keep the windshield wipers going. It won't matter. We're all circling the drain. I looking forward to saying that again. In years from now.

This is gonna be another descriptive blog post, a missive from a passive consumer of lite conspiracy theory. Not heavy, just low grade acid.

It's great, I'm not accountable to anyone. I'm trying to talk myself into positivity, that's all. Don't hold me to account on that front. With a heavy head. Don't know where my heart is. Am I gonna start talking about that now? Better to just cry with no object. Or a doppelganger object. The object was replaced, and I have capgras delusion, my limbic system doesn't work right, I can't attach the emotion to the object, the organ that more than any other keeps me alive, or is that the brain? Hard choice, like Hilary's book. Actually, nothing like that. Distracted by tits. Clits. Porn. Tawdryness, objectifying. But it's pure art. But the beauty is a tangent off that, a crazy angle I can't crick my head to see.

Don't you see, what's got, to come, to me, come to me, come to me. Come hither.

If nothing else, if all is lost, I'll still be cynical, so cynical, blackly cynical, that's what I'll clutch in my cold dead fingers.

9 Mar 2019

.don't you see?
..don't you see?
...don't you see?
....don't you see?
.....don't you see?

the answer

i'm president
that's the answer
whatever you say to me

i'm the president
of i don't give a fuck

america's my protectorate
i'm like Emporer Norton with actual money
i'm taking the wheel of this planet, the republic of earth
we're taking this thing to mexico!

nothing can wipe the smirk off my face
you thought osama had a smirk, check this shit out
i'm the president, that's the shit
the real funky shit
because president

here's a conspiracy i believe in:
my military burned my school records
i don't worry about fetuses
but i'm good at pretending to worry
one of my skills

i'll tell you what's going on
even the "opposition" is propping me up
they'll gag or kill their journalists if they have to
but most of the journalists do what they're told
cause the money's too good
way too much money, money money money - money
because they're scared of my followers
and what they'll do if i'm taken down
they're 35% but they have more guns than the other 65%
way too many guns, guns guns guns - guns
because when you get locked into a serious gun collection
the tendency is to take it as far as it'll go
the 65% are collecting drugs, the 35% are collecting guns
who's gonna win d'ya think?

the answer is: i'm president

3 Mar 2019

Space Mormons

You gotta laugh. What can you do but laugh? Don't cry. Check out the Space Mormons. The Galactic LDS. They're giving ECCO a run for its money. The Office of the Control of Coincidences concerning Earth is like, what, who are these Space Mormons, they're not galactic, they're not even stellar, although they got ambitions, like I wanted the free state of Slackerdonia to be a nuclear power, just for peace of mind, and some say that's taking the definition of home defense a little far, but nah, that's how I roll, dawg. The Space Mormons want that planet that was prophesized, or is it a whole system of planets, maybe a whole galaxy, so everyone can get one. I like to imagine that engineered utopia, but I also gotta engineer this space ark, and if the Space Mormons think they can stiff me, they better be sure I haven't sabotaged that ship for its three century trip. You be trippin. Bitches be triflin. But you're a version sexy mormon. Very hard to please. You can taste the bright lights but you won't get there for free, in the Space Jungle, welcome to the Space Jungle... and you, as a demographic, are famously polite and charming, even insane freakouts you do politely, you gotta laugh. It makes me laugh in particular, being an amateur investigate scholar of freakouts, it's amusing, even as it's tearing me apart lobe by lobe.

I wish I had a prophet who promised me a planet. Me personally. The bigger the Lie, the more likely it is to be believed, that's what they call "The Big Lie". That's a lie so big it's worth believing in, like that story of Pi that was supposed to make me believe in God. If you wannit you gaaaaaht it you just got to believe... believe in yourself, ah. See the key word is the self. That's the self-coda, that's the Kravitz Guarantor for the insurance on your soul. It was a good story though.

The bigger the Thetan, the deeper the quicksand, you know what I mean? Sometimes a cow's gotta die. Hey, we all die, don't cry for any of these organisms, it'll be your turn soon enough. I got actuary tables if you want to know how you're gonna die. No? Okay, just thought it was polite to offer.

Offer yourself up as a sacrifice, a holocaust, every last nerve being painfully immolated one at a time. Sometimes an ox gotta be gored, man. I've already killed all my darlings, they're already dead. But I talk to em everyday in an unhealthy amount of seance sessions, nostalgia abuse benders. Keep em alive past bedtime, stay awake my beautiful eyes, show me some skin, the regions of the mind I wanna see, train my brain on that, who needs the peace corps? What's there to live for?

The Space Mormons were successful in their interstellar journey, and we were all rooting for them, all the time, well I was anyway, I know I don't speak for y'all. But unfortunately, when they got to Vega they ran right into that Time Rift from Star Trek Discovery, and things got all four dimensional, and I had to trust my math, and you know what? It saved my butt. From that moment on, I worshipped math, I made geometry sacred but that didn't do it, so the little got mo' and mo'. I just keep trying to get a little better, said a little better than before. Just doing what all my friends and well-wishers wished for me, to get a little better, get well even, cause junksick is a drearily-sane forever war, you get what you pay for, forget about fighting more - huhah! Abso lutely nothin'. Some day I might want for nothing to be enough.

26 Feb 2019


Some good things going on... like I'm finding a way to enjoy this new sci-fi series. And... putting up a front of bravado against that bleakest feeling, trying not to read anything into any thoughts of fronting, it's all good. Meh. It shows me how things are empty. Not that I agree, but it shows me, again and again, pretty convincingly. Gotta fill somehow, flood fill.

The technological updates in this sci-fi show are analogous to modern conveniences like dishwashers, or more contemporaneously, streaming videos on the internet, the guy is worried his employers are gonna screw him out of growing a new arm, after he got it sheared off by a chunk of ice they were mining that unexpectedly shattered - to have that option, theoretically, of growing a new arm sure sounds like a wondrous new age, but why'd he have to get it cut off in the first place, and why is it only theoretical, the really ugly reality of capitalism grinding on into later centuries puts a damper on things, like in every age. What do self-important media assholes always say when we talk about inequality? The poor are so lucky, luckier than ever, they have dishwashing machines, clothes drying machines, smart phones, why are they complaining? Just work harder. Live, work work work work, die.

23 Feb 2019

You have no idea how other people see you. You'd be shocked. The disparity between words voiced, and how you're 'seen', by which I mean, the feelings people have about you, a complicated mix usually, they sometimes congeal in words, text, email, diatribes, confessions, declarations, giggly conversations. Like how I see people, and all the things I must be quiet about, at all costs. Self-policing, but I think I'll mostly keep at that. They're not all bad things, sometimes there's illicit love, and petty anger, and ways I see people that reveal things I just don't wanna reveal about me.

22 Feb 2019

cellllll le brate half measures, c'mon!

It's hard to watch. You hate to see it.

Hard to watch what's out there, what works. Folks. Just plain folks. With sleeves of sophistication - people I know. It's hard to watch even people I don't know. It's also hard to watch just about any movie, even though I've been bathing in the medium lately, because there are always these attractive people in them, good characters, fucked up beautifully, larger than life, reminding me how small I am. Whatever emotion I get wrapped up in as portrayed by a director and an actor in some character -some character wrapped up in some hollywood actor- whatever that emotion is, it's pathetically vicarious, can see it but I can't be it, can't apply a molecule of that flavour to the modest things I want. For myself. Why not go whole hog, damn the metaphor, never mind the style, just go, do it, just, do it, just do it, but you hate to see it.

This Child of the New Dawn says: the screens mirror the radio waves I send out into the universe to scan for something I can use. I say "this child of the new dawn" to distinguish from "those children of the new dawn" the ones who signed on to stick around failed folk singer Jeremiah's "beautiful dream he's having" and participated in murder and self-inflicted games of russian roulette. I won't bother with the special words anymore, it can be as vague or cryptic as I want, to hell with everything else. I know there are hard limits on any potential sociopathy, no need to worry, it's all done for love, in love, with the half-dead companion who's hovering above the abyss, hanging onto the cliffs by a couple fingers. I'll use anything, throw everything but the kitchen sink at the wall, see what sticks, where my enemies are dead, still in a line against. I'm not going for some brand of rage and hatred, that's not me, never been me, not my parameters - just self-respect, in as ugly a manner as I can dredge out of me, like a fuck-off aesthetic, the only voice that's right for this epoch. Fuck off. But not really.

All the songs are gonna be about the same thing now. Until I get what I want, that's how I'm creating a hostage crisis. It'll be like a cartoon-writer's strike, no one will care. I'm really my own hostage and my own ransom. So I will care, greatly. I'll care so much, I'll make a masterpiece out of it. Or a garage, where I write all of Weezer's songs before they do, but never get success. But in that alternate universe, I don't require any tradition to define success for me, and the physics of this universe allow me to fit in just well enough, while preserving and enhancing the charms of my eccentricities and imperfections, to feel good, to not feel the void almost all the time. But thank heavens for my anti-depressants and the pharmaceutical mega-corporations that oversee their manufacture, even if they're evil, because they're a rope stretched over the abyss beyond the black rainbow.

21 Feb 2019


I can't punch up what's already been perfectly stated. Anything I add will be a fist through drywall, not productive. I'm down, so I'm gonna punch down, though there's nothing to punch here. I'm due for a breakthrough.

When I didn't care, it didn't help either. That conventional wisdom is bunk, that I just have to stop caring. All this magic, all these secrets, I've had enough.

The anger is at this place I've gotten to that makes me react despairingly to minor things. It's not personal. I wish there was a person I could focus it on, but there isn't one, it's spread even and vast, it's somewhere between chunky and smooth peanut butter.

"At least I'm sober", sarcastic obeisance to the benign cult. I'm not a pedant about sobriety, I don't care if I meet the definition in the Queen's English. Oh good, there's at least one thing I don't care about.

Still care too much about all the rest of it. I'm due for a breakthrough.

Maybe I can make a breakthrough by quitting trying, it's the first step towards failure, as homer said, but actually, it's been thousands of steps of rejection. I won't hold myself hostage, that's not my intention, if I'm a psychic vampire then get your neck out of my mouth, it's not like I have any power.

I'm due for a breakthrough, but it's like the Big Quake that's supposed to hit sometime, it might be after I'm dead. So what if I'm due?

So fucking bleak, too bleak for poetry. Oh it could get much bleaker, I know. So what? So what if I'm due for a level of bleak that makes this look weak, I'm still gonna say what I'm gonna say.

19 Feb 2019

dying season

Season drips, seeps into groundwater, gets absorbed, another cycle in an arbitrary number, smart money is on what we expect, a normal president - arbitrary tributary - burn everything else away.

It's hard on me. Yes it is. I'm in the void now, raging against the dying. In the nearly-dead season. And over there is that newly-wed season, glass ceilings, gated communities. You all have it made, my bitter lament. And paranoid too. And selfish. Still did the stunt of helping that guy though, so now I'm allowing myself delusions as welfare, in a welfare cosmos. Remember what the things mean...

Bill Burroughs said, "exterminate all rational thought". Fuck that, pyrotechnically sterilize thought bonds, disconnect from the sources of supreme futility and failure, stand aside, seeing what a crazy paranoid trip that is, but still too attached, to feeling it must be true.

There will be another seasonal shift. But how many more, I'm not sure, it's a little concerning sometimes, facilitates remergence of primal fear - or decorative yet derivative paranoias.


I helped a guy, I can have a huff, I'm worthy of this modest proposal: a hit of nicotine laced propylene glycol and vegetable glycerin, on a wattage setting that knocks my breath away for half a minute. On a limited diet of drugs, except for the mood ones that come from the pharmacy. But the loopholes I allow for, allow for a variety of religious experiences. Okay, religious is a stretch. Just wanted to reference William James. And I'm probably not meant for religious experiences, or I squandered that possibility by following my guide all the way up the Himalayan mountains, finding the head of the Kwik-E-Mart, and asking him my three allotted questions: Are you the head of the Kwik-E-Mart? Really? You?

And I feel the effects of the mood drug regime in odd ways, when I helped that guy, and the physical effort of trying to dig a car out of the cliff of ice it had crunched into was past the threshold of where it sends these zaps to my head in flashes that can trigger phobia some times, but right now it's fine - not one of the desired effects or side-effects. But THC really boosts an orgasm, whether in indica form or sativa, still can't really tell the difference because the difference is subtle, the mental effects far outweigh any other qualities, and thus feast on all the oxygen of any potential qualitative difference, even though John Lilly doesn't like the term "qualitative".

I'm digging this thirty-seven-year old stranger out of the snow, using a shovel when I need an ice-pick, a performance really. Then I call the tow truck which luckily is able to pull that little 86 mobile up enough from the weird and deep angle it's etched into, a little bumper crumbling here, crumpling there. Not a job for me, but there's some solidarity in his bug eyes, near-panic, really fucking with his buzz - he doesn't want to be caught high with his clean license. The two cop car compliment is staying seemingly forever while we go about this kabuki of trying to dig his car out of the ice, though it's never gonna happen, that cop says, physics, so we say to each other we're not physicists. Those eyes, so bug! I feel like this is an unacceptable fucking up of the buzz. Maybe it doesn't have to ruin a whole week in addition to a night.

BCAA coverage did the job. I was a passenger, let's say, make up some story about hitching. Then it turns out I knew the guy in grade school, he recognized me after hearing my name, like people tend to, to my continued dismay, as if I want to go back down that memory lane. But the present is thirty-seven, maybe finally I can be okay with where things have evolved. Cause Thirty-Seven-Year Olds are resonating with me, some mind linkage happening. Class of, whatever, I don't care what year. Guaranteed to get a choice Simpsons reference, from the good years of seasons two thru six.

13 Feb 2019

blood circulation

She said my hands are so cold! She's one of those people who notices, it's important, reminds me that it's important. But...

I gotta stop seeking, in all senses. Of course it wasn't gonna work, at home, under covers, seething colours and shrouds of light, what was acid gonna teach me, what confidence could it give me? Of course it wasn't gonna work in some might-as-well-be-random sample of several hundred dubious matches, so much theory, so little practice.

The romantic, in the most literal sense (if there can be one) and the spiritual have fused-together-so-tight, a rogue nucleus ripe for chain reaction: stellar energy. Or pointless burn-out, nebulae broadcasting noise to nobody. I'm orbiting this thing I call love, small l and capital L, the major and the minor, trying to create faith as all basis for it weakens, a spent force, heavy element shedding particles. It's like the danaides topoi and the leaky basin, trying forever to fill it so I can bathe away my sins. Also like how I try to fill my brain with stuff that blocks neurotransmitters from re-absorption, so I can be happier, and functional, and driven - but my life won't co-operate, even with the pragmatic boost of mood, the circumstances of failing to meet my goals, such modest goals, keep battering down my will to keep seeking and the extra transmitters don't help that much. Just barely keeping afloat.

Actually, I don't lose much sleep over many goals, it's mainly just that one goal, of literal romance. What is literal romance? Oh for me, it's like one of those novels, except way more realistic, and all the better for that, some kind of problematic partnership, with conflict, but enough moments of comfort. The last few times it's been weird inabilities to communicate or re-connect even though we thought we were both so open, the vexation of not being able to identify the blockage, or the deeper unconscious not allowing that to happen. Polite fights, cold conflict. Rage and passion were much better, I miss those relationships more.

Redemption in the void

Is there any forgiveness, beyond the black rainbow? Can I find something to forgive me, can I personify it, can I make you the angel I need to have?

As is traditional with these things, there's a disorienting segue, then crossfade. At some point we hear a voice. The rare bits of dialog have so much weight, your earthly ambassador in this opaque maze: a human voice, and he sets the theme early. "It's easy to get disillusioned." There's an appropriate kaleidoscope of associations as the voice settles in. "If you don't know who you are. What you are." Then the light changes and the face shifts in palettes seeping underneath. "I know who I am. What I am. That's what gives me my confidence. And my power."

Everyone is getting so hermetic. Good for them, it's what they want, to be sealed off, I can understand that kind of want. I do my own form of sealing off, I like to get into extreme comfort trips, music videos that feel up-beat, the rhythm can go down for a second in such and such a way, as it happened before. There are cursors here and there. What is created in the void doesn't matter how it sounds, later.

Why am I reminding myself of emptiness again and again? Can't you hear me? You hear me. I heard that. Nod the head. Off the wagon. Was on the nod. I assent to that. Since I forgot what it was like. How can it all sound so much the same, across filters of personality? Vision of universality takes the form of grass, a rainy blade, that kind of blade, a perfectly wonderful bug crawling over that blade, what's outside of the black rainbow. What they told me I had a right to. Not in a proprietary way, not like the most perverse jesus-freak imaginable.

Flirting with identifying self as unnatural. I stopped being a fan of nature, you can get to thinking that way when you've hung out too long beyond the black rainbow. I want to be natural, with you. Can I have some of your nature? Cause I was in that less-than-nothing howling wind, in the hallway, remember that hallway? It was life or death in that hallway, beyond the life and death spans of individuals, if you can imagine that, you had to hold on for dear life, and at the same time, reach out, to find another ledge, you had to venture, the stakes were higher than anything.

I remember that I was unnatural lust personified, but what is unnatural about that? It's a part of nature that has a source of joy, but the drives it creates, take the form of enormous feats of heroism and treachery, betraying one's own code of morality, the deep desire to include oneself in others, wearing the black jacket of Noriega's fine custom leather and ruminating on some brand of unnaturalism, even after taking off one's appliances, a bare head sticky with hair glue, still feeling as unnatural as ever because what remains post-appliances is a deformed retinal-scarred thing you could barely call a living creature --- but the whole time, wanting that natural reality, the remedy for the sucking void inside, the depth and desperation of that need making the living thing inside the leather jacket all the more wretched, all the less desirable, no matter how red the light, no matter how effective the drugs, no matter what the voice on the phone said, that all important beyond-the-facility communication with a forest of fax sounds book-ending the drawn retrograde breath, a short sprout of telecom trees being the nail in the coffin of the message, a thing it didn't ask for but a fatal partnership, cemented in betrayal and casual cruelty, mutual culpability, observation rooms and mud and blood - but we needn't get so literal. But let's do it anyway, irony left me, don't care how I sound, I'm down to trading in cliches, obeying the basest instinct, and seeing this all from the outside, besides.

The scene of the assisted suicide of Dr. Mercurio Arboria is the most sad and beautiful thing I've ever seen on a screen. I haven't been moved by a movie like this in, I dunno, ever. Had become so aloof to the artform, the idea of even watching any movie twice sounded insane. And yet I can get lost in this one, make it my whole world, my music video. I'll latch onto that shadow vision, I'll grip it tight and yet try and keep my oily personality off of it, and not tag it too much, just let it be what it is in my head, not try and make it anything for others. But I want to bring other people into my world. But there are ways to go about that (keep it dead, in the shed, that's the way). There are windowpanes you keep shut, unless you have to remind yourself again.

When things become as elemental as the pale man in the black jacket and the girl with the teardrop, I remember. The man deranged in perfect control, arranged as protocol demanded, the procedure in place. And the girl, angel, taking on all these burdens, giving birth, taking the hit for more life. She appears angelic to my bug eyes, even though I know she's no angel really, she gets dirty, she gets into the mud, the mud gets into her, we breathe it together. We're all guilty in this planetary prison colony. This putrescent life made her a killer, the new age of enlightenment, like we needed yet another one, has warped her telekinetic abilities into a narrow brutal survivalist's toolkit.

We've been beyond the rainbow together. When we brought back the motherlode, we found there was no back, not anymore. We didn't know what to do, it had gotten away from us. Bad things happened, every moment since an attempt to salvage something from the horror. Words fail, and that is so wonderful, that I can't tag it, when words flow off it like it's a gleaming teflon skull, the new-school mercury alloy of programmed molecules, that's when you know it's legit, it's the real deal, it's a work of art worth inhabiting me, making me its gibbering evangelist, the art will be fine, whether I represent it well or not, it doesn't matter.

Barry. Bring home the motherlode, Barry. The character's name is Barry. There is no home, not anymore.
President Deals' final deal: I'll suck your dick! Just let me keep my wig and makeup, that's a steal!


Self worth charges like a bull, it climbs as the market shrinks. That self-worth is useless in this world, only drives me crazy, why does no one want me in that way, I'm doing all the right things. Well fuck it, I'll still feel worthy, but the currency is worthless because the market doesn't want me, I can't sell myself, I'd even be some kind of whore, sell my money for sex. I'd be some kind of slut if I could do that at least, but I can't, not even that.

Self worth isn't my problem, I think I'm better than I've ever been. Whatever that's worth. For all the good it does. Self worth is painful cognitive dissonance, a genuine pride, but the value's so shaky because the world won't validate. I do appreciate my collection of people who prop me up, I'm fond of them, but my newest sickest obsession is to have my worth confirmed by that ever elusive outside, the only kind of validation that gives me that feeling I haven't had in so long.

Validation is not a trivialization, it's not just for me - it's to make me secure enough that I can be my best self for others, especially a special other. That synergistic strength that is worth the hassle and the daily grind it demands, that feeling I haven't had in so long, in sickness and health, that feeling that I need... is, perhaps, a junkie's sickness effectively, though it's supposed to be the natural high I'm supposed to substitute now that I'm sober, but... for all the good is does me, might as well be a junkie. Never really got a great blowjob, but I think I know what real love is, even though it's been years, I still got the craving for that, it's never left me, I experienced that feeling a man has with a woman that is impossible to substitute or synthesize and I've been hooked ever since. And when it comes to sex, a mediocre real is way better than an impossible ideal, mediocre can be amazing with context, in the with context.

God, this maudlin obsession limps on, a hunting dog with a leg cut off, compromised pheromones and a plugged nose, not knowing where to go, maybe vaguely forward, could be staggering in circles.

12 Feb 2019

truly seedless

finding the seed in the kinetic moment, that energy i can tap into if i trick myself to be on the right frequency, play tricks with myself, they're not for kids


10 Feb 2019

Against all odds

In the front seat of the car, thinking I can't hear them, they talk, like I'm not there, saying, "against all odds, too", like in addition to this guy they're talking about being an entitled asshole, he's also comically short, for a man, as we all know, so you'd think, he wouldn't be allowed to be with this poor better woman, but against all odds, here he is, and now we're talking about him, and how he better smarten up, cause there's a line for that lady. Also, the guy is not really grooving with our substance abuse cult like we would like, so we're taking his inventory. All that said, the cult is relatively benign, sometimes beneficent. And necessarily omnipresent, aside from the five-to-thirty percent we all leave, after taking what we need. But it's gonna take someone really special, for me to have any likeness to that fellow shortie's life, what he takes for granted, in this cult we're all in - a very special woman that I just must forget about, entomb my awareness of anything in the gravity well of that possibility, you have to forget, close your mind. Oh, really though, you don't have to do anything but you're responsible for everything. Everything.

I love every one. Not everyone. What I love is every one of those things that I made myself, created, like I'm some nothing-burger mother, but I'm also a god, I'm 100% responsible for what I said, what I did, what I made, I'm legally responsible for this self's behavior. I'm held to account, and yet I take my job lightly, go about it as if I'm in contempt for the whole thing. I will create myself company and love that alone, as a substitute, for lack of chemical reaction with outside matter. I can't justify it, and it's impossible to explain, especially to You, I'm deciding, cause you can't explain anything to me, beyond the nothing you said. I hate job interviews. And don't let me know I'm being evaluated as a man with value to this woman, garroted with a grid of razor-wire criteria, over the hour. Never again. Never subject self to opera seria inquiry... never submit to chemical scrutiny - never assent to that essentialist stress-test. I never have to go to school again, non serviam. My only service is to the sucking black vacuum outside, loyal service. I'll coldly purge the botched interaction, but keep a copy safe, three sub folders below absolute zero, in its own climate-controlled microverse, accessible, ♫ always-already ♪, except when I forget

always-already - fuck you I won't do what you tell me! I'm sinking back into the story that was my whole universe. All fronts colliding and crumbling, sometimes it's good for things to crumble. But crumpling is not as good, implosion not so good, it comes from a real place, like that character played by David Cross in that Mr. Show skit said, oh, CAN... I have this chair, then? Seriously?" I need a keyboard to pound on, nothing else matters, it's all insectile owners of the vacuum outside, they suck like an electrolux, escaping air is lox for those alien lungs, a tax on laxatives for the initiation of constipation for the foundation of pretending to have a purpose, the basis for the base, the moonrock dust-like base of the whole edifice. I fought hard to get to this place, so since I'm here I might just loop around the lazy river for an interlude I can stretch indefinitely, can will time to slow, wrap its passage around a finger of mine, and sniff it all up, just right, dinner time, let the sterile context depreciate steadily and remain master, controller coffers fine, don't need a bake sale.

A peak for no reason... vapourizing rocks, becoming the elemental head of Crevelent. No valent electrons, no immediately available ointment of contentment. Contempt for all others. Familiarity breeds contempt. Multiplies hatred. Ultimate familiarity with self is a bottomless wound of narcissism, ultimate narcissism is hatred in the most informed sense. Everything which is the case is my hatred for this you-self in my dream. Maybe that's why I need sensory deprivation. The senses disappoint me, like they've not allotted me my lot in life yet, maybe on the other side of this yet is a yeti that will look like me and offer me a | neeeeeew drug * * da * da * dadada | one that won't try to bite * * da * da * dadada * * * * * * |  * one that won't chew a hole in my socks  * * * | one that will make me fe-el * * aaaaaalll-right. Alright, ♫ Always-already ♪, it's beautiful, this thing you call *it*, this black rainbow you've made. That's you, that's how you wanna go out, you wanna euthanize your younger self, re-arrange episodes like a god-like analogy, do some hands-on management of your past, cause this mission requires time travel or is it just a hallucination, or a delusional extrapolation? There's no cross pollination, there's radiation blasted space-exposed moon dust.

So if politics is the art of the pragmatic, as well as the possible, I suggest we agree on a contract to prop up an evidence-based survey that says sensory deprivation is the thing. The thing to drop like a drip of awareness in the waters where the ghostfish bite. No bait, no shutter, shutterbate, yes, chatterbate, yes, calibrate, Manifest Dust in E. Dusty mind, mind to mind, dusty, misty, dim, mindful of that mind, dim, done. Drank You-self Drunk. You skank sell-out. That's not something I would say. That's not me, that's a character I'm playing since I'm an irony bro. Ever since 2001, when everybody was abandoning irony, I was tripling down on it, and I've been nothing but a collection of characters, sometimes re-encoded by a barely seen alien power that taps into my viral channels.

                                    Expect delays.

5 Feb 2019

turning away

Brutal. Punishing. Waiting for the next gut punch, off-chance it's a caress. Gotta wait. But I digress. I'm getting beaten up, eaten up, can't do this anymore, can't be trying to find someone.

Turn away. Turn away. Don't be flayed. Don't be played. Don't get laid. Turn away. Can't be flayed, when I'm turned away. Turned away.

There don't need to be examples. I don't need to be an example. I don't need to learn from examples. If I turn away.

I see that I'm doing it. Getting played. Getting flayed. You can see that I'm doing it. So I'm turning away, running away so I can't be seen.

Was barely seen anyway, but I put my face in the fray, so I could be rayed with the little light I could get. The light that burned, I'm turning away, running away, so I can't be burned again, diving into the dark sea where I'm a little drop of awareness, I can still be seen if you really wanna see me, if you wanna meet me halfway, in the gray, I'll be here, if you really wanna, but I'll no longer burn in the light.