the drunken goat poem

what am i doing? being twitchy for one thing - that's one thing i do well - and pining for vibisol - it'll solve everything! it numbs unwanted vibes for oversensitive sots - i mean those kinda sots that are really just folks, ordinary folks you could have a beer with, given a missing chromosome, driven to sousery and doomed to fail job interviews for eternity by a genetic predisposition to the unwanted unasked-for build-up of vibes to the point where a crippling social anxiety is reached - in the medical lexicon they call it a disorder, but it's actually a hyper-order... of bullshit - those poor sots, and their hyper-absorption of energy, and its prompt decay into paranoid radiation - it becomes a background radiation, so commonplace it's not recognized as "paranoid" at the epicenter, not the kind of paranoia you can trace back to saber-toothed tiger attacks, but just the vaguely off-putting brainwave frequency stack that must be the best of all possible worlds - energy can be a wonderful thing, like blood meandering in a low-pressure situation through vessels like the good ship cholesterol, a river journey with the sails down and the current spoiling the sailing skills of the crew, but when the blood leaks into parts of the brain that it's not supposed to be in, the life-giver can taketh away real quick

strokes are real, i can almost feel them, and they're starting to interest me a great deal, i could imagine a clot in the hypocampus, buried in an avalanche of synthetic morphine, a static thought bubble

arthur silber, the chronically poor, sick, blogger is valiantly writing through his misery again - he's even got the balls to ask for donations - i'm not actually being sarcastic and criticizing a blogger for doing that this time - i mean it, he's speaking to an audience through the medium of literate despair - i respect that - i can and will do all that, except for the reaching out part - got nothing against begging, it's noble, when you're contemplating a life of crime, when the desperation of being broke is making stealing not seem so wrong, i mean, don't just about fucking all of us steal in various sorts of ways anyway? so, raskolnikov, the little scamp, starts looking like a princely pauper even though we know he was set up to fall, or that's what we figure, being only a couple hundred pages into crime and punishment - and this is just pre-desperation, it's hardly anything yet - yet - okay universe, i give you the go, mock my petty paranoia by giving me just enough work to keep me in food, sans familial charity - anytime you're ready, grant me another episode in this series of corny tv situation comedies, the premise in each being that i'm "solvent", haha, a grown man, yeah, independent, making a living, of sorts - i'll take that to the food bank, i will, i'll cross that line

vibisol is the new penicillin, we need a new penicillin, it's no longer the panacea, material is anathema, it's oxidizing my every action up and down the periodic table, i can feel it in methyl groups - there's an epidemic of brain parasites, i heard, and what do you expect when our brains are getting good and plump - a fat lot of good it does us, overripe and rotting on the vine

what vibisol does is it takes all these vibes that a case study like me thinks he's feeling and, through noise canceling technology, neutralizes them - the only byproduct is a harmless photon emission - what vibisol could do is almost incalculable - i'd try and calculate it anyway, if i could rally the strength to attempt a sci-fi premise that even sort-of sounded like it had any basis in plausible hypothesis, or perthesis, i could use all of the above as a prosthesis affixed to a rubber ball, and pogo conveniently out of a carefully improvised trap my narc neighbor laid on me last night in my dreams

that being said, vibisol does hint at the possibility of an infinitesimal speck on an infinitesimal speck being a literary rabbit hole that sounds like a cut up but isn't, and is, in fact, a trap that novel writers get into, of thinking of life as a HIGH STAKES GAME that they made up, with a lil' help from camus - to get serious for a sec here, if i'm going to ascribe some ring of truth to statements people make about what the character of the universe is, how it prefers joy, or it prefers duality, or it doesn't care so you better enjoy what you got while you got it, even if it sucks, i'd err on the side of the scientists, not the novel writers - the novel writers are always so dour and gloomy, i find, and they think life is so literary, and profound, and philosophical - the scientists, on the other hand, they got beyond philosophy - science used to be called philosophy, but it evolved into a more sophisticated thing, where the word profound becomes profoundly meaningless... there are greater truths in science, like, for instance, at the moment, it seems as if the phenomenon of mass can be linked to a subatomic particle called the higgs boson... and other stuff like that - even though this stuff needs constant revision and refinement, i find it to be truer than anything philosophers and writers have managed - the pit of shallow wit is practically an exhumed grave at this point

in scientists i hear something closer to religion and reverence than anyone else, an awe of the weirdness and wildness of how the universe actually appears to work, when you split atoms and measure background radiation and stress test and model, regardless of whether this character may suggest benevolence or malevolence... it tends to be the literary types who suggest the universe is so cold, so terribly cold and empty - scientists tell me there's more energy in a thimbleful of vacuum than a stick of dynamite - there's also thermodynamics, which is a downer this year, or is it? but the sense it makes isn't so tyrannical that i might as well walk out naked into the tundra with no intention of coming back - where's all that mutability i'm supposed to see in reality, i'm wondering... can i coax it, cause i would if i could... ?

what am i doing right now, but typing in this technological reality... i'm so glad i have no urge to quote jacques derrida - i'm also glad there are people who stay in school, so they can quote derrida, so i don't have to, and never will, NEVER! i haven't been deputized to do that, if there's one thing in this life that i'm sure of, it's that - now, if only i can figure out what i HAVE been deputized to do - surely it's not writing this, this is practically analogous to walking the wheel in the turkish looney bin, left is communist, right is whatever the bright center of the universe is in that cosmology, allah is south by southwest and jesus's in utah with the latter day saints - maybe i gotta come back to the catholic church and get re-baptized and then eat the body of christ and get beyond the symbolism and have a religious experience of the kind the gaming consoles blocked by feeble emulation, then get confirmed, and then become a deputy for the pinkerton army

but i wandered in the rain, so far from my starting point, and left my vibisol parasol, and i'm all wet with vibes that i can't explain in significant figures or metaphor, and i'm smelling of mildew, a running on cog off the job, coding on meth, beautiful code that does nothing except sweep the odd numbered kitchen tiles on wednesday and bleach the even numbered bathroom tiles on thursday - there's interlocking permutations and many substances besides bleach which figure in to a pedestrian decimal place, just two or three, conceivable by the common person - there has to be a purpose in all this molecular profusion - things don't just happen, i can't wish that away, that things could just happen, and why would i wish that away anyway? what i wish for would destroy me, surely

and by "purpose", i don't necessarily mean something literary - maybe i just mean causality - even as the desire for chaos, confusion, and sense erosion is so strong in me - but i'm tempered and tethered to persistent architecture that's not exactly built on sand, there's just a lot of sand on the bedrock, and the bedrock may be on a fault line, but the big one is not reality, it's tomorrow that never comes, tra-la-la-la-la... the garden party just doesn't feel the same anymore now that it's weird to get high, and not weird in a fun way - it's not so fun walking to school and back both ways uphill, it's not like you kids today and your club drugs - it's so surreal that there are people who are, at this very moment, having their first beer ever, unfamiliar with the whole trajectory that's waiting, that i would have inked on me if i was into tattoo autobiography - my friends have drifted apart, to the four corners of the continent, and we're all getting older, and are y'all looking back as much as i am? i hope i'm not the only one with this nostalgia twitch, tho i know it's so unseemly

maybe i'll sleep innnnnnnn, til i get eaten by my dreams in the fuzzy shades of day