Waif on drugs

sanity shatters like glass, melts, coalesces again

my syntax is not all there right now

i am being relaxed, although parts of my brain still protest in their shrill, shrieking, glass-shattering way, in their glass house, in their higher frequencies, on their shorter wavelengths

poetic algebra for self psychoanalysis, solipsistic morning, not going to drink the tea just yet

organic solvent resolved, oh well, i fainted in the shower and got way beyond myself, succumbed to my wilting frailty, negative energy, collapse - easy to collapse, i had no real reason to fight it

too slurred for truth right now, can only behold the routered gemstone of slur truth

how much is left to learn? how much hides in the heaviness of eyelids?

psycho seperated from somatic, mania babbles on to itself, on to itself, still itself, that running tangent - who left the tap running, is there resevoir reserves?

irrational not to ration at this point in civilization but the mania's too strong, coming on strong and keeping it going, a musical festival for 2007, yeah we'll still be around chewing our cud, fertilizing the pastures with endorphin-crusted neurons

possibilities and panic attacks, so many savings of terror, a terror surplus, armageddon happens in my head nearly every day

metabolic life-fighting neurosis is one way of thinking about that thing i can never name, but that's old hat and old school

laughing at my paranoid thought bubble - i won't rail my special prescription - oral could be all, an oral tradition of untraditional verbiage, untreated verbal roughage isomorphic to the morphogenetic field, causing rats to run strange patterns through the labyrinth that no one would ever recognize

i am getting sleepy, faux-lethargy, synthetic soporifia, sophia on the sopha singing my blinking body into a belonging sleep of the just, diving off the crusty cliff of must-have, must've-been, musty doings of to-be-done rumblings of rough and tumble life savings to be sick for the sake of the dao's darkside, to take a light saber in the forearm for vader's redemption

i was never meant to lead the crusade against anything, i'm ready to delcare a truce but i never made a white flag

artist automaton marches off to the beat of a talking drum - christopher denies being high in a jolting drawl but it's a good headspace for a mafia burial, plenty of room in there, comodious coma culture

now focusing takes work, and isn't that the perfect metaphor for this absurd unfolding of my life? how many wrinkly furls left to go? will i ever see the pattern? i guess so, beyond ego, in limbo...

quiet lifting of a cup, can't explain what it means to me, i'll probably lose all curosity about it later, no need to sleuth out the code, it only yeilds the key to one man's trashed treasure.

this cyclobenzaprine, it's quite reminiscent of atropine compounds and just about any sleeping pill.

got back on the horse, even had a new saddle tailored for my wise-ass

but i feel no responsibility to save the world, i didn't make all the mistakes, people who wanted power did

but that leads me straight into another grating duality - i owe a lot of what i enjoy to the cruelest bastards in history

yeah, i think my vision's blurring - i'm a bit out of touch - - - i still remember the heavens and hells my head has made for me - wow, they weren't kidding, this stuff does make you drowsy

i just spent about five minutes staring at the screen - the lower part - could barely make out any details - yeah, that's about all i want to do too - turned off the music, it was annoying - any music annoys me now - it's just not real enough. playing seems out of the question

stared at the symbol for number 6 ...

i don't beat my heart
my heart beats

damn, can't bring myself to write anymore - guess i'll just have to experience

Dead End

yes, let the dead dread end, let the end die, who has the energy for energy? whoever you are, expend, let's see your comeshot, your dead end.

no, i don't need another drink, no, i don't need fucking coffee
yes, i need to take a piss, i'll still expend the energy to avoid stinking pants

i'll still slouch and put off the dental appointment
i'll still show up to work and wonder
which is worse,
my dead end job
or studying to be an unemployable musician?

i can't commit suicide because too many people are attached to me
i could sever those attachments, but i don't think i have the heart to

but i want to become more familiar with death - if i had heroin
i might flirt with death, you know, because i don't want to commit to it just yet
but isn't that how flirting works? you ease yourself into it, till death is easy

i don't know what's wrong with me tonight, i took a turn
it's unprecedented
but it'll join the pile

maybe i need to stop fiddling around, find the logical end
but even the hard truths have become cliche, trite realities
yes, i could expose myself to the extremities, maybe beat a love of life into me
but it's still just instilling, installation, insta-bullshit

i should have been born a plant, any plant, odds are good i'd be one outside human cultivation/mutilation

i'm still a pile of chemicals, can't they be transferred into something that will appreciate? a chemical gestalt that will not employ the gift of life for florid whining?

what if i opted out? is it my christian past that gives the opt-out option the residuom of sin? or is it gaia telling me i'm needed? or is it plain old fear of the void?

i guess i still perversely feel a purpose in this life, i guess it's purposeful in a poorly maintained way to write this shit right now and continue to delay expensive dental care that is a waste anyway since i'm too lazy to brush my teeth very often - grammatically correct runon

hey, philosophers of the world - i DARE you to try and convince me that consciousness is a human-only phenomenon - go on, use your best arguments and metaphors - let's see if it does any good - if good is where it all leads

i'm just tired i guess, can't be bothered to find reasons to live when i'm uninspired so i resort immediately to suicidal hyperbole

oh, if you'll excuse me i have to go to work, i've whined enough but i don't care about whining anymore, i care about truth, and i am on a truth kick, kicking lies

damnit, now i just want to sleep - see, when i can sleep i can't be bothered to, can't even get comfortable, but when i'm not supposed to be sleeping, that's when sleep is at its sweetest, and i'm not yet hardcore enough to skip work to squeeze out the sweetest milk from sleep – oh here i am talking of flirting with death, and i won't even miss an hour of work! but i'm hardly a zombie, can't even claim that hardcore workaholic extremity, i'm addicted to nothing, not even writing, how do i keep going? what chemical is sweeping me along for this wobbly rusty ride?

poetry and virtuosity and melody swim beside me, sometimes i find myself in the waves, bounce off the reflection, muddy the water - haven't pinned anything down yet - yes i know, all the wise people say you can't - but often wisdom doesn't seem wise

why do i crave heroin? this is silly - it's more than curiosity - it's almost faustian, except without the hubris - i'm not a real satanist, i don't even believe in the bastard - i may never have beliefs, i don't even believe in the void - i believe heroin is real but i believe i've never tried it - no, this is stupid, heroin would just make me sick, a sick euphoria i'd quickly develop a tolerance to, and then i'd be a junkie, scoring to be baseline, and that would be lame and drearily sane and burroughs did it better in the fifties.

okay, i'm just lazy and weak, ground zero for humanity's flaws like they all got crammed into me, the elephant man with no dignity, morally bankrupt, simultaneously goody goody, how the FUCK can that be? don't know, but i feel it in saccharine paradox, a manic-depressive, both sides flavoured foul, clinging to words - i will love the sternography of my dead end - we've all got to go sometime - i'd like to control my end, grip the thermostat as i slip off life’s welcome mat, SELF MEDICATE damnit - but it's not my time yet, even if my organic neglect pushes me to opiated death fantasies - silly silly silly hypernuanced monkey, still with ideology, oh can it already, don't vote, you'll be responsible for electing another corrupt government, you really want your fingerprints on the ballot?

How'd I slip into second person again?

Shameful, this soliloquy - the greatest shame is that i have the greatest lover in the world, the one made for me, whom i often praise in generally inadequate ways, hoping my feelings fill in the blank, but it's scary to go beyond words, to entrust reality to the higher frequencies...

Slouching

Slouching Sopo Riff
after the night shift

He sprinkled sand in my eyes
and realized my dying wish
with angelic compromise

don't need to move my lids
arrested REM and memories
crust in airy-fairy dust
liquid fate to dream of drugs

chemical keys, my psychedebris
concentrate on lethargy
prisoner in paisley
pant leg rips further at the knee

someday the cliched curls will wrap around the spikes
wrap up all the mysteries, warp my geometry, solve for A to Z

someday all fantasies will realize
someday i will be a drug, some day i will fit a receptor
i'm just a pile of chemicals, they will be of use someday, nature recycles

quasi-life is good enough
better than my average day
saved up some perception
now i'm sleeping through the sunrays
circadian syncopation
off-life beating fetal retro
quasi-living limbo laying low
eggshell never meant to crack
surface sorry to succumb
i say it's okay, i'm here now
seesawing back and forth
had planned to send a cheque today
forgot to ask for more pay
doesn't matter anyway

slouching forward, thinking backward
way before the diviner's mint gave me a glimpse of plant consciousness
dialing, divining, diving into the vegenet, my human node exploding, splattering in gooey bloody personality, runny residuals of boiling built-up breakdowns, flat earth planes and brainlobe limitations spilling down the jungle canopy's genetic memory, happy birthday earth day, hey, it's Earth, father monkey saying hi to this honkey, gotta flee, got a flee on me, can't shake the parasites, they became entrepreneurs, crazy history, did Earth foresee?

Don't know what happened to my blood, I think it was replaced with a sugar-free substitute, nutra-sweet bromide indigo faux-royal, not quite blue, and my veins are tattooed with second-rate cells, and they form the obercell that is me when i think i'm higher than a monkey, tripping on modern history, hallucinating evolution, but the empire never ended, and Earth's reign continues, and gnosis is in the plants, as always, complicated chemistry, as complex as me.

When noise turns to signal, math arises, apes ascend, the cosmos starts to fit together till your perception catches up to your extrapolations, chaos has the final laugh, you wake up in the raspberry patch, you feel this fruit, quasi or no, good enough for me, soporiff reverbs the next phase, what lies ahead? Have fun guessing but you can't outwit the Sopo Riff.

But who would care?

In my world???

Counterpoint pains to irresponse...

i can't communicate with myself anymore - ain't got so much as a riddle - no zen clue - go fuck yaself, ya poor bastard...

Need some space

between the last few entries.



























.

binges and purges

I feel like i should be in a psych ward right now. My mom's gonna serve me some hot chocolate - she's nicer than the nurses, no shock treatments for me. I'm trying to stay away from certain subjects but shock treatments aren't all that shocking, just a little black humour, it's a good anecdote to genuine misery and dread.

Dez is having a hard hard time tonight. Her parents behaved in a shockingly tactless, perhaps even cruel way, although I can't say I have a complete grasp of the relevant events. I feel bad for her. Fuck that, I feel horrible for her. I feel her pain, she makes SURE that I feel it. She wants me in her maudlin movie, but it's darker than the soil of hades and its acid content is through the roof - it's eating through my stomach lining. I don't have a strong stomach, I don't want to be in the movie, I want to write a new ending. But I haven't got creative control. And now I'm getting self-absorbed because I can. Something to do. It's not about her anymore, it's about me. Cause this is my silly little blog.

I feel too bloody much, I'm starting to get the allure of zoloft and effexer. Sometimes I feel like I've connected to only the negative hemisphere of the cosmic consciousness, and I feel the world's pain without getting in on the good stuff.

It's difficult dealing with her particular nexus of pain, I just can't seem to lend a hand, and I don't like being roped into the pain. I'm probably missing some simple obvious method of reacting that would solve all these problems.

Problems, problems, brushfires... I left the door open. At least I'm in a safe space. Physically. The house is safe, it's my mind I'm worried about, the real cage. Its capacity to generate nightmares. Maybe I won't miss it, assuming the personal ego dissipates into a larger consciousness after death that isn't consumed with ridiculous anxieties and petty melodramas that seem so important, so omega, so end of the line, so fuck this i'm outa here, i didn't ask to be born.

Maybe this is what I get for alluding to suicide. Maybe when I alluded to it, with the sneering sarcastic tag "this isn't a cry for help", I was being a real dishonest prick. No, actually scratch that, I was just being stupid. No, actually, I was just sharing thoughts, like I always do, and one happened to be about Camus' "only important philosophical question". I dunno, life ebbs and flows. Life is beautiful, then it's not worth the candle. Then it's alright, I guess, then it's "let's ride this life thing out and see where it takes me".

It feels good to cry, it helps dissipate the pain through tears of shame - eye juices, ocular lubricant. But after all the tears, I'm still wondering, I could be recovering, even climbing back to life affirmation, all the while a thing to cry about is going on that would dwarf recent trauma. Well there's always shit happening all over the world. In the time it takes to sniffle in a breath of air, a hundred people will have been emotionally devastated, physically eviscerated. And somewhere in Scottsdale Arizona, some jackass in the suburbs won the lottery. I don't envy him though, now he has a lot to lose - what goes up must come down.

Haven't used writing as therapy in quite a while, I guess its utility increases inversely proportional to its use. Been thinking about seeing a shrink too, but there's still my personal stigma surrounding that. But a lot of people seem to get some real help for some real problems. For Tony Soprano though, I'd call it an indulgence. Sure, it would be stressful running a mob family, but when you make a living by stealing and killing and fucking people over, you don't get to bitch about stress. Fuck Mr. Soprano, and fuck his shrink too. Melfi's hot for him, she's just hiding it like a pro.

Videodrome

Me and my high school friend Dan once rented a film called body of Influence. It was "about" a psychiatrist who charmed his female patients into wild sex and sometimes filmed it. Yeah, that's basically the plot. One of the best soft-core skin flicks ever made though, in our not-so-vast experience. The brothel scene in particular was just right. Just erotic enough to add a little spice, not so erotic that it got tripped up in some artsy bullshit. Could have used a LITTLE more sleaze, but the underage angle contributed a lot toward the sleaze quotient. Apparently there's a sequel but we never got around to renting it. "Silk and sabotage" was pretty good too. That one had a fine asian chick and a foxy glass-wearing blond. Inexplicably, it actually had a plot. Someone must have snuck a writer into the studio for that one. Strange, I wonder if he displays the DVD re-issue on his trophy case?

Oh, Snapdragon. Pamela Anderson. That kicked off the season of skin. After that we were hooked. I actually miss the days when we'd have to brave embarrassment and rental counter ratings nazis to get our flesh fix. And it's not like we could actually jerk off to it, not unless we could sneak it home by ourselves or something. Oh I intended to many times, but circumstances always seemed to prevent the caper. So we'd fast forward the boring shit (except once in a while to linger over Pam's voice) and grin through grinding scene after grinding scene of beautiful soft core action. Yes, I miss those days, I'm so spoiled with this modern hard-core e-porn glut, I no longer appreciate the simple pleasures. Taping commercials. Movie previews. Young Korean hotties with jiggling shirts. Heheheheheh.

Ok, when did this blog turn into Beavis and Butthead?

-

Your first one is spent on the ground.

If it looks like a duck, swims like a ceiling tile, and quacks like a reptilian carport, it’s probably salvia

I’m a day removed from a super threshold experience. I have no clue how to sum it up. I wish I’d done some writing soon after, or recorded myself during the trip. I have to go on memory. I’ll try a chronological report.

My first attempt, which I’ve reported here, was more powerful than expected and suggested amazing potential. I tried a higher dose a week later, indoors, but I didn’t feel significantly greater effects. I did a series of extra hits about a minute or two apart. Each time I would bump up to a short peak like a little nitrous spike with a wave of anesthesia. There would be a loosening of all assumptions and solidity – increase in possibility. Colors would brighten, space would elongate, edges would sharpen, the floral pattern on the couch would grow, warp, suck me in. I would feel on the verge of opening a window or a doorway, but then I would return to a mildly psychedelic plateau before it got really interesting. It seemed the gravity of my personality and personal reality was still stronger than the salvia, and would pull me back. I could never boost myself past the threshold. I realized that I was just wasting the drug. Climbing gradually over the threshold was not an option. I had to concentrate the required amount of salvinorin in my bloodstream over the course of a minute. That was the ticket.

So that is what I had in mind when I began my third journey. I decided to trip indoors, in the afternoon, with the windowshade open a crack, on the same couch as last time. I had a friend with me who was acting as a sober sitter. He brought his bubbler. I packed its tiny bowl to the brim with 5x, then loaded a slightly smaller hit in my glass pipe that I planned to smoke immediately after pooching the bubbler’s bowl.

Bubblers kick ass, especially for salvia. The hit was very large, but the smoke was cool. I took it in easily and held it for what I thought was thirty seconds. I torched the bowl again and lit up what was left. Got some more salvia in and held it for less, then exhaled and went for the pipe. At this point I was feeling the fringes of the warp creep up on me, but nothing too strange. I flamed the pipe with gusto and hit it hard. Held the smoke in, noticing that I was starting to feel really weird. The gravity sensations were beginning. I had just dosed myself with an estimated 60 mg of 5x (870 mics of salvinorin).

The transition occurred halfway through the second toke and it was so rapid I didn’t even notice. I don’t remember what was happening during this period but I do remember whispering to my sitter that no, I don’t need a third toke. I was clearly past the threshold. I whispered a few more things, like: “holy shit”. Then my memory is gone. This black period might have been the peak but I can recall nothing from it.

My memory returns in the middle of some raging sea of mutating consciousness. It did not feel expansive, it felt constricted, like I’d been forced to occupy the headspace of something not meant to contain my new form. I felt like I was taking in too much information, and the unprocessable excess was spilling over into a physical energy I didn’t know what to do with. There was no question of doing anything though, the energy was doing me, changing me. I was the energy.

The change felt violent and intense. I can’t imagine anyone having a tranquil trip on this substance. As I was assimilating/being assimilated into the new paradigm, the oddest associations flung out of my collapsing core – an unrecognized memory of the backyard of my grandma’s house and a plastic tricycle subsumed into a duck-lizard on a spinning checkerboard landscape. Checkerboards, tiles like cells in a hyperorganic circuit, flowing, conveying, attached to something, whipping back and forth in a 3d figure eight. I was part of this manic motion. The tiles might have been scales on some vast liquid amorphous reptile, but the reptilian motif was part of the species warp which tied into a pre-verbal child-like nonsense thread that made perfect sense in the moment. I can't isolate any part of it, it was all a fuzzy bubbling gestalt with myself knotted through. On this plateau I was in no position to be able to freak out because I was beyond freaking out - far beyond myself. It was beyond psychological, it was a brutal dismemberment of identity and assumptions that attach me to my species, let alone personality. It was becoming a new life form, with consciousness forced to wrap around the novel angular contours of a non-Euclidean object.

My perception of the outside world was completely gone but I had a vague sense that I was tripping on something and someone was watching me. I felt impelled to communicate with this person because what was happening to my mind was unbelievable. It was impossible. It was inhuman, it broke all the rules. I couldn’t connect the state I was in with my past experience at all – it was ludicrous. I tried to speak, but the act was so foreign to me I couldn’t finish a syllable without drawing it out in a spastic moan. Then it would wrangle into glossolalia of its own accord. I was fascinated with trying to speak and hearing what I was saying. After twisting into jabberwocky and recognizing it as that, the jabberwocky itself twisted into some new language that seemed to explain everything. I’m told I laughed hysterically around this point. I do remember a feeling of enormous hilarity, like I was comprehending a cosmic joke. The feeling was epic, my self and life were only tiny fragments of it, and I was compelled to express it. Even though it was impossible, the attempt to express it felt ecstatic and revelatory and part of the joke.

It wasn’t the kind of clear white light above-it-all transcendence I’m used to from 5MeO-DMT and DXM. It was like being yanked into a parallel continuum that is connected to our world in subtle, intricate, and vital ways. Time was very distorted around this point. Not stretched, but meaningless. I could conceive of no beginning or end to what was happening. It was a place out of time. I felt less inside a room and more spread through a nonlocal field of mind. Physical space was a distant, trivial notion. I was totally disoriented – I had no name, no conception of what tripping was or what had happened to cause this. I did have a sense of body, but not a human body. My “body” seemed to be twisting into fluid shapes and words and concepts.

What I’m saying doesn’t come close to conveying the strangeness of it. I wouldn’t call it alien, though “extra dimensional” seems apt. Whatever it was I was falling into, or becoming, or being snatched up in, it had some vague connection with humanity, but it was like humanity was one small node in its superstructure. I later had the idea of humans as surface stubs way out on the fringes of a vast organic order, a pattern within a pattern, and consciousness need not be confined to the personal stubs we inhabit and mistake for separate inviolate entities. But the salvia experience was less like contacting the Gaian mind and more like having portions of my personal pattern of awareness scrambled arbitrarily throughout the larger organic order.

It was not like any other psychedelic experience I’ve had. It was far too bizarre to relate to any past trip. And yes, it DID have much of the character that other voyagers ascribe to salvia, mainly because of its idiosyncrasy. But it was nothing like what I’d imagined or could have imagined.

The room was blotted out by a sensation that consisted of all my senses put into higher context. Anything I saw with my eyes was interpreted in ways that bore no resemblance at all to its traditional identity. I thought that I was lying down with my eyes shut the whole time, but I later found out that a lot of the time I was actually sitting up and staring at things, the window, the room, the cat which jumped off the couch as objects took on lingual associations once again.

My thoughts began to condense to more rational, lucid, human-style questions like “what the fuck is happening to me?” I finally got out an actual word “BULLSHIT!” as the salvia’s hold relaxed. It seemed the only thing to say. Now it felt that my regular world was doing the pulling, pulling me back, hard. Like the transition into the salvia trip, the transition back was hard to pinpoint.

I blurted out a bunch of astonished “what the fucks?” before realizing I was coming back to something. The shift from visual perception making no sense at all to seeing people and tables and pipes again was rapid and jarring, and probably the cause of my unease and paranoia. It was not a smooth transition back. The mindfuck was still intense, and the confusion. I felt a heavy body load, extreme dizziness. I was back in my regular world, but it made no sense in juxtaposition with that five minute jaunt which seemed to demand answers. The joke was fading, I couldn’t remember why I’d laughed or what I’d figured out.

Now I felt a fear that is common to my trips which is that I’d perversely modified my perception and it would never properly re-assemble. I was stuck comprehending my world and the human game from a point of view that would never allow me to participate in or even deal with such patterns. The mental alteration was almost gone but the resonance was strong, and the physical heaviness and strain were not abating. I felt extreme difficulty in reconnecting with my organic niche, once taken for granted, now seeming ridiculous. I was not enjoying being halfway in/halfway out of the salvia state. I proclaimed that I wasn’t likely to do the drug again.

My sitter said something about “plant consciousness” and I thought “if that’s what plant consciousness is, it must take a LOT of getting used to.” But somewhere in the back of my mind, I was convinced that whatever I’d gone through, it had about as much to do with plant consciousness as a duck has to do with a floor tile. Which might be a lot, who’s to say?

Over the next few minutes I did come back all the way and my tension eased. I felt relief. Everything was alright. Except for the fact that I COULDN’T FUCKING REMEMBER what was so damn important. What was hilarious. What I’d been trying so hard to express. Five minutes later and it was all gone except for a vague sensation of… something. I asked, “What can I possibly learn from this? What good is it?”

In retrospect it felt like a delirium – but it also felt real, like it was something important and substantial, cotangent with ordinary awareness and waiting for me to join it. But it’s not something that fits easily into human standards and assumptions and modes of perception.

I can say how the peak made me feel, but I still can't say what the peak was. There was a visual component to it, but visuals were not the primary information conveyed. The experience was more about the mindfuck. But it was not psychoanalytical in the way that most other psychedelics are to me, and I like that about the mint. It didn’t seem to be very concerned with my issues, anxieties, superstitions, paranoias, hopes, and dreams, except in that difficult period of re-integration.

Bullshit is still the key. "Bullshit" is the only artifact that I can confidently say is part of the heart of the trip, that crazy core that is beyond my understanding or recall. I think what I was calling bullshit was not the trip itself, but everything ELSE - what was happening to me seemed so out of the bounds of everything I knew as a human being and a personality that my universe was rendered utterly unbelievable in the sense that I didn't buy it. It was like I couldn't believe in the human game anymore. Salvia was the sacrilege sacrament for the monkey ego trip.

It seems that when I finally broke through I might have gone too far to take much back with me. I might want to try for a middle ground. But I can see that maybe what I experienced was too much for my brain to process - whereas some people CAN remember, understand, encompass, feel, see, and explain more. It may be that my mental design specs can't handle an alteration that severe. My personal version of perception may not support a salvia peak, like trying to view a 32 bit color image on a 256 color monitor. Maybe further experimentation will help me figure this out.

The Sour Lining of Nirvana

Scorched goody flesh on a goody torch. Dark princess lights farts. Anesthesia lifts and the opiate taste returns: it’s the sour lining of nirvana and it’s goody goody good – too good for me. When I come to the sour lining of nirvana after spiking redbulls, it’s hard to see transcendence through, to the enlightenment that’s so close I can smell it.

Upper, downer, allrounder. Woozy from zen stink, pubic hairs crisscross the bed and I retch again, sugar-loaded sperm-stained love-monkey safe in a Motel 6, feeling round for the dust in the corners, dust that must bring my saccharine trip back to grainy relatables, tables and constants, things I know what to do with. But all I know is I feel sublimely sick and the maidwashed walls hide nothing. Well, let’s get waffles.

What do you do with hyper inspiration / poetic perspiration in a crowded Kansas diner in the morning? Nine-to-fivers sizzle in the killer sun and I’m not used to having words at my disposal. I see no disposal anywhere, they must course most coarsely through an aching orifice, stretching specs past design with lining constricting the mind. I play the squeezebox game for cryptic kinetics, movement number four, presto digitation, manual labour of love-dread.

I haven’t been a poet in months and my wrist is getting sore from writing this down. Forearm tendons throb the echoes of omnipresent koans at hand wringing ethereal clenches, choking the life out of life itself. Dao grates with a slick lubricant penetrating cheap bliss, breakingthru – rich sleaze.

I’m afraid any moment mania will consume me. I’m too sane, uncomfortable with madness. I’m too aware of awareness, revelation makes my shaky head explode, knocks the cardhouse flat. It’s all or nothing for me. Mickey doesn't have the answer. Let’s go back to the room and hypothesize that if our supreme understanding was flowing out of the rocks and the trees and the TV screen, and the motel walls with their Mr. Clean sheen, everything would be set right. The Dao would prop up mania with rock solid foundation, Gaia’s synthetic verification, but so focused am I on the imperfection of imperfection, I fail to see that the truth of perfection is in what I’m writing right now!

I create my own sour lining, I ache because I’m alive. It’s folly to be fulfilled. I’ve lived a rich life as a pretty lazy petty paisley artist and the culmination of the subgenius is this laughing exegesis.

Politics wait while I piss out the logos. Political animals are on the way, carnivores coming for me in my moment of calm, a urination moment where everything is everything. Time no longer ticks. It flows, like what the philosopher peasants called the Dao, the Dao, oh here we go, flow, with the grand old Dao, just like Lao. I’ll be sweet and wipe the seat after admiring the splatter-pattern.

I’ve missed the finger that points at the moon, I’ve actually been living. When I wake up I appreciate the dream. Sacred flakes off to real profanity and how does Lao-tse survive? Somehow history gowned him in the Emperor’s Garments but I see them draped across the ages.

Cup of life overflows for an epic slur and I’m still hung up on the coatrack of enlightenment, Mickey Mouse coding through my synapses, codeine flowing through the bad-boy bloodstream of bliss, might as well be heroin in synthetic life drama, chemical messages, electric signal, biological information… is this what consciousness is? I need to see deep to realize how shallow it all is. When I see life as a game, why do I feel so serious? I puke the Dao out of me, regurgitate ancient philosophy, Shiva in my pocket, ripping at the lining, alcohol gone, codeine leaving, lining tasting sweet at last in stark relief.

Political animals have taken over the zoo. We make shoddy myths when we watch CNN but one day they'll become magic mantras and mythological manna. They'll set armies marching, more of them, a link in a chain of genocide. The dry-drunk president of the free-world will resonate fractally in future events as a sociodynamic something or other, we can’t extrapolate from this crazy vantage, mired in bloody mercantile history, unable to agree on the sustainability of SUVs, chasing the value of fluctuating currency, punchline spread through slices of time.

And I'm on a poetic ego trip, felating my own enlightenment and cackling at its absurdity, dopamine to the last drop, drowned in divine mania. Words are madness, grotesque intoxicating madness, a deck of cards arranged like a house, a simulacrum of thought, a mockup of feeling, crumb of reeling rocking rolling rhyming ridiculosity. I'll lose myself in words, the proper venue for mania, disappearing in the menu of blanket gravy. I’ll be sure to enunciate 'til every syllable sparkles in crisp, high-definition redundancy, polished pixels of syntactic intent, read to a roomful of perked-up poets who will appreciate – oh egogodme!

I'm on fucking fire, filling this notebook to the brim. And there's my partner in crime, sleeping through my mania. I feel so scarily loaded, I yearn for what I imagine is her misty hippocampal retreat. I wonder where the plumbers’ yearnings went. Woke up this morning after a Walmart cocktail and found the external brilliance of genetic imprint slapping me in the face, roping me into a sadomasochistic fuckfest, impaled on the maypole in a forty minute solo, wanking off with the world, giving Joyce a run for his literary lexicon.

Ring ring riff reverb burbs burbling along the deja-thread, you’ve heard this before. Isn’t this a cycle? There are finite possibilities but existence could be plural. Life is a loop but we can sever the string, shrug off the quest for the Dark Tower, chill a little longer in the Motel 6 after the notebook has been filled and find the interdimensional portal in the shower during the exploration of a new tantric sexual position: Oh Me! Oh You! Oh Doorway! Was this here the whole holy time? How’d we miss it? Wait! Is the phone ringing? Riffing? Reverberating? Better answer.

I guess I am maniacal but that is just a word. I’m addicted to writing. I assume I can put the pen down any time I want but will is an illusion. Still on the ego trip and feeling philanthropic. Everyone can bask in this ego, bathe in my light, there’s enough to go around. Good people, savor my good-hearted sarcasm, imbibe my sophisticated yin rapscality!

Do you mind if I open the windowshade or is it just a shade of hallucination? Is my actual circumstance wobbling on the street in front of a Denver comedy club loaded on tryptamines babbling incoherently to a smirking cameraman interviewing me for a David Cross DVD? Probably not but it’s fun to imagine such gateways through reality’s plurality. I’m going to milk the mania for all it’s worth, exploit the natural high which stems strangely from an artificial hangover low. Perhaps Red Bull really did give me wings and will ultimately drop me on the Manhattan streets when it’s exhausted its amusement at my arbitrary mania – and I will pick myself up off the ground looking for a crack dealer to keep me flying, higher than Christ in a Scorsese flick.

The cat manifesto

Don’t make light of my bond with my cat or I’ll kick your ass, you heartless bastard. Cats are for everyone. Liberal and conservative, Christian, Atheist, Satanist. They bring us together. They’re a natural resource. They reflect our comfy delusions, our pwecious pwettypwetty projections like mammalian holograph plates.

When I retire from this bullshit life and collect my social security, I’m going to become a crazy cat lady. I’m a guy, but I’m not one for convention. It’ll be a good way to go out. Chilling with my twenty cats. Gradually severing my connections with the human race. Babyhatah, hatin’ the game for good measure. I will learn to be at peace with my position as a scratching post and provider of food. Catfood – it’s not just for seniors anymore, it’s for cats too! I’ll cat my life away, the spice of life hospiced with morphine drip and feline dreams, forgetting what I was in death and the jungle in the sky.

Lemon Slice

Back in the Cave with a citrus wedge, a sour edge.

Why am I here? Not to write, certainly. To exist, I guess, at baseline, spasmic typing, spelling unchecked. To shuffle again. To write another list. Not a to-do list, but a doing list. Some verbs. I don't like the black of this blog. I think it should whiten.

I could try and go for truth. Political truth? No, I'm not a political blogger. I am often political, instinctually, before the sense of duty that is a density of ethics purity, and we all know how dirty pure is.

I wonder what it would be like if this was OFF RECORD? Funny, some of my greatest writing has been off record, but UNKNOWINGLY - the future held some record shredding in store, and I wrote on, blissfully unaware that I was feeding a void.

Listening to Liszt - Mephisto Waltz number 1. Led astry again by the devil's fiddle. But there are unignorable shifts. I've lost the insatiable appetite I used to have for classical piano. I binged, burned out. So aesthetic embers glow in kaleidoscope layers. So adday adday adday. No exclamation.

Still haven't learned the rules of the game, syntax of life, code of mind.

Still waiting for the miracle. I have drugs, I have miracles at my disposal. But the miracle drug route. Well, just thinking about it sent a shiver through me. Thinking that I could conjure miracles from a minty smoke if I so desired. That's what will is. Leading to obliteration of control, possibly. All in good time. For the self-subverting extra-orbital affair. I'm prepared. As I ever will be. Which is not at all.

Salvia-blogging

It's maybe half an hour after I smoked a "test dose" of an extract.

I still don't feel quite like myself.

I wonder when I'll return to normal? If I never do, I think I could live with that.

Absorption

I guess I'm gonna have to commit to blogger now - like a reluctant husband. Because this is what people are reading now. But I liked message boards better. I'm not sure I really like this little cave all that much. Maybe I should adorn its stalactites in frilly paisley drapes, if the matrix will allow me the privilege. Blogger's not a pleasure to navigate.

My writing impulse has been on a severe wane for months now - my words are slowing to a trickle - no great thundercrashes of prose, no epic poems, barely even any modest ones. Is it because with all the music projects I have no time for verbal inspiration? I don't know, I kind of miss the writing. But the idea that I used to aspire to a technical perfection in writing weirds me out - musical technique is hard enough. Getting all your syntax straight, getting characters fleshed out, getting the plot untangled, getting to the fucking stripped down point and remaining original besides - fuck - maybe if I had another lifetime ahead of me.

Maybe when I reincarnate as - well, you know, there's no writer that I could comfortably become in my current incarnation. The only writer I would want to be is the version of myself that is repressed inside the cage of laziness I've allowed to grow around me, atrophied talent, letting the best ideas to rot. I would have to be my personal potential if I'm going to be anything. But does this voice really have anything to say? My revolutionary stance has remained basically upright from the days when I first developed a social conscience, but back then they were my own conclusions arrived at through original observation of life and people. They've since been reinforced by the angry lefty complaints, more informed and articulate, I've come across since, but I think they've also been corrupted by a propagandistic slant - I can't tell where my voice begins and the shrill chorus ends now.

I've been absorbed somehow. Not sure if this is a personal weakness, or just the natural process of the hermit cracking the shell. Because although I've gained a lot coming out here, it also feels a bit like a sell-out. Can't be the great zen tree falling in the forest anymore, but now that I'm heard and sometimes even actively listened to, I realize I'm too entangled to say a damn thing without being compromised and hypocritical, and failing to wrest words from a daisy chain of influence and confluence that stretches past the event horizon. That's why the future is in riffage probably. Intellectual property will disappear. The artistic greedheads will find their meme-hoarding an increasingly ridiculous and socially-unacceptable endeavor.

Okay, there's some words. Jaunty-neutrality. I'd say I've still got some brain cells left to rub together after all the DXM peaks (no sine-waves in the dextroverse) even though I'm drawing upon the well of cliches to state this.

Nah

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

I should have said no.

Iraq

Whatever happens in Iraq, the Bush cartel will easily spin it in their favor. If somehow Iraq actually acheives something that resembles democracy, it will be said to be a total vindication of the imperialist landgrab as halliburton cleans up on reconstruction and america's "enduring bases" continue to rise up all over the desert. If it turns into the taliban does babylon, which seems the only sensible projection, then the Iraq people will have fucked it up themselves. "Our brave soldiers sacrificed to bring them freedom (at the low low price of 100,000 dead and a totally shattered infrastructure) but they're just not ready, poor ragheads. They won't accept the gift."

Faithful and Dangerous

Some people don't like the idea that religion is dangerous. They'll say, religion doesn't kill people, people kill people. You can't blame the spanish inquisition on religion, it's bad people who did that. But what about those PEOPLE who tortured "sinners" in the name of God.? They knew for a fact that people who disobeyed the dour man in the sky would suffer beyond comprehension in hell when they died. So what could they do but torture the sinner in the hopes that this extreme duress would compell the soul to confess? Or something. A moral obligation for a humanitarian of integrity. Not a very well thought out idea, but also not a suprising conclusion for a "man of faith" to reach in that situation. Christians created the ideas that would allow normal people to behave like deranged psychopaths. The logical conclusion of hardline christian premises end in the thumbscrew and the rack.

Maybe religion is dangerous. Christianity anyway. Or maybe it's just organized religion that is problematic. Organized religion - organized crime. Is there a difference? Of course, there's always a few people every year who go on a killing rampage because their private spirit/devil told them to. You don't have to be organized to be lethally deluded. But you do have to be organized to pull off the spanish inquistion. Or convince a townful of folks to burn a witch. Or topple the government of a middle eatern country. You'd have to be very crafty to get that done.

But people who say religion should be banned are way out to lunch. Next they'll be telling us we need to ban drugs too. Imagine!

Mold

Thanks for shopping at Fuck Your Town. Nice to see you back, brainscraped on aisle 43 with no synonyms left for the intangible tumour that swells in your system, suffocates you slowly. Scanners indicate you’ve still got thirty canadian dollars in your pocket. Pick up Snark the DVD on your way out, it'll leave you with some laughs and malnutrition, Southparkian substance, flabby anarchy.

Really, who wants ideology? It's uncool, punchline of politique's self-parody, passé. Reality's what you can get away with, so let the adbuster platitudes play out, smearing into meaningless streaks as the mindshield wipers work hydraulic magic, sufficiently advanced technology.

Your petals of prose that bloomed like a rose now droop over with cancer death, cobalt sixty side-effect, decayed gray progeny of the human distillation, dissolved in the tincture of civilization. Urban weed in gutterbird ecology, organic solvent resolved, pet ether with a pet purpose for a pet shop, interior carbon-dioxide cow. Feed the machine, snap-to-grid like ivy climbing the concrete cube. Laugh at the hazy glow of inner-light lunatics if you can find those soap-crate crazies anymore. They’re not in the DVD extras.

Streetcorner Bill, Bill of the Will still bumbles around in the mud, stumbling bodhisattva bum, blubbering pompous Dionysian poetry, unafraid to be cliché and wearing trite splendor like an old hat as you stare into the sun of a Strauss crescendo, vintage Clarke transcendence. They served Hofmann's Elixir strong in 1968 and visions never topped 2001 in human mythology, Nietzsche benighted and benign for cinema, also sprach the VALIS fool. People who fiddle with their heads too long eventually come to believe they can get gnosis from a pink laser beam but there's no science behind it. Just the point they arrive at eventually, portal to the padded cell, full circle, white-walled nursery to white-walled comatorium, still an alien abduction.

Put down the nostalgia needle and keep your eyes on the road. 2001's in the rear view mirror and Apollo’s old hat. Not only has third millennial man walked on the moon, he's circumvented the man's record-industry monopoly to download digital music for free. A bold future chimp, are you sure you can handle it? The epic responsibility, making hedonic history? Today, Napster, tomorrow, Alpha Centauri? You're not going to pay for Metallica tunes and nobody's going to pay for your education, not that you want to invest in your own brain anyway, what could you ever train that lazy traitor to do? Thinking is about all the silly sod can manage, in feedback loops returning to the ideological end of the cycle, ideological music and art, directing your arabesques of inspiration into profane political kabuki choreography, self perpetuating like a wormy parasite for pragmatic concerns, like slimy survival mechanisms, like you've gotten with the winning team even if you won't attend the pep rallies. So take cover under the missile shield even if it's full of holes and thanks for shopping at Fuck Your Town.

Nice to see you back again. Footsteps fail to reverb recycled air, it’s thick with supplement, over-correction, you can’t hear yourself, can’t see yourself in anything but trick mirrors that accentuate new threads, Nike brands over the void because you've exhausted your metaphors for sloth and gluttony. The zen of shopping is the finger pointing at the bargain bin. Buddy, you're in the bin now. Beyond Zen with a capital Z, sizzling over the bacon fat horizon, outside the audible range of roasting cattle. Meat still has purpose, nevermind the metaphorical junkyard.

But you cannot petition the market with prayer. See the contours of an elegant system swirl into spirals of no alternatives, progress from feudal kingdoms to industrial revolution. Live in layers of cages for sanitary transactions, sanity, civility, except when it conflicts with your fix. Your fix is wanted, needed, good for business, trade, commerce, fits into the mold, another potato chip split in fifty sub-flavors, explore the possibilities as they explode into fractal subsets of MSG-frosted snack-bliss.

Personable pattern emerges from the natural paisley landscape, a hand reaches out from a sleeve. It's Mr. Pattern, Your Royal Representative, R. KS, Republican. He wants to shake your hand and you want to take it, feel the power pulse through the skin. You never thought you’d swoon for this cheap rush but then, you never thought you'd put on a KRPM radio shirt for the jumbotron when they whisked you out of the crowd and told you they'd upgrade your seat for a brief endorsement. They didn't call it whore class, Mr. High Class Whore, they called it the bling ring bleachers with high per-capita celebrities. And when you got there the smell of money was dizzying, the rush rich like a conqueror’s spoils. So you told the crowd you listened to the station. You never looked back.

You can hedge your bets by voting for the electable candidate as you indulge in your activist tantrums but you know the politician is paisley. They're all paisley, cut from the same cloth, the ornate pattern we putter around in ourselves at the fringes with our petty power trips, base pyramid games, selling life insurance. The paisley is political, just like you. You can't stay mad at paisley. R. Kansas will fight for you, get you a better deal at the bargaining table for you are of his constituency. He deals with the pirates so you don’t have to, he’ll lower your bracket’s tax two points, maybe three. What will this cost you? Only a double digit cut for the top tiers in tandem, a reasonable ratio for the 10x elite. Mutual prosperity, see? Spend your new money, Snark 2 is out on DVD. Luxuriate in the frills.

And the hand that reaches for your own seeks out the mark of the mark, branded, bought-and-sold, beckoning you to an Italian Dinner. Are you pumped up? You've been bumped up to manage the middle, the middle management, where pasta’s spiced with pesto and the cars are roomier. No need to connote negatively and badmouth the Utilitarian Mafia. The Waste Management Mob’s running the country like a business, taking out the trash.

Paisley, paisley, life is such beauty dear gods in the pattern but why the spikes? Why red in tooth and claw, is the negativity necessary and natural? Why the comparisons to piracy, why the feeling of being taken and inability to reconcile clinging half-heartedly to moving middle class goalposts? You loved the Jetsons but now it's time to jettison utopian dreams you gobbled up like candy - should have stuck to wholesome cereal kiddie. But oatmeal can’t compete with fruit roll-ups.

Emergency sell-out kit behind door number two’s guarded by a three-card-monte submarine shark. Trident missiles are for high stakes empire games, asymmetrical warfare. They'll let you eat cake and drink coke, your one concession to the sweet taste of material, brain tonic. Crack is for hard cores, a druggie's drug, omega, and you're too alpha male to think of the end. So thank you for shopping at Made in China, your reactionary patriotism is adorable, civic pride so last millennium, retro culture kitsch.

The DEA's got your town jittery, poor paranoid peons watching the sky for chem trails, mind-altering shit from the CIA, man, triggering acid flashbacks left and right, the hippie’s achilles’ heel. You are peaceful and you have no weapons but they’ll still plant the rebel base on you.

Some poets would like to think the rebel base is in their coffee cups, paradoxically thermophilicly thriving in the sweltering vitriol of poetic presumption, that inspiring righteous fire fuzzed so well by the shifting enemy and banality of evil. Fractal artistic defiance makes all confining conventions blasphemy, the outer light is for lamers, if you haven't got the internal torch aflame get with the program, Kootenay über Alles.

To be fair, fair trade is a fair start. But my boycott's bigger than your boycott - oh the vanity. Let them drink coke but hype the organic alternative. The hippie mafia is novel at least, support your co-op middlemen, it beats taking orders from Sicily. Small fish tycoons could argue they make Kootenaystan the paradise it is, and if you aren't in paradise you haven't smoked your entire ration of nirvana manna yet, the herbal staple. You won't blend in with the weed and fungi economy but it's okay. You're just a goblin in Hobbiton, a troll in an enchanted valley, and if you want to practice black magic go right ahead, just so long as it doesn’t hurt any of my friends. But your money wires down veins and criminally-cloaked arteries to armored hearts in florida, the bahamas, the big apple, and we sense indirect effects on our more driven brothers with their never-ending questing for the bling.

The Fuck Nelson parking lot gets warm earlier, they've got a spring-generating machine on the rooftop, you can see it from Gyro, they turn it on in February, it irradiates employees but that's only a surface cancer, easily treatable with a skin lotion that just came on the market.

So pick a card, any card. Choose your poison, apply for the position. Craquepipe Banquerupture, debtor’s prison behind door number three, double or nothing, get out of jail lottery. Doesn’t matter. The new apocalypse is as old as the nuclear option. Nature red in tooth and claw. This time we die for our own sins. Human sacrifice times six billion under the sizzling diagonal rhombus demon. Jesus H. Koresh, what are we doing this for again?

Synthetic virus out-humans humanity with hostile efficiency, phase out the precursor body, an ungrateful host. Rolling up Faust’s well-oiled conveyor belt with an alien buzz and terminator gene, conjured into the pool by guilty technocrats following vague dream biddings from nature’s impish avatar many ludicrously label Satan, collective punishment prophecy seeping into mythology, gestating into reality, armageddon’s money shot spurting three months of mayhem.

Windchimes sing a stuttering song over the dark porch of an abandoned suburban castle during a flaming summer totentanz. Fungal infection of the Aristotelian tower – business as usual. Visigoth graffiti over ivory – textbook history. Plato’s penthouse seething with snakes – business as usual. Golden ratio twisted out of shape – hyperorder. Tree of knowledge rotted to the ground, gnosis spread - mold on god’s bread. 

bringer

i want to sleep

i want to rhyme

i'm not a winner
i don't play the lottery

i'm not trained
to hunt gazelles

omnivorous simian chews silicon
omnivorous simian chest silicone

you're out there
surviving, staying
where the money is
the heat-vent of thermodynamic civilization
stay stay stay where the money is, let’s see you
on the cover, cover girl, cover the cover, the top forty

let's listen to what they call a sellout,
let's dance to the sell-out song, let's synthesize the rest

no rest for the wicked though, no
not that damnation ever attained
a cinema verite credibility

after a gangland shooting in a catholic church
and a warped run to the japanese river wharves
in the post-apocalyptic future, like it's all preview premonition
like i dunno, pick a bible, any bible, point your finger
assign your sanctity, your sanctity
yeah your fucking sanctity, profanize, before my eyes, my prize

endearing mafia mandibles moving in rhythm to a terrorist's totentanz tarantelle, nuclear suitcase booming, blooming into a city's mushroom cloud, maybe mine - assuming i must die for the reverence of the real, as if nuclear war is real, a real possibility, isn't it really trite by now, abandoned bunkers and superterranean real estate 

thank god (a prayer)

thank god there are smarter people than me

taking care of things

thank god there are experts in the control rooms

thank god our leaders know what they're doing

thank god our god is compassionate

thank god, thank god, thank god

thank god my news is pre-digested

and my bacteria can't digest the synthetic information mainline

cause then what kind of freak would i be?

god, but what of daoist salvation?

do i want to become one with the pain chaos?

do i want to become one with the chaos pain?

do i want one to become with the pain chaos?

but what of daoistic stuttering

but what of thank god for daoistic stuttering

thank god for static fractal noise sputter stutter stallacticle syntax and dyslexic metaphors for dialectic superwhores, and stardom of rainbow color crayon trim raining down on the paisleys of daiseytown from the sarcastic snot-dripped fractal of r'aison d'etre, like sarcasm hanging from a jawdrop, loving the lovely lard-slathered letters run over your tongue like the thing that should not be, like lovecraftian exchange rates for the cthulhu unit of love and void and the reason you played, spirit, concoction of everyone i've ever mainlined met and loved in politically incorrect ways, like loving my enemies, and taking my friends for granted, but not to the desperate dead dread end, not that that's anything but a gleam in HAL's eye, like i'd sweettalk that cold robot into opening the pod bay door for me, penetrate his synthetic walls like the most devoid vacuum yinfucker... you know those yang space ghosts coast to coast - we're a race of chimps or at least we were - now we're getting too weird to know what to call ourselves. That's what my novel, Original Sin should be about. And the reader can decide for themselves what original sin could mean, it could mean a billion things of course, so knock yourselves out, it's a fill in the blank meaning underline, a plaything, the ending of a paragraph.

Geograph.