30 Nov 2009

myheart request

rendered rose tonight - her old new song in piano roll – i plan to notate her notes, put them on a postcard – you wrote this, did you know? plucking strings - reminds me of times when i required profundity, to feel anything - now anything feelingful grows like fungi, in the dark, cracks missed of cleanliness, next to godly mystink - not to mention tetragrammaton, sanctity strategically segregated - i'd put it on the do not deliver list, myself

godly don't work for me nomore - but why torch an effigy of a past self, as if the poor guy could help being naive, or whatever that is to me now, as if my curent ken was available to him, as if he was being stubborn for suffering, as if i'm “developed” by virtue of living in the future - what am i doing? just the same old deconstruction, with nothing to offer, another day's free labour in the one man demolition crew – they sent a boy to do a man's job, again -- maybe some future self will rescue my reputation by saying it's hardly my fault, being born hooked up to a battery, living snug in the soft slot by default, and if my brain’s low-wattage and my pain’s mezzopiano, that’s not to be discounted, it could sound poignant with the right counterpoint, and it's been rendered in a stucco aesthetic of the time - and managed to avoid the fashions besides - it's of the time, like ooglebooglebaka is of the retinal scan

synthetic meaning used to be the name of the game, and not just that, but synthetic profundity - reminds me of the piano roll i just created of rose's guitar playing – the memory spurred me to write something, but i still feel dry as a desert, cloistered, controlled – still, i guess i need a vacation from the dreary thrills, maybe a long one, to shroud myself from what i suspect, with spurious guilt, i ought to experience - black sabbatical, but never say never, i guess - i can say that -- is this sanity? not bloody likely, but the mirages are more steady - the waves of reality don't break too harshly, it's a wide tidal pool, it ebbs and flows in forgiving rhythms of tepid mediocrity - won't be my theocracy, but it’ll serviam

guess i'll go in search of sick sleep, like - i always dream of drugs, lately ketamine, and ALCOHOL, imagine that? booze became a novelty, guess that means i've crossed the rubicon - and shambles in a woodsy dream geometry where the locin ghost haunts my cell phone, trying to remember a dealer's number, so frustrating, melding, vials in the soil, crawling back to the needle exchange

ghosts - still sober, that's the "main thing" isn't it? but i don't want no medal, and in the meantime... cleaning binges, smiling shiny tiles, skimming mental inventory, so what? got to kick the coffee i think, and the zoloft, eventually, fuck - trying to kick cigs, again, haha, today, cold turkey this time - so it's still an issue when i write, oh well - it's time for ecocide, ALT-D, abort writing, i'll bail

16 Nov 2009

journey to the center of the gobstopper

tired - gobbing on a gobstopper - starting to choke - adjust your oxygen mask before that of your child - can the kid make it on his own? he's attached, in a childlike way - my back aches - why did i go for the gobstopper? it's not quite gusto - my gusto helmet's in the closet

downtime, getting things, things, done, i think, are they things? more to come - a sweet and sour path with swiss chalet sauce - everything's a dipping area, everything gets dipped - phil lesh still keeps blotter acid in his underwear - i keep getting email telling me which houses i missed on my delivery route - inconsistent

this gobstopper is a futile mission, i'll stop it when i can find a place to jettison the cargo - unfortunately, my garbage can lacks a bag - i don't want to move - i'm frazzled, but not in a horrible way - just a dull chaos throb - starting to choke on gobjuice again - jonathan - my name is called

unwittingly, i smell the mire again - it outwits me, an acid base - why does this stink continue to hover around me? this aura decided to emanate, just lately - amid cleaning chores - the gobstopper won't stop, just a slow dissolve, surgery without anesthesia, angel of death, four hundred thousand more to die - who am i to say that slayer guitar riff trivializes the holocaust? nordic rage - fucking sounds like bucket

deputized to take soft authority, but i try to empathize with the kid - he's cute - souls come in small sizes too - he has to get up in the morning and go to school - i remember when i had to go to school - some days it caused me dread that i've never known since - now i have coping mechanisms, but i have more things to dread - i empathize with the unidyllic reality of childhood

now i reconnect through the reading of bedtime stories - i still rely on that coping mechanism - libravox audiobooks as sleep aids - well,

4 Nov 2009

unfit for human consumption

I don’t know how I can get any humbler. Wandering around an industrial park in the cold wind, looking for a KFC. I can’t stand the sight of the poppy on my jacket. They fought World War II, for this? Well, black and white brings a dignified facade. If you think about it, there would be plenty of indignity in the alternate future, with less whorehouses to choose from, to eat at, to work at – wouldn’t there?

I don’t have the stamina for communism, haven’t had since high school. The system is broken, and I’ll buy that for a dollar. I know how I can get humbler: ask for directions. Cause there’s no numbers on the buildings. There’s a secret code that only carburetors can read.

How can they humble me further? Interview me for the “position”, right in the restaurant, within earshot of every customer. Hey. And tell me how many other applicants there are for the job before I leave. They always do that. It must be a bad sign. Well, I regurgitated all the information from my resume the interviewer had right in fucking front of her. My work here is done.