extra

ordinary mudbricks
in the next
nacropolis

see-saw

a bowl of rice a day

tomorrow is a latter day

b plus for penmanship

a manly art, the captaining of the pen

a glowing collection of random
blinking things

a can of whoop-ass
and catharsis

the seasaw is next

tell me somethin i don't know playa

lemon twists

why can't i be one of those people that just flitters from here to there every few months, like it's natural, like that's just how they roll, man, like a rolling stone... i know a lot of those people, or i knew them for a time - and i never questioned it, i just felt grateful they were around with me for a while - maybe i'll catch them later, at least on facebook

why do i feel so guilty about even thinking about going anywhere, like i ought to be here, like it's the Right Thing to Do, like i'd be so foolish and ungrateful if i packed up and tried some place new? oh, i guess there's a lot of good reasons for that feeling, but really, are there enough?

it's this weather, perhaps, it's not that it's that bad, it's that it's this bad in august - and it's like the sun is a godayum novelty - a little trinket dangled above the crib every now and then - and i never even got the chance to get bored with it - yeah, there's too much mood here - oh, i'm sure i'd find a way to bring massive nimbus moods with me anywhere

it's the age old churning of the substrate, to consign it to near-meaningless visual metaphor - but i like the sound of it - like the sound of geese honking and melding with the highway traffic - i'm going to eat another candy even though the teeth on my left side are protesting, but i'm going to use the teeth on my right side - they'll be good for a while longer

spike

yes, i think i'll go to a meeting - if i don't get sucked into the couch first - and lay my head down, and let the alien waves, now too-familiar, wash over me - demoralized - i think i made a bad choice - i don't fit here, with this job - the social dimension is what's strangling me - when i can work with people at all, it's individually, not as a group - i miss the savoury room, it's cut and dried there

oh no, don't make snap decisions, don't get off track because of an emotional spike... but this isn't just a spike, i've known this for a while - i've felt nauseated and embarrassed getting paid for nothing - so find something to do then - well after everything's been cleaned up and organized, or i've found what's left after all the happy dappy volunteers have rushed to fight over the chores... there's this awkward lack of purpose - i've been saying this for a while, and it feels truer than ever: the introvert is not being nurtured - all these attempts at extroversion are wrong-headed, so strained, so needlessly entangled, so compromised

and the center meeting goes on, and on, repeating itself, solving nothing - so, as i see it, we're faced with this problem - wait, didn't we just bring up twenty solutions, potential directions? oh, but i know how much you love hearing yourself talk, and cycle back around to the start of your grievance list again, prattle on...

what is it i do here? i dread telling people - i don't talk about it - well now i'm fucking talking, okay? every time i opened my mouth at the meeting, i felt like a jackass immediately afterward - i was trying to compensate for not talking hardly at all otherwise - a meeting gives me the impetus to speak my mind, a sanctioned sharing - but my words bounced off - i thought i had some useful suggestions but i just felt disrespected, like an idiot for talking, should have shut up - why am i here? fucking music? musical commitments are a drag - it's my play, not my work - i miss the savoury room - i don't want to be renting out my head

i should write a letter to the admins or something - maybe i can get out of this morasse

it's just been a frustrating meeting, that's all - okay? or maybe it's more than just that, maybe i'm realizing things - like, sure, this center is great and all that, but it's not part of my mandate, i'm not enthusiastic, i'm not here for these people, i'm here for myself, so i could just as well be there for myself, back home - do i really want to help bring in more high school people? i can barely stand the people that are already here - oh, i appreciate their personalities, there's no ill will, it's just that i can barely stand them - i don't dislike them, i just can't like them too much either, they don't like me, we don't get along - i'm peripheral - just as i appreciate the personality of the admins i have to deal with, they're witty and good-hearted, but interacting with them is like getting an unanesthetized root canal - speaking of which, i could probably use some dental work too, that's another thing i'm noticing today

a two hour meeting about contriving demand - fuck man, i just want to say, if it's not there, it's not there, why kill yourself trying creating it? i don't believe in advertising, it's not my thing, what do you want me to say? i'm not saying your PR sucks, i actually admire it, the posters are tastefully done, nice layout, good, on-point message - but  if you see people as potential consumers, be prepared to be massively disappointed, unless you're barnum and bailey - sorry, i've been through that whole process, i'm not interested, at this stage in my life, in becoming an ad man - and yeah, it's my fault, i picked the wrong job - cause it is a whole lot of nothing

why kill yourself trying to create demand? oh, because you can't sound defeatist - never give up! we must ride this gravy train into the ground - the last days, the decaying republic, no more soup for you - or maybe it'll all get better with a new space - ebbs and flows and square dances and slack jaws... why is giving up such a bad thing? it doesn't mean i gave up on life - less is more - maybe it's an economical streamlining, or a minimalist thinned-out mix... i'll have to admit to feeling like a defeatist today, about certain things, anyway - but this is enough whining - let's all forget our troubles with a big bowl of strawberry ice-cream . It is your birthday. After all.

fold tab A into slot B

ugh, how can i get rid of that bright white serrated sidebar demarcation? couldn't find any setting in blogger -  does look nice with briar's artwork on top though

oh i see, it's bound to the text color - damn

oh wait, if i use a different template... well well - now i should actually write something for this pretty little blog - damn this drop-off - what am i, a fucking musician now? nah, screw music

the blue oyster cult concert second newfoundland city dream

existential ennui break

beautiful latin babies and the music of tito puente

respectication

testing the limits of procrastination

nothing's gonna happen
or if it does, you won't notice

must reject philosophy
can't think anymore

facebook could be a portal
closest thing to that on my bookmark bar
nothing worth getting sucked into though

still haven't written about the plywood house
still haven't written about the collector
the shelf is crammed full of projects
can't pick up anything

gotta experience something else
sniff out oil money
save the whales, save the world
flip a coin

memories, compilation album
even that, i can't be bothered with
there's many ways to say it
no one told me when to run
this is it... this is it? okay
this is it too - see? i can "this is it", just like you
this is what i do

it's stanza-esque here in this river - gasoline rainbows, i wonder what they taste like - a gum eraser kneaded into an ear flap - an imaginary cochlea - ah - she's going to sing

sucrets sticker on the savoury room wall - i owe the patron god of medicine a rooster - in my own words - this is enriching, in some shining crazy diamond way i can't see, like a fox

the oblivion of being, that sounds about right - it doesn't need a referral - it doesn't need a script - but it is a script - this is a script - i'm so deep in character, i forgot i was playing a role - i still don't even really believe that that's what's happening, but it is

at least i want it to be - how long can this go on? nirvana still smoking, blowing smoke out, up, around - an equilibrium of not quite enough rope to hang

grape maintenance

maintaining sinking equilibrium
no rocking the boat, only a slow slide down
it doesn't roll off the tongue
but it sticks in the first person's craw
gender neutral pronoun comma

maybe the grapes are sour
actually it wouldn't surprise me
although i can remember sweet feelings

another last ounce of strength
empty can rattle

holes in sarcasm

austerity for lucidity?

austerity measures
oh yeah, what else?
case in point
pointless poetry

i haven't been this dry in some time
incidentally, in the thick of quitting caffeine and zoloft
there's too many variables, i can't tell what is affecting what
and every attempt at describing that is
this scraping the bottom of the mediocrity barrel
getting to hear about better men, themselves better than the ones
who are better than me

no, i don't think something to fight for in itself is worth newsreel nightmare suffering
but i don't think this is worth much either
of course suicide correlates to this and that
and of course i know
that newsreel nightmare suffering would shake the malaise out of me
and shock me into savouring my daily ration of goat's eyeball
my best part of the day, so i could endure a fake scare real scare
every twenty seconds and sleep on barbed wire to survive, cause i rolled a six
and they rolled a ten, and it all came to a pulitzer-prize winning graphic novel
based on me and my son, our claims to fame and value as people intertwined with a work of art
cause art matters, like it's purpose, or i thought it did, seemed to, or was that a dream?
the best part of waking up - no, can't incorporate folgier's jingle into this mexican jumping bean cutup of crappy laptop keyboard

had some hope that there was a state of purity that would correlate with happy
that i was paving over with the SSRI, that was waiting for me, if i'd just clean out my system
so i'm cleaning, but of course, i'm re-using filthy rags in a misguided attempt to recycle, and everything i clean
just gets smeared with new grime
maybe clean's the wrong concept, well sure, why wouldn't it be wrong?
maybe all i can say is, i'm getting closer to baseline
but all i feel is a void, a hazey nothing, no clarity either, no lucidity
not that my mind was working much better in an overmedicated whirl of concentric cycles
but maybe a little better, at least for functioning as a decadent wastrel, that was not an aspiration, but it was inspiring while sufficiently wired - a coffee-cream combo sort of thing

and what can i say about family? i should say something - something nice to start off with, some buttered bread for a compliment sandwich - cause there's so many things i could say - but i don't want to say anything

just frills

more to come

essence-less

don't think i can get more succinct than the title - so why not quit now? burrow a den?

i'm recalling dashing cliffs, a rocky inlet, Maddox Cove - i walked a beaten path through dogberry shrubs with briar - i love it when she shudders, makes me want to hug her as tight as i can, it's adorable, not beyond my control - outside of it, yes, but receptive - i took a long pause to see if i could see the end of the cave, but i couldn't, just ocean rushing in, deeper and deeper, then passing out of view --- on a later day, i fantasized about living in a cave, my cave, like gollum - it wasn't romantic, but it was a fantasy - after a minute it hit me - how gloomy it would be when the novelty wore off: i wouldn't enjoy the stoicism of owning the wetness like a home - a cozy cave, how cagey of me

you're not guilty - don't worry
by association
bye association

it's not ink - spring reverb in fetal summer, a glacial mutant, blind, for that reason - the one that fell off the truck, that got snatched, that turned into an heirloom in a century and a half, collected dust behind the siding of a self-aware house for decades

there's masterpieces left, under display cases in the museum of hypothesis - tomorrow's mills and processing facilities - oh, where is process? process me, will you? i'll get used to the smell, it only takes six weeks - it may be largely sarcastic, but it's that sweet oil of sincerity that's the point! it's there, floating in little rainbow swirls in out of the way swampools under the canopy of cobalt foliage in the shadows of the city of ought sixteen

yes, essence-less, now we're getting it! we're getting to the root of it; synesthetic break-neck hit the deck calisthenics! no, not really, just wanted to say that

no god of dabblers

there's no god of dabblers
no have your cake and eat it too state of grace
nothing in the middle of the road but dead armadillos

fuck it always on the tip of my tongue
nothing on the tip of my tongue but taste buds and fuck it
fuck it, just words, in poor taste
rarely backed by action
fuck it might be said, but it won't be fucked
it'll act on impulse, despite the executive decision
to fuck, if not all of it, at least this particular fucking dead end

but there's never-ending stories in zeno paradox corners
and regressing floorboards, dust families in dust fables, crack ecologies

update: general error
avg says, like it would
general failure reading disks
general failure, captain obvious, major semantic antic adjunct to second leitmotif
now that's a gold leaf inlay i can get with, maybe melt down for some credits
for BMW showroom chrome

sounds good

You'd best believe we gonna be mixing it up with somebody... or some thing... Or, cut to the chase. Yes, fuzzy-head friend, I know, I'd do it too, I'd trade every hair left for a right word. The problem is the venue, gotta code your way to an escape, for what? This Bastille sideshow? Hell no, don't go, wallow, till the apocalypse finds you, assuming it'll ever make it to this crevasse - crease? Carcinogenic gas will suffice, six thousand sided dice, pass the time, your time, whoever cares to drop by. Wish you could make trades, a friendly shadow for these dime a dozen sallow faces in high-def.

It sounds good, but it's empty, by which I mean simply stymied. I mean that simply, it's a simple matter of meaning. A full complement of trazadone might pass through the sky, missing both dream-eaters and semioticians on speed - but I'll know there's a difference between those other ego-trips on the couch, and those scrap metal epics under the bedcovers - what that signifies, i will pose as an unanswerable question in the margins of a pop rock anthem

the purpose of saving money is so you can waste it – you get the long-term satisfaction of being smart and prepared and slow & steady, and on the good purposeful path – and then you get the carefree satisfaction of burning it all in a weekend – win-win

fuck the fucking pixies

they're not that cool

just wanted to say that

placeholder

[oh, how there needs to be some placeholders - some, not one, but several placemats under plates piled with filler, garnished with cool arugula banter, distractingly flavorful, cause that's where the flag people are waving me in

so here, cause i can hide the frustratingly flat nature of this plateau with sculptures of ice and gum, squeeze my stress into a squishy blob, put things up around me, hide the horizons choked with electromagnetic noise, they flicker but never change substantively, there's still a feeling lying under everything, eternal sleep, not death, but not life

manyana caffyana hadn't done that balls-out balls-deep shuffle in a while, don't know when it'll be gotten to again, or if that's even possible today or tomorrow - castaneda's leading me on, or so i thought a minute ago - not enough whitley streiboids per capita here in the desert to avoid talking to myself, but that chatty castanet almost sounds like somebody, i'll go with that

i'll keep the severe photo up on my wall, and maybe it's not handsome, maybe not my best pose, but it tells more truth than the good photographer captured]

insoluble

mustardayonnaise man, gotta break me out of jail

my term won't expire

what innocuous-looking street will lead to the next polite fight? falling short, fail, abort, retry, what will it be next time? another exhausting pondering? or an accusation just deserved enough to spur me on, to try to right another wrong, in an endlessly repeating fraction? i ought to care about this - i have to care about that - oh i know, sorry - i'm not apathetic about not caring - why not quadruple the negative while we're at it? it would be so wonderful if i cared, i'd be the person i agree i ought to be - you have no idea how hard i try, to care, i push shit uphill, both ways

i wish i could shrug it all off, and stop caring about what i don't care about - i wish i could stop trying to pretend - i haven't been my own man since, well, childhood - so is this me being an adult? then the game ain't worth the candle

oh, here's a drain wave again - a whirl down the spout

thought i had energy today

thought i didn't need coffee

almost fooled myself about there being a new page

the human spirit, etc.

i was meant for greed
coulda been a contender, so greedy
coulda been the champion, the greediest
people woulda needed me, and i coulda been so good
at being rich and nothing else

i remember the money games i came up with as a kid
that were like spontaneous training, that i never used later in life
i got my sister, and my friends, and my friends' sisters
to ride around on the deck of david's parents' house
on tricycles and bicycles and fischer price layers
of social stratas while i sat on the center table
collecting and apportioning coins and bills from the 1980s
according to an evolving system of rules
that felt natural in a brilliant synthetic subset of nature
that was my diamond-in-the-rough creation, work is play!
a moment in the sun, a glint, a hint of coulda-beens

if i don't do it, somebody else will
so let them
let them get credit, let them get laid
let them be the horny holy prophet

incidentally, it's in us all to express genius and power
i'll wave my warms in an inclusive manner as i hear the ring of spring reverb
we've all been deputized to do this or that, but changes could be made, internally