exhausted

Contingency

What to do when someone says it sounds "tinny"... as they will inevitably do... as everything you touch turns to tin... beautiful gleaming tin but nobody likes the enamel... and your warm is their cool... and your cool is their warm, except where it would help you... is to accept the fate of being tinny, and go on about the business of transmuting tin from sub and supersonic signal. Import, never export, and amass til you drop from sheer exhaustion. Which you thought was imminent, but look, here's a fifth wind, a hollow howl crossing zeros, never transactions, just manufacture for in-house sequester.

coffee crisp insanity

frog on a log

waiting, waiting
Waiting. (is the convention), waiting:

for someone
to make something
interesting

of course, it seemed like things were on the brink

of pouring, but then it became clear there was merely a drizzle, soon bone-dry, like the wit of a wet blanket survivalist

i know, i can't be waiting for someone - i say i'm gonna be the change i wanna see, but that was just cloud talk, man - i mostly talk in references now, but a simpsons reference is extra cool if it's left uncited and we all just know it's a simpsons reference but don't mention the fact, just treat it like a public domain figure of speech, like it's flouride in the drinking water. Hydro-metaphors. Drought seasons.

Until I get a phosphorescent concresence of artistic essence, I'm going to mention things that are real, I'm gonna get real on ya, and raw, like a radio pirate lounging about in this makeshift booth, and say that I'm driven to type words lately, but I'm out of practice.

Also, on the subject of real things, to paraphrase a hundred mile-long trail of inoperable drone-struck analogies, I'm hoping something delightful and unexpected will suddenly come out of the blue, in the form of some one showing me there are ways to be I'd never even known - as such things have happened in the past, but not for a long time, so long I stopped believing in miracles and even drug magic! Ah, oh, drug magic, fairy dust, angular momentum, ketaverse! But I'm so open to fucking up some shit, or fucking some shit up, for I have drunk of the kool-aid, Oh Yeah!

But I can't do much with this fetid fated state of lethargy, I need said theoretical person to make a thing happen, whereby I can be energized, regain old faculties, synthesize never-before-seen ones, generally 'n fundamentally be an all 'round down to earth post-human 21st century schizoid. So this is what it's come to. This is where life begins, at abortion.

aw, come on...

...I mean, Come On! Stop letting it drift away til dreams are routines, drip-dried residuals, to-be-mentioned sediment, evaporated sentiments frayed in dull ways, unraveled in happenstancical trash receptacles like thrift store threads...

C'mon, come help me fuck shit up! I mean, in a way that goes beyond words, and text, and talk, although certainly includes all those things, could start with those things, if they led to flesh colliding. Make a space available for miraculous rebirth of tha fonkey fonkey sheet, a miracle that will be taken for granted years later.

C'mon! I'm fucking bored, it's like everyone I used to play with are now small parts, isolated and destroyed. Who's pussy d'I gotta lick to get a drink in this joint? And I'm just talking a chilled nootropic here, nothing incriminating. We have the technology, and humans on the other end, to make things a lot cooler than they've been for so long I can barely remember.

What good is all this wizdem, if it feels so good to die today? And it doesn't even feel all that good, just good enough to be a noticeable draft, a sucking wound in the fabric of space time. But that's what I'm saying, man, I'm saying that it needn't be this way. Like there is a solution, but I'm not thinking about the one for that one problem that I read in a venerated book, rather I'm cracking open a different volume. To, I guess, write, cause it's so blank. Maybe, eventually, airy abstractions will add up to something of substance, crystallize salt of the earth from ether.

Like, for example, premises. A sequel to Carlos and his battle against the self-aware thermostat, or was it stockholm syndrome in an abusive relationship with the thermostat, or was it good natured sparring, or just a chess game, just something to do to pass the time in the endtimes bunker foreclosure. Good thing the thermostat wasn't superintelligent on top of the sentience. But perhaps sufficient company to nurse his final days via crackly speaker, to make a hospice of a home. Die comfortably, and maybe not with dignity, not externally, but that seems increasingly irrelevant when you've got the prophet eyes, increasingly blind, but in a little stroke of benevolence, the universe let you keep your vision at 20/20 in a family of ocular defectives, until it was no longer a vanity - internally rignified, red carpet royal road to the middle limbo, analgesic fuzz pageantry, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

It's choked with reference, it's a humble gravel farm access road with pebbles of reference - no citations, none of that prickly goo - just the clean dirt that they have in iowa, and a bit of the dirty dirt from a texaco restroom. They drilled for a little shale bonus zone of hypertext.

The Articles of the Free Dome. Are you hugging syntax, or bugging grammarcrats? Flogging dead Finnegan. Come on, it's all right here, ready to go, I've got a pile of kindling, tinder, timber, lumber, inflammible carbon-based fuel. Massive energy ready for release with a spark I can't create on my own. Don't got the edge, never did. I always relied on other people, to come on and help, catalyze my kind of fun. Metal on metal. And then flesh, and then metal again.