buckets of love

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check out the graveyard
ants eating your aunt's eyes

it's hard to be stoic
when there's nothing to live for

in the frozen fish corner of the supermarket
pronouns will be her path to glory

magic fader

once i conjured synesthetic braille

i didn’t have to try very hard

colors were tasty, contours loved me

vonnegut hated me

then i drank a bottle of glenfiddich

and had the best drunk of my life

a literate drunk alone

posting poetry and replies

spinning, nauseous to a

spiritual hangover

when penance didn’t hurt

now it’s different

now there’s more channels

and most of them don’t work

but i keep my finger on the magic fader

stay to the left

and you’ll get through the maze

i love my magic fader

i love my magic fader

it is my favourite fader

because it’s magic

there is no magic anywhere

except the fader

that’s why i keep my finger

on the magic fader

i got a magic fader

smells like a magic marker

it is a lucky charm

it only works on me

i wish it worked on you

i love my magic fader

i love my magic fader

it is a lucky charm

it keeps my fingers busy

this is how we do it on creek street

this is how we like it on creek street

it used to be like this on stanley street

but they moved on to bigger and better things

and he gave the lease to somebody else

some earthbound family, not the cosmic family

and i would invite fast friends from the rotwood porch

into my corner to play with the magic fader

it was not my fader, it was our fader, we’d have magic parties

that would fade, but there was a picture of a mixing board

on the fridge to remind us of the magic fader

that might have some earthly avatar

in a studio temple in the mountains

across the lake

stay to the right

and you’ll get through the night

i got a welfare cosmos

i got a welfare co-ah-ah-ah-ah-os-mos

pharm-fresh filling up the cavity

we'll call absence substance tonight

kootenay snow in the sinuses

state boundaries make good riddles

empty heads make good rattles

good nexus makes a good nexus

i got a welfare cosmos

i got a good deal

take it with a grain of salt

and a gram of soma

this is how we do it on creek street

this is creek street welfare

galactic information warfare (sic)

every good boy deserves fentanyl

~~~

i’ve got nothing to say

the pungent lines i wrote two houses ago

have gone rancid, cerebro spinal fluid, perishable

but i have the gall to make them look poetic

tomorrow i’ll weave them into a fugue

for geese and clouds

aphex to take me out

meadow soprano was right
you have to learn to block stuff out
unless you want to be insane
unless you want to be insane

can you blame these psychotic suicide case columbine kids?
it’s all the mercury in the fish
they’re just like their neurotic parents
i have so many flavors of craziness and depression waiting for me
so many desperate attempts at synthesizing a life
life after burnout, life in the middle age, life begins at 40
so many role models
can you blame them?
it’s all the subliminal messages in the television programming
it’s all the lead in the paint

medical technology
can tell us how advanced our disease is
i’m a connoisseur of disease, all i can write about
the scab i’m subsumed in

all the recent downloads
are diseased
and everything is bullshit
everything i write, everything everybody else writes
music is pointless, drugs are placebos
and everything is bullshit
except aphex, why is it that aphex always works?
when i’m feeling desolate, aphex somehow makes
desolation and desperation feel right
beautiful, selected ambient works volume 2

i WAS looking for a drug, but not just any drug
i wanted dramamine, cause hedonism trips
aren’t working, but sleep always works
like aphex
i’m drowning and the house is on fire, is it?
good for the house, i’ll take dictation
hear it in the hallucinogenic toreador
and i love drammies, and i love dreams
and life is so cruel to me lately
people hate me, or maybe it’s paranoia
but dreams and aphex are good to me

cassey clarke the paranoid mutant - we live under the sea
she just got through with them, but is she through with me?
i can't see from here

key lime

at the end of a swoon
pixies giggling around the corners
at the end of a swoon
wanting to cry, not being able to
swooning for the fairies, flailing

how much is paranoia, how much is reality?
what can one say? how down is baseline
how much deeper could i go,
sinkholes in your kitchen? call 555-


karma suppository, antacid dissonant base
it's taking too long to hit rock bottom
i don't want a faith healer
i could believe in her lips

my doing

she thought i could handle it
but she was wrong
i couldn't deal
with being left
we'll start this off with a raz reference, i guess

now we'll provide some space






because she goes well with the void now
feng shui is a bitch
and i'm curled up in her corner
on pharmaceutical sleep


i never know what to do
when i get paranoid
i don't have mantras
love to, love you
i love you
and that's alright
i came out of a mountain pass in a video game
left part of my brain on the apartment porch
i don't quite believe what i'm told about blacking out
but i wish i was back on the beach
i wish i could have kept the good vibes
those vibes that justify love
i don't know how to act
in such situations
i'm not a lover
but i'm a lover of love



i could hang on to those souvenirs i bought
sell them, whatever
i'm not interested in maximizing meaning through open-ended metaphors
i just didn't want to plainly mention
the american cigarettes
cause plainly mentioning things
brings unmentioned assumptions, in me, in you
and plainly mentioning things
also brings unwanted realities
like the stupid things i do
to satisfy stupid transient voids
like those I don't want to be apart of
and i'm not that important
and it's not that important
just a fragment, of me being upset tonight
and interpreting things
in a downward spiral i might term a feedback loop
one of those things

i have no friends when i'm this deep in the void
no one knows what to do, they can't help me
need expanded
to undefinable parameters

not sure why i'm writing this
or maybe i know and don't want to say
what i should do is shut the fuck up
and wait for my mood to improve
but i don't know how to improve it
so writing has become one in a series
of desperate measures
this is desperate measure number eight
the same number as art bell's experiment
the one that failed to heal mckenna's brain cancer

indulligent

vistapro
rendering

interpretation
when you can't just perceive

i wanted to ask her interpretation

not as coherent
writing very profound seeming thoughts/feelings
in little out of context poetic fragments
as it would be if i was giving context
straight explication

but, there is also music, sometimes
give me geekdar
then it will fall into place
the scales of justice

how to disappear completely
become invisible
at your beck and call
but an unneeded servant
but i fucked it up
to provide a poetic fragment, of no use
which radically changes the context
but what use is that?

still the weekend
still traveling

bounce off the cold vibes
find the warm i guess
i nixed the idea of comparing notes with a fellow paranoiac
who's more chronic than i am, would hate to be this paranoid all the time
i'm blaming it on the greenhouses, and the dao, both of those things
inability to face
victor consumer
of the chili cookoff

Innocence.

I'm trying to build up an immunity to life. The 35,000 dollar chord progression will be sufficient. Royalties with mudhoney. Figured out a pop aesthetic I suffuse with the sneer of sly sophisticated sarcasm.

Burning eyes. Borrowed time. But I'm not counting the days.

Guilt is poison. Give me sixty-four Sammy years.
I will declare myself innocent.
Innocence is possibility.

It's good to know you. Better than the void.
Baby. Baybee...
It's only teenage wasteland.

I think we integrated, for a moment. It was nice. But I can't take it seriously. It's a situation comedy. It should have an upbeat theme. There's a time for life and a time for living, the choice is up to you, my friend. Sometimes you gotta go where everybody knows your name.

posse pose

we talked outside the coffee shop

it flowed, and when it didn't flow it showed
and that was alright, silence wasn't that awkward
but tense, sexuality seeping from
unintended double entendres
in a way that might be perverse
in stickboy, meters from the kerr apartments
clay's ancient base o' subversion

(master o’ la menage a trois possibilité)
that scorching hot nelson day
when it seemed global warming was catching up with us

we talked about traveling, the bourgeois passtime
slovakian tourist traps, prague
when i saw her in real life, beyond the blog
white cotton straps baring
summer shoulders, a plain of skin
jittery already, and i ordered iced coffee
robyn's recommendation
a friend at the shop i hadn't expected, at least one

we talked about meeting
under the pretext of art
dates, art therapy

she invited me up to her house
where she reclined on a chair
i didn't know what to call it
it was like a hammock chair
i noticed a book by the bed
recommendations
she's read them all
and what have i read?
what car do i drive?

--*--
lynze wouldn't slap me
finchy, buzzed from AA
rapped with us tonight
we R'n'B'd the vote


i'm still with the luxury of style
the style of unfiltered
the style of reuptake inhibited innocence
the style of saying i'm
"i'm"
to give context
to say i'm not trying to maximize meaning
and personal interpretation
by presenting fragments of poetry
such that anyone can see anything
no, it's me here
saying cigarettes should be free
for a pass



mojito bacardi
alcohol travelogue
i'm an easy loser
thus far


everyone's the one
i approach those foreign faces
with a molotov mixture of love and lust

the church of jesus christ of latter day possibility

i'm not spent on love yet
but i'm close, and it treats me like a druggie
leaves me with contempt, for myself and others
listening intently to aloof blond psychics
in a carolina writing room

listening to the hoochie
who is telling me that girl is trying to get over me
let's not make algebra of it
and reduce it to the smooth equation
of the rough and tumble reality
of the fact that it is simply the void
that is hurting me, in the void
i look for what i had
novelty does not come to me, anymore
novelty is in a carolina vibe
no wonder i crashed off that
so high, so low


i will succumb
as long as i can write
i will succumb
that's why i write
because i succumb

to temptation...;
as if you didn't know;

happy poem

tampa - old tampa - industrial park, tritronics, threepronged logo, mortgage warehouse, iris, cafe con liche, sandwich cubano, suz hypnosis, nurse's voice, soft-serve, 1926 houses, eighteen cats, sublingual b12

stuck in reality, the novelty of reality, the reality of novelty, the novelty that reminds me of kansas, walgreen corner that reminds me of corning street, paper money that smells like cocaine, drab money with a tinge of purple signaling a bold new era, imagination on hold, nothing new to add, nothing to be but a point of comparison

i'm always a lurker, except during indecent ego-trips that never get crazy enough, george costanza's opposite day sounds good to me, maybe one day i'll do opposite day, when all the variables are right, when the nelson nexus forms again, when lightening strikes me twice, when the second time's the charm and i don't see my face in the mirror anymore

destined to be eternal, a truly divine pranque when i'm waiting for the dao to manufacture a new flavor of potato chip, a seasoning that reverses polarities

godspeed, one parsec a second, happy poem delivered to dead cells by mercurial couriers, except for like, apostrophies, praying for a future caste, miner of asteroids, don't have it in me to be a mechwarrior, too many tattoos that you can't see

drink like a fish

hydrate, dillute the poison
and stop short of the goal
hydrate and embrace physical pain
as superior to mental pain

physicalize, doc said

gingerly

naked slash \\
\\ --------

// --------
\\
pretty much broke the ice last night
debauched -- it's morning in america
jack and jenni's
not a fashion show
unless you want it to be

asdf lkjh
sdfg ;lkj

easter baskets
creeper corridors

sjfldka;

lifeboat
drammy rations
sufficient soporifia
hazelnut drowse for the demi-urge, half-gnostic
room for error, sun-drenched, graceful gravy, amputech

everybody's cool on the lifeboat
drifting past the god-glorifying speedboat
subtext is visible

i remember the power jacket
i could wear it again
and walk around carolina
might be a life vest
for a dead-weighted mind
leaky, bound to drown
despite the buoyancy
of these strange and beautiful creatures

haze and horizons
photographs, clear conveyance of fading significance

Svalbarð

there will be laughter, again
receptors will receive, again

what's with the maritime metaphors this morning?
i don't want to know because i'm sure the answer is mundane
answers usually are
gonna write my bogus memoirs of a viking career
on the porch of svalbard station


when you learn enough about suffering
you turn to the six strings

~laptop~ rave on the breakfast table
incest on a macro scale
tryptamines in an altoids tin
i've had enough tagging along on shopping expeditions
to last me several lifetimes
no music day, no meta day
bastille day without the connotation of decapitation
depose the panel frames


neo forgot about the soupy goo, he's real now, a real boy, keanu

toxin tea
xtreme chai
javamonster
same strip, different state
different people, different idioms
stimulation

cross-purposes
suppressed possibilities
wave wavey wave wavey wave
literary retreat


(oo)

new york

i was mostly me

insecure, alone, independent, bold in that fateful dream way, what else is there to do? no knocking, just approaching, like everything’s a desk with an aloof and vaguely threatening clerk

alternate life, a bit younger, newer, more capable, more future, naïve but ready to rise to the occasion, of finding myself, for some reason, enrolled in a downtown manhattan institute of higher learning, touring the massive-scale density of a contemporary urban edublock, various dorms with names like a cross between a shambhala camp and a toronto subway station in garish neon green timesquare profile lettering, but classy, designed by sly american psychos – checking into my dorm, prior arrangements made in subterranean networks, fiber-optic nursery rhymes, solemn child nodding, running into my cosmopolitan roommates like a ripple in loony dreamfate, fractals and butterfly flaps from the other side of the world hitting this contemporary provincial kootenay entity in the capital of the world, new york – being here for the start of classes, intense julliard level education, was i ready? i wasn’t sure, but i was here to take the challenge, so i had the vague sense i’d better get down to the office and officially enroll in the classes i was supposed to be taking, motivation to flow with fate, it’s the only thing to do, despite feeling alone and apprehensive, a babe in the silicon forest, a realtime nanogrowth of the naughties

remember being out in the crowded narrow streets at night looking for a party – the bars – spotted este there, in some guise, amid hipsters and scenesters – then there was this girl in some snowy rural upstate area, in the coming spring, that i was on speaking terms with partially because she was not a beautiful scenester, but a beautiful person, and i kissed her, and laid her down on the ground, and i wouldn’t mind more dreams like that at all, they keep me coming back to sleep

trips and dreams, it’s been an active imagination lately, but also the ebbs are so deep – have my slow-acting happy pills kicked in yet? i don’t know – the first week, feeling wired and giddy was probably placebo, a real boost, but i saw through it soon enough - i need a blatant physical chemical stimulation to really believe in a drug, although i thought i’d felt that on day 2, i guess my mind is pretty suggestible, but not indefinitely, unfortunately for certain transient happy delusions

the beer didn’t quite have the effect it was supposed to tonight – maybe cause i was stoned too, and too-analytical as usual – too stoned, not quite drunk enough to overcome the analysis – poetic moments, REAL feelings, DEEP feelings, a piano improv i might as well have called magic fader… so i guess i’ll take a drammy and embark on a quest for justice… dreams seem the final frontier for thrills, and for being the man i’m suppose to be – dreams are a refuge, even after all else has been corrupted – hope i’m not too stoned to dream – read a report on erowid tonight about the dull delirium that drammy engenders, like your life is a painting you’re looking at, stripped of morals – tropanes are good sedatives, says crystal g

i actually worried tonight, i’m craving a drug, any drug – well, you know, alcohol does that – or i do that to myself – i guess i’m lucky i can get high on all kinds of things – as long as they’re alkaloids

i bought advil today – liquid fast relief – brand name liquigels

one day
i will be perceived
telepathically
in a necessarily nostalgic photograph

smelfplay

Sometimes I like to stay away from the baseline world for as long as possible. And I had lots of ketamine, so I got into repeated dosing and on a plateau, not able to sleep, wanting something. For want of a woman, I thought of smoking salvia – hadn’t in years. Could barely remember what it was like, just thought it might be worth doing, so I did – and had one of those breakthrough trips, shattered the mellow that had whimsied the idea in the first place.

I was at my computer during the flash, mostly just sitting in my chair, slack-jawed. I tried to write as soon after coming back as I could – the feeling persisted enough that I could translate some of the trip, far better than on previous attempts. My notes were serious no-bullshit attempts to get across that thing. I’m hindered being a writer, beholden to art and ego. Literature can corrupt raw experience. I tried to be plain and honest in my notes, and leave the poetry for later.

-

I’m holding my toke and counting the seconds. Accidentally exhale at twenty and think I’ve blown the hit. Then I realize something’s different. I think okay, I guess this is the trip but everything’s the same, isn’t it? No “visuals”, but it’s using what I happen to be looking at, my knee, my rug, my beside table to the left and pants crumpled to the right. This is what salvia has to work with. So it’s saying, what, this, you’re part of this? This?

I’m spinning and realizing “this” is just painted on a wall. Vague sense that it’s because I smoked salvia but the overwhelming feeling is of reality coming apart, the issue being that what I felt as normal and real was dependent on an arbitrary collection of sense data now seen as a painting. “Silly paint, dreamed he was a person”. The joke’s on me, I forgot I was the wall and everything “that person” represents is what I can sense in the visual field and my own body peripherals. I can see the edges of my red jacket and left arm. Also my mind is filling in an image of my face with my black toque on, so this accurate self-image, in conjunction with the bedroom floor in its current state, has become the painting.

I’m spinning and my sense of identity has shifted to null-space. I’m being pulled backward and outward. This is what salvianauts mean by “gravity”, a pulling on the mind, the rug pulled out from under me. The painting on the wall seems arbitrary, why that and not anything else? It’s silly and shocking. Some vital part of consciousness associated with “the self” and “what is real” has become unhinged and confronted with the void. It’s not a void exactly, there’s something there, echoes, ghosts that live in the cracks between dimensions. I’m hearing the chorused voice of an amalgam of minds, no neat separation. Parts of myself are chipping off the painting or combining with other parts to smear into the collective. The collective chatter is noisy and not entirely unified, but vaguely conveying something like: “hey, actually, it’s like this”, a sly twist, strong yet subtle, cerebral yet bedrock. On past salvia trips, I’d thought of those anthropomorphic, eerily communicative energies as facets of my subconscious, but “smelves” is a perfect term, being a play on elves and selves – entities straddling a dichotomy of artificial categories, alien, human, cartoon, playful, wise, in bright primary colors, an external method of living, a place consciousness was not meant to inhabit except by mythic creatures, fish out of water, pigs in space. I can’t call them malevolent but I can’t call them benign. They’re creepy and sarcastic.

I’m spinning and the pulling feeling accelerates, more of a peeling. The paint is peeling off the wall, sometimes in scales or tiles (the lifting of a group of personality traits / visual associations). There’s an undead feeling to the painting, it’s coming off like a skin. It peels in every thought and frame of vision, not simply in direction but in the dimension I only sense with salvia. I’m being invited to ask the self that peeled off a rhetorical question. I know it will solve everything, it’s on the tip of my tongue but it won’t quite come. It’s hilarious that I can’t explain it, but it’s too serious to permit laughter. It’s telling me “The very point of this pulloff is to reveal you as unsustainable, impossible.” This is the one thing that does not fit in my reality, it’s the key to ontological demolition, the essence of what I must not accept to go on living. How can I be alive to witness it? What is dead? It’s about animate and inanimate and breath and time and wet and dry. There’s an irreconcilable conflict between two worlds. My field of vision and its associated objects is a child’s drawing, and the idea of there being a person in there is perverse.

I’m spinning and being told to look at that perverse person. The pulling/peeling intensifies with each rotation of the existential tableau. My former self is a series of body parts, bits of me or wholes of me from various angles and surrounding sense data in peripheral vision and blind sight, red-arm-jacket, hand-behind-back-with-lighter, knee-crumpled-pants, knee-rug, subsumed in an escalator mountain spiral circuit, spinning salvia scales, an aesthetic unit. Each “scale” is a personified pastiche of self-fragments seen from outside, shoulder with tan face like a cartoon character from some obscure central asian filmboard, the next “step” in the escalator my toque/neck with a fleck of red-arm framed with chains like a swingset. Imagine a top, fused with a staircase, fused with mount rushmore, fused with myself split into a classroom of confused children. Although it feels inhuman, it also has a sly sophisticated social consciousness, a super-intelligent personality overlaid on a conscious crack. It has vast implications but it’s of the micro moment, eternal but infinitesimal, ambassador for the voidoids.

The “other” is watching me become aware of this interdimensional membrane, and saying, in an amused, almost cruelly mocking way: “See? Hehe.” It’s asking me to just try these tiles, just try them, I dare you, ask them a question – like it’s not something that would have occurred to me in ordinary consciousness, to address these scales as people, but now I realize I can and must, or I’d be denying a revelation. So, as the spiral escalator cartoon version of myself comes around for another cycle I address its spinning scale-steps as people. They’re conjunctions of self-identity and what happens to be in my field of view at the time. They have faces, expressions, but I no longer see them as aspects of myself, they’re too weird. I see them as entities who live in the cracks between myself and whatever alien chaos exists in the mental vacuum outside. So I say to these things, hey, look, I managed to step outside something, do you see? What does this mean?

I get the idea to tap the red-arm scale on the shoulder, so I do. To even think of it as a thing that has a shoulder is like doing that to, say, a nondescript spot on the rug, but I’m tapping on each of these scales as they pass upwards and outwards in their cycle, startling them. They’re saying: “what the... I’M ALIVE?! I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ALIVE! YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ALIVE! THIS ISN’T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN! HOW CAN YOU DO THAT?” I’m talking to myself at this point, in two alternating voices, like “Yes, there you are… What the fucking hell?!”

The scales are spinning with a speed and angle that is not entirely parallel to my salvia gravity. So in addressing them, it’s like I’m peeling them off their spinning self pastiche cartoon and dragging them toward my gravity. I’m sticky with my questions, and what were inanimate components of the bedrock material of reality, either physical matter or some mental construct, are becoming confused peoploids peeling off their peripherals. They’re becoming more than the hallucinogenic characters I imagined them as. Latching onto them with my address is granting them life, making their bizarre personification a reality, and it feels incredibly, mind-blowingly REAL, like HOLY FUCK, this dimension actually exists! And I realize that peeling these peoploids off their reality is creating the impact in their world of a salvia trip, ridiculous, indecent, perverse, shocking, cruel, hilarious, and their gravity, their normal rate of cycling in the spin, is being slowed by my sudden unexpected perception. My awareness of them is grinding their gears, throwing their whole operation into chaos. I’m thinking perpendicular.

So this is what salvia does, I think. Although that doesn’t seem to have a lot of meaning in and of itself. The thought is like the launching pad under atmospheric haze back at Cape Canaveral. It’s like the crease of the fold, I know it means something but I’m not sure what, like yeah, I smoked salvia to cause this, but this, what is this, what was that? What is anything?

The insistency of this feeling fades after a few minutes, and I become aware of myself as a whole. I keep saying “Holy fucking shit, what the fuck was that?” Maybe five minutes after the dosing (impossible to tell) I decide to focus all my energy on remembering and describing the trip, which immediately brings me “down” to a functional level, but also keeps the feeling focused in memory for a good ten minutes afterward.

The first thing I write is “okay, something serious just happened”. I go on to write that “some system exists between dimensions”. The rest is notes that I turned into this report. I’ll have to do it again, but I’ve already forgotten why. The feeling is gone, there’s just words.

Salvia is sufficiently advanced shamanic technology. Not that it has no psychological/physical explanation (the two would need to work in tandem, meeting at truth by tunneling through opposite sides of the mountain) but any explanation of what causes the self-peeling feeling is far beyond whatever understanding presently exists in psychology and neurology – or at least in my understanding of that understanding.

Basically, it turned my mind inside out, inverting sense of self and what is “alive”. The self that existed within the confines of my body became alien, undead, and what had been alive and “me” was outside that strange cartoon person. My mind was in the crack, the void, the room, not just in the sense of physical space (“physical space” seemed two-dimensional, a painting) but some mental dimension outside my normal way of thinking – like before I’d necessarily been a solipsist, thinking all that was “me” was locked inside the head. Now some formerly unknown outside meta-me was pulling a prank on that narrow normal one by switching places, having me confront the “outside” I could never believe in before through a rapid chemical process, mockingly transient.

Although certain metaphors and themes occur with frequency, overall I’m amazed at the diversity of experience people report. I guess it demonstrates either the uniqueness of any given mind, that the trip differs so greatly from one to another – or it shows how difficult it is to describe/analyze/remember, if everyone is having essentially the same experience, but in the telling, they all sound like separate worlds.

Existential is a good word to use. Upon being “peeled”, my awareness is left to confront a field of vision and all that it “means” – the associations that make up my human delusion – from an external perspective, the void outside my head. Suddenly, the me gestalt is rendered arbitrary. The most absurd thing is that I’m still physically locked in the gestalt, I can receive no information beyond the capacity of the body’s sense organs, but my awareness seems to have moved outside the body, to the “dead” world beyond the head. But the salvia reveals that what’s outside my head isn’t dead exactly, just a kind of consciousness I can’t normally recognize as consciousness, or communicate with in any way other than cryptic kinetic chaos.

I’m not sure what effect being on the residuals of a k binge might’ve had, but I suspect that mindset helped me analyze and remember more. I could ease into it, flow, and not fight the trip. I was still shaken to my soul, but it wasn’t as mind-blowing as it probably would’ve been had I been sober. Although in that case I probably would’ve “given way to astonishment” in McKenna’s words, and not questioned what was happening or interacted with the trip. Doing those things allowed me more insights.

One thing I can say, inter-dimensional travel is a good way to get the mind off sexual frustration.

corn syrup

It don’t matter, Then evereything mattersssss

ohk

this is ridiculous…

comma, comma, comma,

burn, burn

yeah

keep the fires burning

yeah it’s wrecked, but the opp
ortunitty still lives, livs, lives in these
conneccions
if you kin
rock it kinda slow kinda easy
getin better one more?
i asked him – i’m grime!? mine?
not sure we won’t know until the full
assessment has taken place in due course, so it’s gonna fall into certain holes
predictable, and if your very fortunate, you can engineer a footprint for that powder hole ----- she likes kootenay snow, i like kootenay snow in my sinus cavities, yeesh. it is indeed easier, but i forget which side of the clock i’m on – well, k&d will show me where to go

i’m one of the retards

one of the flashes

one of those neurons you lost

blue girl

chewachewachewa

part of your brain
maybe you’ll find it again in a double stacked apple
happenstance providence sleep interrupted girl interrupted
tryptamine therapy? i dunno man, tha machine elvez be gone and what’s in between?

well the crustzst crackZSX is where everything is
where you can find every hole every hollow every low
all

ultimate… --- I’ve fallen short of lilly surely, but thank God it is what it is, it wants to be a demon, half-lid, being whatitis, yeah, melthoughtslikthis, that’s what you get… in the creekslurrs, that’s what we’ve got here for you…

ok? OK

as long as there’s k
and everyone
becomes
on
the
same
point

well,
there was a hole for you
you found yourself pretty well there
what else do you do at 2 in the morning
with 2 more days to work
dissociation is sometimes worth the money
but it’s fleeting, in the way it interacts, well that
gives me leverage, arbitrage? at the very least
anaesthesia, cause no one’s up – two thirty eight
at these ridiculous hours… … yeah why not k binge after a hard night at work
let’s call absense substance… i wanna get back when i forgot i was in a
family of the universe that sort of thing following energy streams, peelings, purpose,

what am i working for?
root 5 position? hey – we got the structure worked out
i’m not going to try to collapse your face in
the cracked happy and unhappy accidents
it got dented for sure, but for christ’s sake’s, merz is
inspiring me to ring my ringedingding
i’ve got the powertools for krysth’s sake
it’s the uncomfortress if noise


Lessen
and leven
yes, jack, like that, you’re flowing and following unfortunetaly.
disperse the vowels, you want a consonant?

all the pipes are leaking
my thought fluids
drizzzll dezberrry…. it is important that i write this channellleled zen ;libne rfight biwq –soeey – damn

that’s how it went – an exit strategtegsasfyda./

thump

thymp

thump

thmo

succumb

Fatalism in my genes. Writer's block. Cockblock. It's nice to laugh. I can count on a few when I visit Robyn. So I guess I'm going on the trip. A sense of unworthiness. Why should I worry about worth? Is anyone worthy of anything? The questioning animal. The domesticated cat in her natural habitat, the sun-warmed sofa. No Jonesy, you can't come with us, there are fewer monsters here, you'll be safe.

Coffee, black and sour. I've succumbed to many things. I will eventually succumb to everything. A soporiff on a platform. These aren't metaphors, folks, except for the one about the mandible. I should know. Long black veil in my head. Nihilism for dummies. The Ballad of Mr. Awesome. The very region for happiness. Ebb and flow of energy. Which few did you have in mind, sire?

No sense putting off looking at the clock. Otherwise I'll be playing the guessing game for an hour. How many hours still to work? Sometimes even the "conservative" estimate is optimistic. Fragments - I won't say sacred. And I shouldn't be writing cause it just makes me want to sleep, even though I've slept enough. What is enough? I won't say "no end in sight", cause I don't want to upset anyone, don't want my negativity to rub off, I need it more than you, don't want you to take it the wrong way, or the right way.

How soon until the wave of pharmaceutical goodwill catches up to the guy that bags my groceries? Maybe his depression is too far downstream - or too far upstream. Maybe the causation chain hasn't reached his mood yet.

Insoluble. Insoluble. That is my name. The place where possibility is torture. Does it really, cosmically speaking, matter? In the long run, we'll all be dead. Dignity is dollars, currency, how we buy fuel. I'm not sure what that means anymore.

I've solidified into my adult psychological patterns. I think I'll be like this for the rest of my life, there's nothing much else coming down the pike. It's been persisting. I'm too tired to be angry anymore, now resigned to the loss of dez. The name seems strange now, strange to think I was ever on a real name basis with her, did I dream all those years? Most likely. I will go off my anti-depressant medication when I meet a girl who loves me, romantically, thus I will likely be on the meds right through monastic destiny, I just hope they take effect soon, before I’m the abbe of dull purity, playing the piano with the missing D, with a virtuosic past but no juicy stories to tell in the tavern, but memories of picking fruit, actual cherries, wide experience in that, both organic and pesticide coated, and a conversation over coffee in caustin, during a rainstorm, with that german girl in the okanagan.

Spare some corn for your king?

karefree ketamine korner

the title that was not to be - a tryst with the k christ - the only purpose is in revealing chemical context in yellow snowballs, piss drunk - de k poetry, that's my genre - if you like crinkles, you're my audience, if you can stand the grime - i am my own parasite, kobain said it better, did it better - well, he's not exactly a role model...

strange times - ketamine is futuristic, reveals to me present vistas, and foams on the lips of what might be in this strange little niche of creek street with the people that i meet here in this nook - i'm sure it's just a string on a fretboard of grand delusion, but it resonates in creepy minor seconds, with some voices that do harmony, jamais-vous and deja simultaneous - and i feel responsible to play the part, the role, the idiotic quixotic lunatic, even while in downtime, even when proclaiming myself to be a loser, like contra does, if he can be a loser than i'll gladly wrap myself up in that tatterred bundle, there won't be much oil to burn in the future to warm us in the winter, but maybe the greenhouse effect will trap enough carbon to make that not matter - i'll be a loser, the path of least resistance, but i won't be eaten by a grizzly bear, and werner herzog will not make a documentary about me - but lord knows, i am not healthy - this can't be good for my head - cortisol has been under control, and i've had multivitamins under my belt, but that gravy train's over - now it's sertraline and k, cross purposes? i guess i'm the first human guinea pig for that combo

this is one of those times, one of those bouncey commodious times, when names for bands can be snatched from the rubber walls of every subatomic particle precept - anything, NOISEGATE? yes, you can have it, i just tossed it off

but when the ego reforms, will he want to be noisegate? probably not - there's something in the way - something in the way - mmm mmm, to quote cobain again, why not? in these times of having been abandoned, the stopgap saving me from the horror of a monastic future, but everything is qualified, in retrospect she was as right for me as anything i could conceive and it's infinitely horrible to realize that as right as that was it was so fucked up and wrong and she's moved on, obviously

and i'm trying, ketamine keeps things flowing, and sertraline keeps seretonin going, and i wouldn't have written that last letter to her if it weren't for a window opened by k, even if i was over the trip as i wrote the actual words, but i can't claim it was a pure self writing, even though i didn't regret what i said until it became clear it was completely unrequited

hopefully sertraline and ketamine will get along with each other, i see no problems so far, and that kind of scares me, because i'm a master at seeing problems and sinister harbingers of existential apocalypse, so something's wrong, where is it? well it's in the fall of every breath, as i said, even as i've assimilated my parents aging, and my parents parents aging aging past the point of decency, but we're civilized, and i say that verbatim to retain the taint of sarcasm you would assume i intend, but actually, i really mean that, it is civilized to be decent and let the elderly live as good as they can, we hope, whatever that could be, you can't generalize, it's on a case by case basis, i think alice still enjoys her smokes, hey years from now, she may pine for that ability, oh, to be eighty again, and now we're into the struldbrug dregs

well it's four AM, the night is young - maybe i could do a 2nd k wave, how about it Rome, do you feel like falling again? Am I sparticus?

The

Killer context is always suspect - if you shelf it like that it will fall like that in these crumbs we deal with here on creek street, here on creek street it will repeat, it will loop, i it will l l it will frag it will frag ment like that and that's what we like so that's what we do i rolled into this snowed scene in the snow one snowblindazed but this ain't the epiphony, just anotha monday but i'm trying to put everything in it and choose every letter cause there's never been a better time to bare arms or arm bears, bare all the tentacles of fantastic redacted scholastic madness on this, more powder means more consistency and i did pay for the priviliage, those paper notes go far in this day and age of powderered wigs what an infogluton i am, indeed - and itall falls like this here on creek at three in the morning, is contra working on a mix? it's as crazy as can be and is adding punctuation sundering nations? or am i just as comfy as can be?