Snow Trek - the next veneration:

I know how it looks. But honestly. Your honor. On the evening in question, persay. I was sitting in class, with nothing to say. And anyway. Everything will shortly shatter. Into a hundred giant gestalts. Give or take a dozen.

I could slather my nu-paradygm personality all over everything. And what is not forbidden is mandatory. According to this slithering seventies cum nu millenium metaphysics. Which works for me and you, as long as you consider me uncircumcised - I'll misdirect you, during my physical nordic examination, by claiming my tooth is KILLING me, I mean, I may be a fine upstanding youth, revering the fuhrer like any sane person, but my TOOTH hurts, and I must be serviced, and despite the losses on the eastern front, we've got good dentists here in berlin - and that faggot won't fondle my balls, not when my perfectly good molar is sending imaginary tentacles of pain sent by jehovah, whoever he is, who coached my performance, and damn, was is good, so good, it was never even nominated for an oscar, but is on the CBC foreign film late night loop, and what more could anyone ask for?

And it says more about myself than anything else, self-cannabilization tastes like a bad hot dog, but the gray poupon is to die for.

And once you've moguled the bumps on the bunny hill single diamond, nevermind the powder in the trees, i'm not one to poeticize about that, i just gawked at the gawkers, gawking at the trees, smugly skiing my ass to and fro, here and there, back when i had the confidence and care to embark on such schemes, and non-sarcastic love of the snow

but i'll maximize experience in words, even if it hurts to think, with brain cells swelling, and chemical reactions, i won't recite neurological poetry, but you know, i'll prolly improvise some, until sigor tells me not to

weasel dreams

weasel sleeps
dreams, thankfully
sweating in the chocolate factory
candy and drugs in the mall
ghosts of sexual union

crumble

can’t sleep, stomach aching

i just want to ... blank ...
i just want to blank ... blank

forget it then, forget the trinkets
forget the women and girls
forget the new band, that can wait
for never, i’m not a flake, maybe next time
i won’t make any more promises, everything can wait

the vacation is non-refundable
but the quease is on the house
writing helps, i’ve read
to ease the quease
as long as everything’s unplugged

where’d that carrot go?
oh, it must be in the mud
where’d that rabbit go?
oh, he’s wooden after all

Captain Shinto's Chortling Buddha Power Hour

I want to go into the mountains and milk gemstones and mine goats. The beautiful mountainside beyond the FECK sign. I want to go into the mountains and milk gemstones and mine goats. Bad things happen here, but nothing's real. I want to go into the mountains and milk gemstones and mine goats. Until I get bored. Then I want to stop mining goats and milking gemstones. And see what's waiting for me, where things are real. It sounds like a pretty sweet deal. Like the dealer who could have ripped me off, but didn't. There are no marks here. Or everyone's a mark, so no one can differentiate.

avatar smile

i just realized, i like smilies

not the stupidly souped-up annoying animated ones, but the normal smiley face icons that transform your :)s - because i find it hard to smile naturally when i'm talking to people, even if i naturally want to, the nerves get in the way - but online, i can smile with a button, and it feels natural

the nerves are strangling me today, but i accomplished a few things - had my first newfoundland jam session - man, it reminded me of nelson, a little apartment crammed with a mandolin, banjo, guitar, and half a drumkit (as if nelson owns country bluegrass jams, heh) - so i might have to limit my sounds to piano and occasional organ, but the songs are good - thank god, no shitty covers

so i can feel a little less bad about the mountain of things unaccomplished - all the homework piling up - maybe i'll start by learning the songs - still procrastinating on the mellowtron

synthetic emptiness

nervent

immanentizing the eschaton - finiky, cheking on my illiterati cuties and any other messages there might be, in this no-bidding war - let's call it a progessive possessive disease - giggedy - no way i can do this sober, haha, where are some pills, intoxicants, poisons, mouthwash, anything? just kidding, gonna smoke a deathstick, ah... the good ol deathstick - and i might need another perrier to get thru this

i was at a boring meeting today doing the church/steeple thing with my hands clasped together, and the way my fingers were bent looked really cool, with the lines splayed out - i thought, i have to draw that - so i took out a piece of poster paper to remind me - might be a deal-breaker, this explication thing - lord knows i'm a voodoo chile, voodoo chile - giggedy giggedy goo!

o-over-e-extend-ed

oh man - it's alright - i think

just need to retire, build a fire, a camp site, the unknown i'm chasing is burning my fingertips, my pre-cogs are spinning off their sprockets - it's like, unfulfillment is my comfort zone, attaining anything i'm seeking is too scary - or maybe it's just that i made too strong a brew of coffee to deliver flyers and i'm still buzzing like a honeybee, and feeling dreadful and guilty for ego tripping and luxury, and over-extending, reaching for too many people, and all the calming mp3s of droney voices aren't calming me down - i need a shower and maybe a morsel of food - and i need to clean my place, but i dunno if i'm up for it - and i need to sleep to wake up today and finish my deliveries, and lest i forget, get another 3 bundles of flyers from the telegram, cause, my fault, my fault, i didn't count right when i re-checked for the delivery guy, and of course, i gotta resolve the issue of my accidentally voided cheque, no one else is gonna do it for me, i need that money, for my trail of debts and i think i need a doctor's appointment, a neurotic hypochondriac cheque in, what's with these withdrawal symptoms? i'm taking the same dose of SSRIs, maybe i should quit, do you know anything about SSRI withdrawal? they never do, but they could give their blessing, i'll feel smart when i tell them i'll compensate with 5htp in low doses on a full stomach as the spring thaw comes, and by the way, i need champax to quit cigs, cause the unfiltered tobacco debris is mixing with this pre-cold mucus and it's hitting home how black my lungs are getting, so, what's purpose, what's productive? composing mellowtron music for my dad? yeah, one of many things i feel too fried to do - contemplating mario kart to wind down, or would it wind me up?

it's always the ebb, or a power surge, i don't got the wattage to run the energy that pulses through me when i open the gates, eh? oh well - sounds like a good sign off - oh well - tapwater and vitamin pills

voodoo sex torture

playing with dolls, posters on my walls

impossibly pretty girls, improbably

young and womanly, like an escher illusion

imagining life before zoloft and addiction

wounded weekend warrior, online botched casanova

noveaux-independent, dependent on fantasy

plinking quickie personalities into my

two dimensional goddess bodies

i could never create characters

females least of all, but my dreams, man

they feel so real in my dreams, like that

blonde bounty hunter from the redneck family

who had me by the balls, but looked at me

like i was a human being, not a category

maybe a loser, but at least in the game

trainset mysteries

chemical imbalance - something's different - tolerance to zoloft? - the creepiness of feeling the brain fade out for a second like a DJ brushed the board, like a rogue rest in an unwritten fugal voice

was working on the railroad tracks in bed last night and well into the lazy sweat-slathered morning - woke up relieved, i didn't have to confess to murder for a few thousand dollars, murder or maybe just grand larceny, or something, crashing a truck into a river, pulling some scheme with my wet-worker robino from my noveaux-middle class place in the office tower above the river where the railroad bridgeworkers spend their paycheques on beer, and pull their own low-grade scams, while me, with the novelty of a lever, a tonka toy lever to the coordinator class, but something i could use to fuck over the rightful claim, of a family, a loud, cantankerous family, always the downtrodden bosses of people like me, like me, lucky to have them hire me for something a buck above minimum wage, that's union standard now, this is the future, like it or leave - well it was their truck, and i crashed it intentionally, didn't i? and they'd already lost their car to the rigors of roadwork and work and roads, but robino and me were sure we could pull it off, just destroy a few files, "clean" the office, and then we'd be minted, funded for party, it would all be worth it for that, we could get the real drugs, no need to lie to each other, that's what it's all about after this exhausting sprawling labor camp lagoon that never seems to end, oh, there's winter work coming. But now the navy cops are pouring into this building, I'm directing them to this and that file, acting suspicious, giving them tips, ingratiating, assuring them I'll help them get to the bottom of this atrocious crime against a poor but respected family, someone will pay - it's looking worse and worse for me, like that payer will be me, and i’ll be doing jailtime, and i’ll be like oscar wilde without the profound letters, and i won’t be able to talk about what happened, assuming i ever make it out, and i feel a confession coming on like a projectile purge, my mind’s own emetic, a confession to the most merciful ones in the world, who would be my mom and dad, i guess

what a sweaty wake up, and the worst dreams are still kind of nice, working for running locomotives and half-finished tracks - never got to the party - got wet though, it was sunny and then it was night - and then it was reality, except with no color, but still nice, like a jimmy stewart movie, but i didn't see no harvey, but i guess he's waiting for me, springing some trick that will make everything make sense, so i'm waiting for the miracle, see? i dunno why i try

the ritual of CHUD

i need a ritual, the ritual of CHUD
i need a song like this town needs a flood
i got nothing to say and nothing to pray
so just bite my tongue and drink my blood

let's do it in the sewers while the video plays
i'll return the favour, then everything will be right, somehow
not wrong-headed, and trivial, and meaningless
like it is, now

so much to do, so little fuel for it all
i'm the laziest thrill-seeker i know
not happy with anything less than hookers and blow
and wanting it fed-exed to me, and why not?
sure i worked for some good things
but anything great that ever happened
was handed to me, almost makes me wanna worship luck

not wanting to look for
more
work
yet more work, yeah, fuck off, you
didn't give me the job you promised, i cerebrally-recorded
your verbal contract, so you, the you that is the world
can make do without my services, for a while,
i got enough tasteless gruel on my plate
it's frosted with pure refined sugar

living with the extended family, some inlaws, a cousin
and the other grandparents here for the holidays
i see a knit of people happy with less thrills
stately, family, working for things for family
they got soul, and i got a hole, sucking
cognition through the void, i don't know
if i WANT to be happy with less thrills
like i'd sell my uninspired getting by non-spiritual life
for the real thrills i've been chasing
that have always been just out of reach
the good stuff, cause it's all chemicals anyway
it's chemicals that coagulate to DNA
a strand for a cell for a healthy young body
a gene for curviature, the other half i crave
and then, the stuff that binds to my receptors
that would be fool's gold, that would weigh down
another lever of curiosity, anyway
i'm getting a head of myself, and the scuplture
is practically accurate but unimaginative

there's no working for anything
when you're in the dripping sub-sewers
there’s retro-time, there’s deadlights
there’s... a music video

Tending a Dying Garden in the Fort Williams Atrium

Twin planter islands

brick lobby diamonds
junk Fortis soil leftover from the ‘80s.
Is this poinsettia circling the drain?
Will another day of water bring it back from the brink?
A pointless point of pride to contrive
botanical stewardship, my first week on the job.
Empathy for plants, no one yanked me
from my fetal stage, guess I should
return the favour.

Capitalist irrigation:
If you water them right, they won’t be
able
to share.

Granddad reminds me I’m at the
“bottom of the ladder”
during the dreaded drive to work
that’s what they call this,
as if I didn’t know.
“But you gotta start somewhere.”
Yeah, and you gotta finish somewhere.

Insufferable questions continue:
How much am I making, what do I do,
mainly wash floors, is that what I mainly do?
What else? Yeah, but what else?
Do I know what construction workers make?
Continuing comparison to construction workers
as if I’d be doing this if I could get anything better.
I can tolerate, even like my work
if I’m not reminded of my place, again and again.
I can find motivation for a paycheck, if not purpose
in working on the bottom rung, the floor-scraper
let's see you climb without the first ten, turtle-king.

He’s not ill-intentioned, just ninety
a charming eccentric out of touch old man
not “arrogant” exactly, just innocently oblivious
to anything outside his own awareness
and a master woodcarver, he’ll remind you
frequently, as if you’ve forgotten
refreshingly earnest in earned vanity.
If I didn’t say anything nice
in the only poem I’ve ever referenced him in
before he circled his own drain, I’d be sorry.

I think about my departed grandma Alice
more these days, memories hit me.
Death just happens, there’s no dealing with it, no bargains.

not a boy, not a man

i'm a slave 4 u
hit me bitch, one more time

i'm a slave 4 u
hit me bitch
with your lashes
batting three-thirty-three

i'm trying to learn
while i'm buried in snow
that's what we call, the learning blanket
i'm trying to be the ice-man
dunno if the game's worth the candle

well, there you are again

cause you have the right to catch up on my friends
and just cause you can, you think you should
well, the turncoats will give you a token glance
i've resumed despising you, cause you've earned it
with your continued selfish stupidity
the predictable incapacity for empathy
and i'll return the favor, won't think
about what your reason might be
i'll consider you reasonless
a blot on the landscape

well that was ten lines too much
for that subject, next

da beard - start today
who'm i trying to lay?
might as well grow my little show
of apathy, ex-kootenay grizzley

from the bed to the couch, to the couch
to the bed to the sleepwalk, sleep making
my own bed, lying in it

the night garden

there's something adorable about children's tv broadcasts at 3 in the morning - i would have thought even treehouse would have a test pattern or infomercials at that hour - but instead the network is catering to those freak children, few and far between, who are watching way past bedtime, or those lone freaks who watch children's shows in the middle of the night

myheart request

rendered rose tonight - her old new song in piano roll – i plan to notate her notes, put them on a postcard – you wrote this, did you know? plucking strings - reminds me of times when i required profundity, to feel anything - now anything feelingful grows like fungi, in the dark, cracks missed of cleanliness, next to godly mystink - not to mention tetragrammaton, sanctity strategically segregated - i'd put it on the do not deliver list, myself

godly don't work for me nomore - but why torch an effigy of a past self, as if the poor guy could help being naive, or whatever that is to me now, as if my curent ken was available to him, as if he was being stubborn for suffering, as if i'm “developed” by virtue of living in the future - what am i doing? just the same old deconstruction, with nothing to offer, another day's free labour in the one man demolition crew – they sent a boy to do a man's job, again -- maybe some future self will rescue my reputation by saying it's hardly my fault, being born hooked up to a battery, living snug in the soft slot by default, and if my brain’s low-wattage and my pain’s mezzopiano, that’s not to be discounted, it could sound poignant with the right counterpoint, and it's been rendered in a stucco aesthetic of the time - and managed to avoid the fashions besides - it's of the time, like ooglebooglebaka is of the retinal scan

synthetic meaning used to be the name of the game, and not just that, but synthetic profundity - reminds me of the piano roll i just created of rose's guitar playing – the memory spurred me to write something, but i still feel dry as a desert, cloistered, controlled – still, i guess i need a vacation from the dreary thrills, maybe a long one, to shroud myself from what i suspect, with spurious guilt, i ought to experience - black sabbatical, but never say never, i guess - i can say that -- is this sanity? not bloody likely, but the mirages are more steady - the waves of reality don't break too harshly, it's a wide tidal pool, it ebbs and flows in forgiving rhythms of tepid mediocrity - won't be my theocracy, but it’ll serviam

guess i'll go in search of sick sleep, like - i always dream of drugs, lately ketamine, and ALCOHOL, imagine that? booze became a novelty, guess that means i've crossed the rubicon - and shambles in a woodsy dream geometry where the locin ghost haunts my cell phone, trying to remember a dealer's number, so frustrating, melding, vials in the soil, crawling back to the needle exchange

ghosts - still sober, that's the "main thing" isn't it? but i don't want no medal, and in the meantime... cleaning binges, smiling shiny tiles, skimming mental inventory, so what? got to kick the coffee i think, and the zoloft, eventually, fuck - trying to kick cigs, again, haha, today, cold turkey this time - so it's still an issue when i write, oh well - it's time for ecocide, ALT-D, abort writing, i'll bail

journey to the center of the gobstopper

tired - gobbing on a gobstopper - starting to choke - adjust your oxygen mask before that of your child - can the kid make it on his own? he's attached, in a childlike way - my back aches - why did i go for the gobstopper? it's not quite gusto - my gusto helmet's in the closet

downtime, getting things, things, done, i think, are they things? more to come - a sweet and sour path with swiss chalet sauce - everything's a dipping area, everything gets dipped - phil lesh still keeps blotter acid in his underwear - i keep getting email telling me which houses i missed on my delivery route - inconsistent

this gobstopper is a futile mission, i'll stop it when i can find a place to jettison the cargo - unfortunately, my garbage can lacks a bag - i don't want to move - i'm frazzled, but not in a horrible way - just a dull chaos throb - starting to choke on gobjuice again - jonathan - my name is called

unwittingly, i smell the mire again - it outwits me, an acid base - why does this stink continue to hover around me? this aura decided to emanate, just lately - amid cleaning chores - the gobstopper won't stop, just a slow dissolve, surgery without anesthesia, angel of death, four hundred thousand more to die - who am i to say that slayer guitar riff trivializes the holocaust? nordic rage - fucking sounds like bucket

deputized to take soft authority, but i try to empathize with the kid - he's cute - souls come in small sizes too - he has to get up in the morning and go to school - i remember when i had to go to school - some days it caused me dread that i've never known since - now i have coping mechanisms, but i have more things to dread - i empathize with the unidyllic reality of childhood

now i reconnect through the reading of bedtime stories - i still rely on that coping mechanism - libravox audiobooks as sleep aids - well,

unfit for human consumption

I don’t know how I can get any humbler. Wandering around an industrial park in the cold wind, looking for a KFC. I can’t stand the sight of the poppy on my jacket. They fought World War II, for this? Well, black and white brings a dignified facade. If you think about it, there would be plenty of indignity in the alternate future, with less whorehouses to choose from, to eat at, to work at – wouldn’t there?

I don’t have the stamina for communism, haven’t had since high school. The system is broken, and I’ll buy that for a dollar. I know how I can get humbler: ask for directions. Cause there’s no numbers on the buildings. There’s a secret code that only carburetors can read.

How can they humble me further? Interview me for the “position”, right in the restaurant, within earshot of every customer. Hey. And tell me how many other applicants there are for the job before I leave. They always do that. It must be a bad sign. Well, I regurgitated all the information from my resume the interviewer had right in fucking front of her. My work here is done.

a shallow and callow comedown