Rank Blank

it turns a pacifist into a warrior, that is, a bully in the pecking order. to be ranked is to want to push around someone lower, or something, if you don’t have that bloodlust. maybe you can claim superiority in an evolutionary cul-de-sac. the kind of thing the void would appreciate, son of celesta. stay frosty, stay crystalline, keep your predictable hexagonal sheen.

slimy context fills in, sad canisters, phallic cylinders. hey. you think those hand spasms are funny? cause they’re not. not from here. not inside this capsule. indigestible.

i don’t see anything when i close my eyes, it’s infuriating, it’s like i’m blind inside. lost the rhombus in caesarian sediment and mahler symphonies i don’t listen to anymore.

dinner invitation, divination celebration of this first person divinity, right here, you’re all invited to partake in my sacredity, how lovely, don’t you agree? the cachet of the negative rank, except he’s still playing, isn’t he, so how could he attain that without the game genie? it seems like i only really live when i’m asleep.

can’t write the great prose. this day is a write off. got a few laughs though. action hotdog go! a lot of aches. no reason my back should hurt. i was supposed to exercise but i didn’t. a long sickly rut. still nauseas. still lulling. arrogant guilt with a little self-disgust. and disgust with everything. even though there are good things. dez is good. and my mom’s almond cookies. and the skootching supercomputer. but it all feels so fucked up. a lazy way to label it. labeling is lazy anyway. but less lazy than doing nothing i guess. except in my case, doing nothing as opposed to continuing to type would take effort. a ramble worthy of jandek. dark career of the soul. i can see his appeal. can sort of hear it, distant strains over the hills, not that strainy, sort of lazy. i should track my own guitar. write around an instrument i can barely play. piano is weighing me down. there are other options. there’s the tar pet trap.

i think my headphone cord is trying to hump my arm. it feels like a fondle. it feels good actually. sensuous.

i’m so sick of this window. addicted to the internet, addicted to my computer, usually unexamined. i want to shut this window, but then i’d be even lonelier than i am. for a while, but maybe soon after i’d discover some inner light. i want to take stone shelter on the rain drenched plains, and write songs the easy way, sing and play. or maybe i just want to want. there’s a chorus. when i wear my wet funboots, i want to want. leads to this arch and aching magnetic re-arrangement. don’t speak of words. spirituality ate itself. yeah well, it’s harder to find the sacred things now. but they do still turn up. one day they may turn up in my guts as intestinal parasites.

i think i need a glass of wine. i’m tempted to take a xanie. quite tempted. but i should save those for easing my interactions with people in situations where my hangups would prohibit me from getting work, even though that seems next to impossible anyway, unless nepotism comes to the rescue, like it did the only time i ever got steady employment.

anyway, i’m going to connect back to my ancient roman roots, and drink wine. let the id out a little. you’ll barely notice it. this white wine is tastier than i expected. it’s too bad it flips the switch so blatantly. closes off pre-intoxicated methods of appreciating life – from the first taste. i wish i got the exaggerated sense of verbal facility some claim. no, cannabis is the drug that makes me think i’m brilliant. and tryptamines are what make me think i’m sacred. and when i’m sober, i think i’m a snowflake.

i want to be softer now, short of liquid. the phase variance. four tet is good music. at this point. it’s finding combinations of sounds that haven’t traditionally pleased the auditory receptor systems. i don’t know what the method is. i can see my future loutish self flanged on a squeaky hinge. doesn’t look so good, but it never did. i’ll put on some shades, smudge the plastic glass with snot, obscure, cloud, blink, strobe, simulate epilepsy. maybe this is a nyquil night. maybe even a flexeril week.

i wish i could do my dreams justice in writing, but if i could do that, i’d know what those agents of the nightmare thrills were for. and that would be ridiculous, this side of the gnostic divide. i’ll just be happy with the stocking stuffers mckenna left me before he went up the chimney. a deck of cards, a fairyland sutra assortment. there aren’t many gaps in my set. i enjoyed bootlegs and trading days, it was my grateful dead tour.

fence-sleeper wants to have it both ways, life and death. semi-consciousness. a fetish of the pale, albino lust. go to the mountain where those people are. the mountain that does not exist. bring your ikea staff. the ball’s in your court. jacks, marbles, crypticity. it’s a soup you drink at the homeless shelter. it’s a romance. a hoodie, it was made in china in 2005, but it’s timeless. boxie could break it down for you. frederick abberline would recognize the taste.

am i going to get drunk, sleep, or watch a movie? i’m not in a fugue state, otherwise i’d do all three at once. a complimentary combination, it’s not unheard of. the window is flickering magic like a near-dead neon sign. maze walls narrowing, the day’s cheese long gone, new brain lobes cut away every day without notice, click click click, nothing new. run the circuit again, report at this juncture, a hallucination worth transcribing. was that a rubber duckie? not exactly.

i tried to play with a doll i drew, today, but i didn’t get very far. she looked like she knew all kinds of crazy games, but i didn’t know the rules. couldn’t make any. it was during the time i felt like smashing things, but instead i tried to command contours. it went better than i expected, but of course, short of redemption. still, i thought of draping her in paisley. it would be pornographic, but artistic. who said it had to be sacred?

jehovah’s witness temple stubbornly stands, near the graveyard. that’s too much spookiness for one neighborhood, it’s gotta violate some zoning law. nobody understands how the faith healer stays minted. or how she writes nursery rhymes for adults. it seems easy. but the only one you ever met who could do it… burned in and out of town, fucking everything that moved. barely seems real anymore, even though there are recordings. you haven’t listened to them in years. but you do sing your recollections of them when you’re really hammered.

remember the hand-drawn laminated map of annexia? best let the gibberish hang from a meat-hook, swaying provocatively, there is a vast intelligence at work, you just can’t see, but maybe you can feel, that little quirk in your personality, that crick in your neck, i will suggest, is tangentially related.