30 Jun 2011

austerity for lucidity?

austerity measures
oh yeah, what else?
case in point
pointless poetry

i haven't been this dry in some time
incidentally, in the thick of quitting caffeine and zoloft
there's too many variables, i can't tell what is affecting what
and every attempt at describing that is
this scraping the bottom of the mediocrity barrel
getting to hear about better men, themselves better than the ones
who are better than me

no, i don't think something to fight for in itself is worth newsreel nightmare suffering
but i don't think this is worth much either
of course suicide correlates to this and that
and of course i know
that newsreel nightmare suffering would shake the malaise out of me
and shock me into savouring my daily ration of goat's eyeball
my best part of the day, so i could endure a fake scare real scare
every twenty seconds and sleep on barbed wire to survive, cause i rolled a six
and they rolled a ten, and it all came to a pulitzer-prize winning graphic novel
based on me and my son, our claims to fame and value as people intertwined with a work of art
cause art matters, like it's purpose, or i thought it did, seemed to, or was that a dream?
the best part of waking up - no, can't incorporate folgier's jingle into this mexican jumping bean cutup of crappy laptop keyboard

had some hope that there was a state of purity that would correlate with happy
that i was paving over with the SSRI, that was waiting for me, if i'd just clean out my system
so i'm cleaning, but of course, i'm re-using filthy rags in a misguided attempt to recycle, and everything i clean
just gets smeared with new grime
maybe clean's the wrong concept, well sure, why wouldn't it be wrong?
maybe all i can say is, i'm getting closer to baseline
but all i feel is a void, a hazey nothing, no clarity either, no lucidity
not that my mind was working much better in an overmedicated whirl of concentric cycles
but maybe a little better, at least for functioning as a decadent wastrel, that was not an aspiration, but it was inspiring while sufficiently wired - a coffee-cream combo sort of thing

and what can i say about family? i should say something - something nice to start off with, some buttered bread for a compliment sandwich - cause there's so many things i could say - but i don't want to say anything

20 Jun 2011


don't think i can get more succinct than the title - so why not quit now? burrow a den?

i'm recalling dashing cliffs, a rocky inlet, Maddox Cove - i walked a beaten path through dogberry shrubs with briar - i love it when she shudders, makes me want to hug her as tight as i can, it's adorable, not beyond my control - outside of it, yes, but receptive - i took a long pause to see if i could see the end of the cave, but i couldn't, just ocean rushing in, deeper and deeper, then passing out of view --- on a later day, i fantasized about living in a cave, my cave, like gollum - it wasn't romantic, but it was a fantasy - after a minute it hit me - how gloomy it would be when the novelty wore off: i wouldn't enjoy the stoicism of owning the wetness like a home - a cozy cave, how cagey of me

you're not guilty - don't worry
by association
bye association

it's not ink - spring reverb in fetal summer, a glacial mutant, blind, for that reason - the one that fell off the truck, that got snatched, that turned into an heirloom in a century and a half, collected dust behind the siding of a self-aware house for decades

there's masterpieces left, under display cases in the museum of hypothesis - tomorrow's mills and processing facilities - oh, where is process? process me, will you? i'll get used to the smell, it only takes six weeks - it may be largely sarcastic, but it's that sweet oil of sincerity that's the point! it's there, floating in little rainbow swirls in out of the way swampools under the canopy of cobalt foliage in the shadows of the city of ought sixteen

yes, essence-less, now we're getting it! we're getting to the root of it; synesthetic break-neck hit the deck calisthenics! no, not really, just wanted to say that

15 Jun 2011

no god of dabblers

there's no god of dabblers
no have your cake and eat it too state of grace
nothing in the middle of the road but dead armadillos

fuck it always on the tip of my tongue
nothing on the tip of my tongue but taste buds and fuck it
fuck it, just words, in poor taste
rarely backed by action
fuck it might be said, but it won't be fucked
it'll act on impulse, despite the executive decision
to fuck, if not all of it, at least this particular fucking dead end

but there's never-ending stories in zeno paradox corners
and regressing floorboards, dust families in dust fables, crack ecologies

update: general error
avg says, like it would
general failure reading disks
general failure, captain obvious, major semantic antic adjunct to second leitmotif
now that's a gold leaf inlay i can get with, maybe melt down for some credits
for BMW showroom chrome

11 Jun 2011

sounds good

You'd best believe we gonna be mixing it up with somebody... or some thing... Or, cut to the chase. Yes, fuzzy-head friend, I know, I'd do it too, I'd trade every hair left for a right word. The problem is the venue, gotta code your way to an escape, for what? This Bastille sideshow? Hell no, don't go, wallow, till the apocalypse finds you, assuming it'll ever make it to this crevasse - crease? Carcinogenic gas will suffice, six thousand sided dice, pass the time, your time, whoever cares to drop by. Wish you could make trades, a friendly shadow for these dime a dozen sallow faces in high-def.

It sounds good, but it's empty, by which I mean simply stymied. I mean that simply, it's a simple matter of meaning. A full complement of trazadone might pass through the sky, missing both dream-eaters and semioticians on speed - but I'll know there's a difference between those other ego-trips on the couch, and those scrap metal epics under the bedcovers - what that signifies, i will pose as an unanswerable question in the margins of a pop rock anthem