hail satan

and fuck servicemaster

it's just, it seems it's been so long since i hailed satan - thought he might appreciate a call

and servicemaster, i don't think i've ever called them out - i've been patient, and complacent - biding time, wasting time - feeling a lot more fortunate than i was - now the reality is catching up that i'm being treated like a dumb servant, paid chump change, and considered untrustworthy scum

thing is, i dunno if i CAN do better, but i can do better than to clean the boxcars of the leanest gravy train in town, even if that means being an immobile hobo, hell yeah - satan knows what i'm talking about - servicemaster knows nothing, not even their customers - it's depressing working there, and for them - don't gotalotta metaphors, just saying stuff straight out, cause i feel like it

sigh

a few strategies for comfort within a shit job now shot to shit, i don't even have them anymore cause they're cracking down on the extra minutes employees spend doing nothing when there's nothing to do - if i've got time to lean, i've got time to read a fucking book, there's only so many ways i can figure out to sift through a matrix of dust - you fucking idiots, claim-jumping my time after i've gone well beyond due diligence, which you don't even know - you think because i'm here i'm stupid, and barely human, and i might as well be one of the immigrants you condescend to - you're clueless that they see through your bullshit just as well as i do, perhaps better

but let's not stay negative - let's hail satan - he always brings me back up - he'll whisk me out of here, when the time is right - he'll pull some strings, i'll feel like a marionette, it'll be hilarious

just riffing on "friends"

it didn't mean as much as it sounded like it might have meant - not that it meant nothing - it mostly meant, i guess, that i associate the death of relationships with the loss, not only of my best friend, but all the other friends i gained through osmosis, and that's a bitter pill - i make that association disproportionately to how much i've lost in reality - but there has been loss - i'm sure for you too - and the thoughts of your suicidal thoughts haunt me - but probably no one's gonna be offing themselves anytime soon - and mere thoughts are not worth a reaching out, mere talk of suicide - talk's cheap, and even wrist scars are a dime a dozen, though i'd value them higher than OTC-ODs

a lot of muck of dreams though, and things churning in the swamps, dunno if i'd call them love but they're entwined with slimy tendrils, watery and dark magic squirming out of my control, i'm left sore and powerless

i'm not actually sure what anyone else might have lost - but lately, syd barrett lines are bouncing off the cave walls in maddening lattices - wouldn't you miss me at all? well, i can block the haunt with headphones, ghost voices aren't so scary when i'm blasting specific frequencies through my ear canals as a buffer - distraction only half-works, dreams have the last laugh - still i prefer those laughs to the cruelty of the self-reflecting mind on the fringes of sleep - that's when the ghosts devour me, that's the only time they can, albeit briefly in objective time, but it's so insidious how subjective it gets on those fringes, and how delusional flaws balloon to infinity - and molecules could be spiritual if i could comprehend their function in planck constants through megayears

noodling while the ocean burns

Rennie's Mill Solitude

If I was a hedge fund manager... I'd have it all worked out. I'd have the whole thing sewn up tight, daddy. I'd be wrapped up with a pretty little bow. The risk would be entirely deflected from me. I'd be completely justified in my salary. And somehow, I'd be creating jobs. And that would be an inconvenient fact for narratives in which I was on the wrong side of history, and an obstruction to sustainability. But even in the least flattering narratives, there'd be a lot of people worse than me, if you crunched enough numbers.

I never wrote songs for you in the first place

Not about to start now.
At least I saved some time
and more importantly soul
didn't waste any soul that way.

But I did waste a lot of time and soul
in other ways, on you, in the
"being with you" ways

but no, it wasn't "wasted"
and I never wrote any songs
that's a youthful thing to do
so youthful it's more perverted than true

Can't remember what I was gonna say... Just taking note of another banal fade out of a love. It fits the pattern, it's just a bit expedited this time. But still painful. Not being able to be friends. Why must it always be that way? Especially when my friends are spread to the four corners of the continent. And fuck your friends that were never mine by extension - mine were never yours either, you didn't want them.

Gonna write a lot of songs this winter though. Lots of things to sing about, lots of things lost, but it's perverse to sing of people. I'll write of selfishness and the ugly truth of how I don't care what anyone else is singing about, it's all looping serial tone rows, predictable variations of indie-rock-pop that is such sadly inflated currency of calculated quirks and contrived cuteness. I now know it when I hear it instantly, everywhere, music, even the good music, is worthless to me. Still, I want to make it, for myself.

the people need to lead

voting isn't enough, obviously - politicians won't "lead" people that expect to continue living the growth-fetish lifestyle that will probably make life harsh if not unlivable in future decades - the people need to lead by opting out of that lifestyle - people aren't gonna vote in government that forces them to change, government isn't gonna force people that elect them to change

lifestyle change... that's scary, but not as scary as the predictions of climate science and the hubbert curve - and the word lifestyle makes me nauseous but not as nauseous as the fetish of growth - i've got those tumours in me, though, obviously

there's a dark relief in cutting to the chase, intellectually, but i don't at all claim to have gotten anywhere near there emotionally, the proof being my ability to write something like this, still largely detached, but not enough to not write anything

Uninspirable

Couldn't do courier, much as I wanted to, too obnoxious a font for blocks of text.

Mundane miracles. Routine wonders. Hard to get a spike on any telemetry. A reading. A hearing.

The most natural expression is to say there is soreness, dryness, like tight skin around my lips, I dunno. The meaning of that sentence is like a hook dangling accidentally from some large and hidden machine I can't comprehend the mechanics of, that runs, or fails, on the skills of a maintenance crew unknown to me. I don't even know how there can be enough maintenance people to keep those things running, or why I never see them, or how they get by.

Bust out, then bug out, cause it's all so worthless, nothing moreso than your bust and bug cycle, useless to fellows. Food drive for the maintenance crew. Third eon iteration. Bearded baldie turned tommyknocker. Please let there be no will in this. Don't let me be free cause I can't own this shit. Let it just be noisy prophecy that's like a pile of dust in the darkness on the chasm floor thousands of feet below the tile that crumbled and Indiana Jones nearly tumbled in, because he stepped on the wrong letter that didn't spell out the name of God. It's still part of things. And the natural rebound of energy can cave in, and we can manufacture more soreness to join the legion of lesions, make lids heavy even when they should not be for fuck's sake, and beckon to dreams, make another horizon an event, waste, ablate, stymie

you and i and dominoes, i used to say things straight out, back when i could type, when keyboards didn't get in my way, when they seemed to know where i wanted to go, and i could hit the "o" key without thinking about it... oh, this keyboard feels misshapen, and for all that, this is a poor simulacrum of, see, there isn't even a word for it... but it's obvious anywhey, uhhl.

Beryllium

Looking for the words that work for me. Serenity, because it embodies what I need, and sacredity, because it's mine, I made it up. Tranquility because it's beautifully polysyllabic like a babbling brook running on life sentence never seems to end.

Momjam

I'm eating the currant jam that's been in my fridge door for two years, the preserved jelly from the 2011 berries my mom picked from the bushes below Hoover Street, that she canned and sent to me from Nelson, BC, all the way over here. "The toxicity of our city", I'll quote, and not not quote, because my culture is trash, my references are impoverished, and I'll just embrace that like a stiff board in subzero January.

Ignoble savage prose-stylist. Thank God some make use of leisure time with study and experiments yielding theories to advance human understanding, or at least applied science, that being, to technology, that I consume. We're all dead anyway. Maybe the world's careening toward the end, maybe it's not, but my life's gonna end, and so's yours, that's a sure bet. What dreams may come? Perhaps, in the soliloquizing between now and then, I'll find a way to accept blackness, and not need to have some dream to ease the perceived bleakness of that being it, the end. And should I manage that feat, at that moment, after such a long journey and eventual arrival at that edge, it will instantly become irrelevant, my acceptance or lack thereof, because suddenly, wishful thinking will have vanished from the equation and it could just as well be a new beginning because I won't be clinging to some pitiful scrap of the macrocosmic drifting celestial permutation that I insist is me and all I perceive and must exist otherwise nothing exists! (for all intents and purposes, as far as i can see)

January's such a beautiful sounding name, names really sway me, sustain reveries, bubbles, carbon-based heat-traps, dendrite-dependent consciousness... i can't edit but who's counting, who's reading? i'm reading george orwell essays - tallying sheep, art and concrete, washing the dishes of the lawyers who work as a team to wash the dishes of the litigious money-shuffling fuss-budgets who make possible the kitchen sink we all enable in a clusterfuck co-dependency with our unequally-apportioned specialized skill-sets. If I don't volunteer for early die-off, then maybe one of the useful people, who isn't swamped with requests for re-training, might be kind enough to show me how to do a little of everything, to get by without the power grid - it would have been wise to learn to like the earth and the outdoors and gardening, but I never did, even a little, I became this person I am, who is better suited to living in a space colony, set aside for the epic galactic arc, a prodigal return that involves the circle of hell that is plasma before a humble homecoming to the nomads where they happen to be after all that space-bound-time

there's still preserves of currant jelly, Mj2011 vintage, for when I run out of frozen and canned food, and I'm too lazy to cook anything, even though I'm hungry, but not too lazy to write. I feel good for eating the jam, at long last. It's a taste of home, and a reminder of mom.

Bismuth

Strung out on nothing. Automatic words like leftover radio signal from the northern hemisphere after radiological die off. Constellation of mixed messages, the medium in any case, entropic levelling out, misleading two dimensional mytho-metaphorical characteristic. There's a three dimensional manifold which expands indefinitely that makes these pegs they stuck in the ground pull in crazy ways and drag the fabrics til they rip. .

Should should should not sleep but sickness makes sleeping the only reasonable thing.

Should I save the world or be myself, my true defeatist self? cause not everybody gets a trophy, not when you get out of pre-school, I've come that far at least. It's only right and good and vile and beautiful that some of us succeed brilliantly and most of us fail and a few of us do more than fail, but fail abysmally, not giving up on bids for greatness in middle age like most decent mediocrities, but sticking with the selfish program and clinging to the gift-less ego grift. So at least there's the fact that I'm playing my part in the vile beauty ecology, being a preposition from which to be surveyed by heroes aeons in the future in a galaxy light-millennia distant, for a microsecond of fame.

Bronze Age can close, we got our antimony holdings cashed in time for the Mesozoic recast. Loneliness with the best quality people so close at hand. Platinum jewelry. Wasted plastic handset. For all the melancholia in Poland, it's still better than the chemical prepositions of the drug-drain. . Strung out on nothing is better than strung out on the evil powder planes with their vicious sharp edges and satirical state boundaries. Immoral porpoises.