subtxt:

It doesn't feel real.

When you're tired of cancer, you're tired of life!

cold

cold - Cold. I'm cold. But I'm used to it. But I'm cold. Neither of them could answer, but that fact neatly describes a comet's orbit, it could be another tens of thousands of years out of sight

saying doesn't excuse - it wasn't meant to be, it wouldn't work, it's precluded - so thinking of the past is a pathetic fallacy and self-torture even if the present is sterile

A wave without a period ~ exclamation marks look happy - toothless satire - gumming nutri-chalk for vitamins and anti-depressants - i know where my towel is ~ skimming the depths of anti-deps - the ocean is cold

it's never been this mundane and habitual and anti-social and lack of novel - and thinking of the past is like suckling a pacifier topped with razor wire - time funnels toward the gravity well of my future oblivion - perhaps i'll die at 60, which means i'm late for mid-life crisis - one more lashing out against the cold, then acceptance, possibilities precluded - so what do i do then, to lash out? because i need to do something, it's a lesson i'm supposed to learn, the universe is saying, there's not going to be some catalyst that comes along, there may have been before, but you can't extrapolate the past, you can't believe in luck

mustard gas led to chemo drugs

Whisky. Neat.

the fantasy doesn't work, which i should be grateful for. Seeing things coldly. Knowing there'd be no point going back to the bottle, the euphoria far too muddied and fleeting, the consequences horrendous, simply delirium and a roulette wheel of wedges denoting damage and betrayal. But I still savor the sound of the clink of the icecubes in my head, the music of the tumbling liquid, stinging solvent, distilled beverage, neat. The terminology. The paraphernalia. Sobriety precludes, but still allows one to remain in a halfway state of self-torture.

Fighting pre-cancer, cause I got the leisure of not having cancer, it's just this life of leading up to cancer, the verb, the way of death, the fragile state of innocent cells doing their best in an entropic war of attrition, still loyal, for now, still able to withstand the toxic shock, smoke em while you got em.

trivialize existence

I will trivialize existence, because of my inability or unwillingness to power, like there's a difference. Oh, people think they're clever when they make distinctions between unable and unwilling, wielding semantic icepicks, why'n't'ya suck my ice dick? I'll insult the universe, every sentient being, before I die, a reason to live, I'll throw my whole country under the bus, because of my mythical Canadian expectation of vacation.

Bring the impotent rage cock to climax with verbal mechanics and mercifully diffuse anger back into a maudlin mist. It's as great a good for as many as can exist in this best of all possible worlds. Seems I don't have much to say to anyone after all. And when I get home, there's only enough energy to negate, then slump down plateaus, bumpetybumpslump til sleep. That's all anything gets, this trivialization. But it's not a trifle. Trifles are delicious. This is Beneke Fabricators ducking the righteous taxman who found the fraud, a dead planet that used to make things, acidified continental faces charred with fjords, lovely baroque feel though. At least I think so. And Slarti would agree.

Oh, celefrosty

Oh, the syntax's shot to shit, when it seemed to matter so much when I wrote down notes that are useless now. Muzzle the inner critic, unleash the inner loudmouth, else nothing gets done. So let it be written, so let it be effed. Because fuck you, that's why. Because blank, the new meme I've identified, sounding like a thing people say now, like "a thing" was a new thing a few years ago, and saying "nice!" instead of "cool", or "right on", is still a thing that seemed to start about ten years ago, that should not be used when writing historical fiction. I'm not saying these things weren't "things" before they were things I noticed, or they weren't things before in historical slang cycles, I'm just trying to keep track best I can. Because, hey.

I don't remember what I meant by celefrosty, which is too damn bad, cause the neologism seems half-pregnant with octuplets of potential heavy themes, but despite having given it some context, something about getting along better with losers, it still seems more trouble than it's worth to expand a semantic mashup archive, crossword-ize, and play the association game to pin down useful intent. Which's bullshit, because style. Shut up, wake up, get up and stand in the new style. Like doin' the hectrizm in 2009. Now my money's in soybean futures, and I'm pulling the mountain mint caprice out of my back pocket for interac e-transfer security QnAs. Wouldn't the meta-me-master be proud.

"I think there's a free Costco a bit further up the shore," I told them, the two fully-naked quasi-dykes, hopping from boulder to boulder, looking for food. Appreciative laughter. I joined in, not knowing why it was so hilarious, but finding it the most hilarious thing ever all the same. The idea of a free Costco. By the shore. As a recommended place for naked nomads to find food. Yeah, I guessed it was a good zinger. There must have been a free something further up the shore, and I was being no help in making jokes, but I guess providing some levity was a point in my favor. Not enough to keep anything together though. The diatomic molecule drifted into the distance, blithely overlooking a litter of ground scores, promising vials, trails of pills discarded by the pharmaceutically wealthy, baggies, some as much as a quarter full of something, no doubt something worth a bioassay, a blind experiment, a savory mystery. But I was suppressed at the moment, I couldn't bare to be seen examining things on the ground, not right now, even though this is where I came a night or two a week, where I went after sleep: on this particular occasion, the arrow lakes branch of the shambles circuit.

Further up the shore, at the base of a cliff, I ran into one of them again, now a single atom, in her element. The thing to do seemed to be to get to the top of the cliff. It was a real fuck-off cliff, bare, leaden, unfriendly to flora. Must have been that the big smelter was beyond the ridge, but the smelter built character. We got to the top, but then it seemed impossible to get down from any angle. I got out my phone, fearing we were surely in a dead zone, but I called 911, and if anything, the reception was better than anywhere. I was hoping for a helicopter rescue, although I wasn't quite sure how that would work. Ropes? Would they go to all that trouble? It would really drain the search and rescue coffers, wouldn't it?

It ended in death, not Trail, but an outskirt, Folsom Prison, Empire of Dirt, a spectacular wagon plunge from thousands of feet, it was never going to work out, was it? She was smeared across rocks, but I made it okay, riding out survivor guilt.

Or if it was that branching dream fragment, it ended in a Signal-Hill like series of cliff-etched steps that led down to the town of my dead grandma, where I was supposed to start some classes in their junior high school. Or if it was that, then it was this, the people stalking her house, me inside on my God Chair, dodgy relatives skulking around, taking inventory of the cupboards, Grandma's ol' lil' dishwasher, the perpetual super-frozen bucket of vanilla ice cream, the bugles and the first association with the warm smell of cigarette smoke hanging.