aw, come on...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

subtxt:

It doesn't feel real.

When you're tired of cancer, you're tired of life!

cold

cold - Cold. I'm cold. But I'm used to it. But I'm cold. Neither of them could answer, but that fact neatly describes a comet's orbit, it could be another tens of thousands of years out of sight

saying doesn't excuse - it wasn't meant to be, it wouldn't work, it's precluded - so thinking of the past is a pathetic fallacy and self-torture even if the present is sterile

A wave without a period ~ exclamation marks look happy - toothless satire - gumming nutri-chalk for vitamins and anti-depressants - i know where my towel is ~ skimming the depths of anti-deps - the ocean is cold

it's never been this mundane and habitual and anti-social and lack of novel - and thinking of the past is like suckling a pacifier topped with razor wire - time funnels toward the gravity well of my future oblivion - perhaps i'll die at 60, which means i'm late for mid-life crisis - one more lashing out against the cold, then acceptance, possibilities precluded - so what do i do then, to lash out? because i need to do something, it's a lesson i'm supposed to learn, the universe is saying, there's not going to be some catalyst that comes along, there may have been before, but you can't extrapolate the past, you can't believe in luck

mustard gas led to chemo drugs

Whisky. Neat.

the fantasy doesn't work, which i should be grateful for. Seeing things coldly. Knowing there'd be no point going back to the bottle, the euphoria far too muddied and fleeting, the consequences horrendous, simply delirium and a roulette wheel of wedges denoting damage and betrayal. But I still savor the sound of the clink of the icecubes in my head, the music of the tumbling liquid, stinging solvent, distilled beverage, neat. The terminology. The paraphernalia. Sobriety precludes, but still allows one to remain in a halfway state of self-torture.

Fighting pre-cancer, cause I got the leisure of not having cancer, it's just this life of leading up to cancer, the verb, the way of death, the fragile state of innocent cells doing their best in an entropic war of attrition, still loyal, for now, still able to withstand the toxic shock, smoke em while you got em.

trivialize existence

I will trivialize existence, because of my inability or unwillingness to power, like there's a difference. Oh, people think they're clever when they make distinctions between unable and unwilling, wielding semantic icepicks, why'n't'ya suck my ice dick? I'll insult the universe, every sentient being, before I die, a reason to live, I'll throw my whole country under the bus, because of my mythical Canadian expectation of vacation.

Bring the impotent rage cock to climax with verbal mechanics and mercifully diffuse anger back into a maudlin mist. It's as great a good for as many as can exist in this best of all possible worlds. Seems I don't have much to say to anyone after all. And when I get home, there's only enough energy to negate, then slump down plateaus, bumpetybumpslump til sleep. That's all anything gets, this trivialization. But it's not a trifle. Trifles are delicious. This is Beneke Fabricators ducking the righteous taxman who found the fraud, a dead planet that used to make things, acidified continental faces charred with fjords, lovely baroque feel though. At least I think so. And Slarti would agree.

Oh, celefrosty

Oh, the syntax's shot to shit, when it seemed to matter so much when I wrote down notes that are useless now. Muzzle the inner critic, unleash the inner loudmouth, else nothing gets done. So let it be written, so let it be effed. Because fuck you, that's why. Because blank, the new meme I've identified, sounding like a thing people say now, like "a thing" was a new thing a few years ago, and saying "nice!" instead of "cool", or "right on", is still a thing that seemed to start about ten years ago, that should not be used when writing historical fiction. I'm not saying these things weren't "things" before they were things I noticed, or they weren't things before in historical slang cycles, I'm just trying to keep track best I can. Because, hey.

I don't remember what I meant by celefrosty, which is too damn bad, cause the neologism seems half-pregnant with octuplets of potential heavy themes, but despite having given it some context, something about getting along better with losers, it still seems more trouble than it's worth to expand a semantic mashup archive, crossword-ize, and play the association game to pin down useful intent. Which's bullshit, because style. Shut up, wake up, get up and stand in the new style. Like doin' the hectrizm in 2009. Now my money's in soybean futures, and I'm pulling the mountain mint caprice out of my back pocket for interac e-transfer security QnAs. Wouldn't the meta-me-master be proud.

"I think there's a free Costco a bit further up the shore," I told them, the two fully-naked quasi-dykes, hopping from boulder to boulder, looking for food. Appreciative laughter. I joined in, not knowing why it was so hilarious, but finding it the most hilarious thing ever all the same. The idea of a free Costco. By the shore. As a recommended place for naked nomads to find food. Yeah, I guessed it was a good zinger. There must have been a free something further up the shore, and I was being no help in making jokes, but I guess providing some levity was a point in my favor. Not enough to keep anything together though. The diatomic molecule drifted into the distance, blithely overlooking a litter of ground scores, promising vials, trails of pills discarded by the pharmaceutically wealthy, baggies, some as much as a quarter full of something, no doubt something worth a bioassay, a blind experiment, a savory mystery. But I was suppressed at the moment, I couldn't bare to be seen examining things on the ground, not right now, even though this is where I came a night or two a week, where I went after sleep: on this particular occasion, the arrow lakes branch of the shambles circuit.

Further up the shore, at the base of a cliff, I ran into one of them again, now a single atom, in her element. The thing to do seemed to be to get to the top of the cliff. It was a real fuck-off cliff, bare, leaden, unfriendly to flora. Must have been that the big smelter was beyond the ridge, but the smelter built character. We got to the top, but then it seemed impossible to get down from any angle. I got out my phone, fearing we were surely in a dead zone, but I called 911, and if anything, the reception was better than anywhere. I was hoping for a helicopter rescue, although I wasn't quite sure how that would work. Ropes? Would they go to all that trouble? It would really drain the search and rescue coffers, wouldn't it?

It ended in death, not Trail, but an outskirt, Folsom Prison, Empire of Dirt, a spectacular wagon plunge from thousands of feet, it was never going to work out, was it? She was smeared across rocks, but I made it okay, riding out survivor guilt.

Or if it was that branching dream fragment, it ended in a Signal-Hill like series of cliff-etched steps that led down to the town of my dead grandma, where I was supposed to start some classes in their junior high school. Or if it was that, then it was this, the people stalking her house, me inside on my God Chair, dodgy relatives skulking around, taking inventory of the cupboards, Grandma's ol' lil' dishwasher, the perpetual super-frozen bucket of vanilla ice cream, the bugles and the first association with the warm smell of cigarette smoke hanging.

cheese is meaningless

now a proud member of the rejected from eharmony club

Yeah, well, fuck them anyway, and their personality test that is designed, I now understand, to pen similar-thinking people into niches like we're the periodic table of the elements. Eharmony: Be diatomic, not molecular! Because opposites detract and variety is bad for you! Filter out those who respond to a questionnaire with conflicting answers that reflect ambiguity and whatever else they were stupid enough to be honest about, being depressed sometimes, making under 20k a year? Definitely don't check that box when you're trying to sign up. Where's Ediscord? I'll have to start that bitch.

jaundiced eyes

sour central nervous system - critiquing games and the possibility of games via the medium of let's play videos on youtube, that i could theoretically play, but am not, playing requires too much effort and processing power, so i'll just make educated guesses about how limited a player's options are - and dream about theoretical games of my own design, that might approach the level of art

art? really? or do i see that it's all people trying to seem cool, or affect profundity? and it's all such boolsheet - mine and their's as well - you can compare technical proficiency, but that's all there is really

really? or am i spending too much time, inside my own head, and living room, with my own thoughts as company, and not even writing about it much? trying to nudge myself into writing words a little more, to just at least begin to bloodlet, thoughts clogged and clotted - found warfarin, not bad cig stub for a ground score, chop giblets of prose from the butcher shop floor

trying to sound cool, seemingly cool? with a sore back, out of the game, proper thing b'y - this ain't no kind of life - and this half-life has gone on too long - couch potato immortality, leather skinned porter pre and post sinbad, i dunno - if i was stoned on something or other, it would all feel alright, but i've been "clean" for close to six months - clean and sterile, utterly sterile - so maybe too far to one end of the seesaw, it can't be all sobriety, cause that's just too somber a way to live, it suits me like hearts and diamonds - i need hard narcotics for medicinal purposes, psychological crutches, cause i'm still a social cripple, and trying to walk without them hasn't worked out so well, although maybe it kept me alive, out of prison and the waterford and the grave, so maybe there's that at least

too tired to write about how i'm too tired to write - the primordial wanker, the starchild of the soil substrate right-less dukerat

oh, there's plenty o' words, in novel combinations yet, paths off this pulp beat, but, tired, becaus tired

working too much - for what? i don't know - compressed hours, hours of trying to finish quick as i can, so i can get back home for the night, and then a nother bout of long walking toward a wanking untaken

i miss pabst, saw a pabst can in a blue bag - got harassed again, last week it was cabs, this week cops, cause i always look suspicious, just let me walk home so i can sleep you fucking dicks, oh what a hard hard job it is, i'm sure, looking for black cats in dark rooms that aren't there, phoned in freakouts by petite bourgeois idiots in suburbs

too tired to remember about writing

Weight of age. Pre- lurch and awkwardness. I can appreciate. And yet it annoys me.

verbose haiku

rust bloom again - past tense - went bye bye still here trace elements, liquid mercury - meaningful dreams condense when a bit of the ceiling fell down to the exact spot where i was standing

plain text

Rick butterlburg's plaza11D>

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

feelin the fooonk

conveyor

stately jonathan sergei hector phillip slicey holmes methyl jekyll cribbon veronica rocksoff molly levonorgestrel maxiquadrillion d'don von minitrinity hecate borus nathaniel lydia charleston lumumba francois phenotype robinsino fuck messier whitman'll sparnford woke up at three o' the clock ano maturity because i say so and so others do unto me

ah, the richness of the waking-up metaphor, however inapropos - how profitable the vein of future lyrics a branch of assonance promises in an uncarved block of schlock and trite workmanlike information conveyed by belts - what's the cycles per second up to, thirty-two gigahertz? tomorrow's mills and processing facilities are here today, horray!

'n so, what is writing, again? i must have forgot, lost the sense of it - best case scenario, i'm a technician sans magic lately ('xcept the magic fader), but i do believe in magic, man - but writing, that wretched thing, feels weird, either solipsistic, or presumptuous, that anyone should read - either/or - perhaps i should switch to sentence case and re-embrace punctuation, just to crick and crack some bones i never knew were stiff to the point of brittle - ol' man johnny ain't what'e used to be - dick-ay, eh? at the rate of a pro-football player minus ever having any physical prowess - except the sneaky smallness of his frame, being able to hide and fit in tiny spaces to evade the giants, and the fast metabolism, nothing sticks to the ribs - he never was very limber though, never could do those splits and lunges and yoga moves, and now he's on the fasttrack from that subpar norm to malady accelerado, where he's supposed to "learn" what he's felt all his damn life, the fragility of physique, the reality of mortality, the fleetingness of life, etcetera - you caint school me on nothin' jack, i knew it already

okay jackey, maybe you can school me on a few things, i stretched that point a bit just to make a point that needed to be made and taken to counterbalance a giant bias of trite-ness that gets mistaken for sage wisdom, because convention gets so big and heavy it gets to attaining an oppressive gravity that people mistake for a universal constant rather than an accident of mass

Oxygen

song by hectorthecrow and Luc Forget
words by Luc Forget
guitar, dulcimer, and psaltry by Pamela Morgan
drums by George Morgan

lyrics:
i am oxygen
you are hydrogen
together we make water
we are the clouds who rain down
we gather in valleys
carving our way
through deep canyons
where we eventually spill
into the ocean
and evaporate, once again
to contribute to a new cloud

Trumpet Boris

song by hectorthecrow and Luc Forget
words by Luc Forget
guitar by Pamela Morgan
drums by George Morgan
featuring Luc's boy Fidel!

lyrics:
you are a trip artist
cause when i look at you
i'm never sure of anything anymore
purity's obscurity assures

you are so pure, you have no boundaries
i hate that i have to temper you
his name is trumpet boris, you said
how can i bring myself to correct you?

you are so pure, i love to watch you play
rockin' the boat that we're all on
old school, old soul, i am new in your eyes
but i am your father in this life

you are so pure, you have no boundaries
i hate that i have to temper you
his name is trumpet boris, you said
how can i bring myself to correct you?

you are so pure, i love to watch you play
rockin' the boat that we're all on

Magic Fader

lyrics:

i got a magic fader
smells like a magic marker
it is a lucky charm
it keeps my fingers busy

i got a magic fader
it makes the room darker
it is my lucky charm
it only works on me

i wish it worked on you, i wish it worked on you, i really do
it only works on me

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 magic fader
that's why i keep my cold finger
on the magic fader

kootenay snow in the synapses
state boundaries make good riddles
empty heads make good rattles
good nexus makes a good good nexus

i got a welfare cosmos
i got a welfare cosmos
i got a magic fader
i got a magic marker

i got a welfare cosmos
i got a welfare cosmos
i got a good good deal
take it with a grain of salt and a gram of soma

If happiness could be rationed
and redistributed
would there be enough to go around?

once i fingered synesthetic braille
i didn't have to try very hard
colors were pitchy, contours loved me
spiritual hangover when penance didn't hurt

now things are different, there's lots more channels
and most of them don't work anymore
but i keep my finger on the magic fader
simplicity through sensory starvation

i am a monkey, i am a monkey
i am a monkey with a magic fader
it is my lucky charm
it keeps my fingers busy, yeah

stay to the left and you'll get through the labyrinth
stay to the right and you'll get through the night

i love my magic fader
i love my magic fader
it is my favourite fader
because it's magically delicious

i got a welfare cosmos
i got a welfare cosmos
pharm-fresh, filling up the cavity
let's call absence substance tonight

kootenay snow in the sinuses
perfect crystalline creek street nexus
saving waves in state boundaries
citizen of the welfare cosmos

i got a welfare cosmos
i got a welfare cosmos
i got a magic fader
i got a magic fader

i got a magic marker
i got a lucky charmer
i got a good good deal
take it with a grain of salt and a gram of soma

once i'd invite fast friends from the rotting
porch into my corner to
play, we'd play with the magic fader, it was
not my fader, it was our fader
we'd have magic parties
they'd fade, they'd fade, they'd fade
but there was a picture of a mixer
on the fridge to remind us of the magic fader

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
'til he gave the lease to some earthbound family
not the cosmic family in my head
always already, always already
those members i'd invite into my corner
to play with the magic fader

stay to the left and you'll get through the labyrinth
stay to the right and you'll get through the night

this is how we do it on creek street
this is creek street welfare
galactic information warfare (sic)
every good boy deserves fentanyl

i got a welfare cosmos
i got a welfare cosmos
i got a magic fader
i got a magic fader

i got a magic marker
it is a lucky charmer
i got a good good deal

If happiness could be rationed
and redistributed
would there be enough to go around?

everybodygetsatrophy

lyrics:

here comes everybody, here comes everybody
humphrey chimpton earwicker's here in the third tier
everybody gets a trophy, everybody gets a trophy,
everybody gets a trophy, everybody gets atrophy

we like this poem
and this one too, five stars all around
we like this song
like we like facebook on facebook
like we like crack on crack
we like this picture
and the sixty million like it
we're picking this one to not like
to meet the criticism quota

it took a long time, it took a lot out of us
to play at being snobs
it's the hard won summit of a molehill, from which we see
the flatness of the world, and the mobs who took our jobs
the most serious and somber procedure of arranging
words and tones into pretty little patterns
feels important if you just don't think about it too hard
the solipsist will benefit

everybody gets a trophy
listening to your music is charity
i'm counting on your reciprocity
we stay alive symbiotically
everybody gets a trophy
so we can all pretend we're special
because we know we're insignificant
can't face that reality

music is worthless, information's free
the masses are superior to you and me
they work harder and they work dirt cheap
they keep busy contriving creativity

i haven't felt right since a lot of things
i haven't felt right since i saw the deadlight, it ain't no birthright

everybody gets atrophy
so much opportunity to do
what's been done a billion times before
the difference makes no difference anymore
crowd-sourcing apathy
let the trends become a tsunami
let it wash over me
with super-fluent superfluity

a rising tide lifts every boat... oh lord, i can see if from here
kill empathy - it's the only way
a rising tide lifts every boat... and drowns those tied to the pier
but everybody gets a trophy
a rising tide - lifts every yacht... oh lord, i can see them from here
kill empathy - kill empathy now
a rising tide - lifts all the yachts - and drowns those dockworkers tied to the pier
but everybody gets a trophy, that's right

rebuilding, re-breeding like we always do
but people aren’t special these days
we are masses and masses and most of us are surplus
someone's got us pegged
we're statistics, not tragedies, notes, not melodies
in demographic symphonies, playing dusk to dawn
they herd us through the mall corrals, put us out to pasture
buried under short-cut cemetery lawn

nobody gets benefits
but if you ever get in trouble
think of something sad to force the tears
and game the system with your pretty intern face
sympathy's your consolation prize
it's barely sympathy, much less empathy
really just self pity, self justification
the only kind of justice there can be

everybody gets atrophy
listening to your music is charity
i'm counting on your reciprocity
we only live symbiotically
everybody gets a trophy
listening to your music is charity
we gave it our attention for a string of seconds
a canteen in the desert of mutual apathy

music is worthless, information's free
the masses are superior to you and me
they all work harder and they work dirt cheap
they keep busy contriving creativity

i haven't felt right since my last fit of ecstasy
i saw the deadlight, it was no birthright, it's gonna make me wish i never had sight

kill empathy, it's the only way to survive the 21st century
we've done studies, you can't bring your mercy to the 21st century
it's okay, you'll be fine, we'll cut tragedy
make it passe like christian charity
it's a highly nuanced upgrade - some nerves need be severed
learn to love the blackouts and the operation will go smoothly
we'll cut funding to your soul, you can live without a soul, did you know?
you're a brain in a body, arbitrary, we can save your ego
forget your soul just save the ego - the solipsist will benefit
cause you can't contain the biosphere's pain
cut off your nose to spite your face, scorch the earth and mine space
the only answer is synthetic distillation
design drugs, customize genes
cook up schemes, solidify memes
kill empathy, it's the only way that we'll survive this century

everybody gets atrophy
so much to do, but so many to do it
it's been done a trillion times before
the difference makes no difference anymore
so let the crowd source our destiny
let the trends become a tsunami

a rising tide lifts every boat... oh lord, i can see it from here
a rising tide lifts every boat ... and drowns all the rest of us tied to the pier

talking monkeys, earth's greatest magic act turned into a housing tract
crammed into little vocational cavities for lack of opportunities
be sure to buy some anesthetic for your poor sore pegs
of jagged genetic defection
we're food for the next five hundred generations of germs
they're one step ahead, two steps, four steps, eight steps
revenge of synthetic perfection

we're all on the spectrum
you're not unique because you're weak
we're all in the hive mind
no your weakness isn't strong
we don't care about privacy
don't even know what it is
privacy's pre-millennium
can't imagine what you'd want with it

we're all in the hive mind
hive-mindedly hating each other
cause familiarity breeds contempt
and most people think they're better than most people
it's so pitifully predictable that i think i'm so different
just like you think you're so so different
but at least we think we're different in different ways
something to cling to

everybody gets a trophy
listening to your music is charity
i'm counting on your reciprocity
we stay alive symbiotically
everybody is a hero
for getting through an average day
congratulations hero
you blocked out that reality

put on your leather and join a side
pick a seat on the sadomasochistic thrill-ride
no empathy allowed on the thrill-ride
no sympathy given on the thrill-ride
that's your vision dreamer, let the sunshine out
let the inner light burn, let your bleeding heart clot
let the capitalists take care of it
let them venture let them gain
and fuck the ones who lost the game
deal with your own pain or be chained
to the gross global product of suffering and misery
against the grain of society
you'll be insane with empathy
seek self in the hive mind
there's no shame in the hive mind
and kill empathy
it's the only way you'll win a trophy

industrial munitions, lots of competition
plenty of ambition for precision machinery
cheap food, cheap gas, cheap labour, cheap life
the product of the 21th century
summertime is all the time
and the living in queasy in economy class
trying and dying while the water dries up
just giving it the old college drop-out try
or maybe cancel the struggle with anesthetic death
and reach for the pistol or the crystal meth
cause those saps on the coast had no warning, but you do
and who needs the chills of the heat death?

the country voted to do another line
keep the binge going, a second term is fine!
send an amazon donation to the starving hordes
eat popcorn, watch disaster porn
i'm unique, just like everybody else
like ashflakes of nuclear winter
like dental records fossilized
and blank plankton in the tides

they say one day the culling will be done
and we'll be back in harmony
or spaced out in space colonies, no thanks to me
i'm too busy consuming facts of life for breakfast
excreting rich cream filling
recycling waste for efficient malnutrition
unwilling to be the first victim
let the brown drown, the ones who couldn’t find higher ground
the hut people on the flipside of the planet, damnit
let them bear the brunt of the purge
like they always do, they're used to it
thick-skinned holy mass of messiahs
god bless 'em, no! don't look at me
i'm weak, i admit it happily
i don't make a good martyr
my genetic specs support vast sensation
at the cost of delicate nerves
they're destined for the microchip mothership
we'll escape this planet with, some millennium
some millennium, some millennium
some motherfuckin' millennium

nuance continues to squirm, divide
split hairs deep inside
the folded-on-itself cerebral cortex
nuance to prop up hypocrisy
to rationalize racism, vindicate apathy
disconnect me from reality

virii mutating, natural intelligence
casually bandied-about apocalypse
like a sci-fi premise, a rusty eschatology
shallow sutra, string-bean poetry
all washed up on wreck beach, tsunami-surplus

everybody gets atrophy
gimme gimme gimme gimme a trophy

finally finished recording a solo album

quite a relief to be done... maybe i'll actually write some words now