a moment of weirdness - rusty gears, fucking fusty musty RUSTY gears, oh man, grinding - the ridiculous cycles, paralysis, grinding giggling noise of nothing but...
now thinking about not having the strength for this and that, and failing so miserably as an addict, and dawning awareness that maybe i should be offended, deeply offended, and react aggressively, aggressively commit slow but accelerating suicide... but nah, whether fake or real, there's a better way to live and cultivate appropriate things to be proud of
ugh, what's this shit, journaling? poetry? nah, not quite, neither fish nor fowl, more like soliloquy but less Shakespearean - a bland steady pulse-pattern of cardboard noise in semiquavers under experimentation with polonaise, the plastic version - gold dust in a puddle, runon rivulets of melodic fragments - and then covers, reflections, refraction
5/19/14
swiss cheese
yeah, and that sort of thing, and pointless runon, and giving not taking advice... giving advice like a maimed hydrant, piping up, not down
what was that artificial flow that just flowed like magically-functioning plumbing back in those old days?
state-bound-in-twine cardiac arrest moments
and spiritual program energy lattice forming which an addict mind bores holes in, tenacious, one little thought and allowance at a time, acidic and acerbic frantic clawing for a way out of the simple solution bound to current moment thinking feeling cell
running low on words, trying to ignite three-quarter vapourized gasoline puddles with a random spark generator, blunted and burned off flint, fuzzy edges, nothing to grab hold of
but outside the haze cloud iron sharps iron, and i took that to heart and will have to go on faith that it was a reality of mutual support
cause, poetry puddle dry mud introvision low definition
i never bothered to write much when i had important seeming stuff going on
what was that artificial flow that just flowed like magically-functioning plumbing back in those old days?
state-bound-in-twine cardiac arrest moments
and spiritual program energy lattice forming which an addict mind bores holes in, tenacious, one little thought and allowance at a time, acidic and acerbic frantic clawing for a way out of the simple solution bound to current moment thinking feeling cell
running low on words, trying to ignite three-quarter vapourized gasoline puddles with a random spark generator, blunted and burned off flint, fuzzy edges, nothing to grab hold of
but outside the haze cloud iron sharps iron, and i took that to heart and will have to go on faith that it was a reality of mutual support
cause, poetry puddle dry mud introvision low definition
i never bothered to write much when i had important seeming stuff going on
5/18/14
omniparanoia
passive anxiety dread and sweet-turned-sour, soul-shucked shell
don't want to close my eyes
attention
-
i think i have a lot to say, and then i get a good look at the void
-
investing in words returns a negative
the trans-atlantic garbage patch
the oil sands
applied geochemistry
5/13/14
self-circuit surplus lap
too many dreams and drughouses
maybe all i can write at this point is fragments suitable for dnb stock, ministry of sound radio
vowelize every consonant, ford every stream
and pitch shift that bar and drop out everything but the drums why don't you?
don't you wanna try my crazy idea?
and napalm the reference hedge, ember to ash
pretend i'm not ahead of every curve, including the curve
that's supposed to preserve mathematical balance
stepping shaking over the gutter below those focused with wobbly vision on unstern, chasing the dragons up and down, more synthetic than organic, but it's too twisted together to tell the exact percentages
maybe all i can write at this point is fragments suitable for dnb stock, ministry of sound radio
vowelize every consonant, ford every stream
and pitch shift that bar and drop out everything but the drums why don't you?
don't you wanna try my crazy idea?
and napalm the reference hedge, ember to ash
pretend i'm not ahead of every curve, including the curve
that's supposed to preserve mathematical balance
stepping shaking over the gutter below those focused with wobbly vision on unstern, chasing the dragons up and down, more synthetic than organic, but it's too twisted together to tell the exact percentages
when you buy the synthetic, at least you know you're getting crap
you don't have to fret about organic scams and schemes
when you join facebook, at least you know you're opening your vein
to corporate-industrial-military datamine bloodbank central
just accept it's out of your hands, embrace convenience that balloons
to a plague of locusts that're so alluring, they're features, not glitches
they were glitches yesterday, but today they're smoothed over
even more finely filtered than before
precise cross-platform pollination for steadily sterilized interaction
purpose sharpened to the nanometer, surface turned to atomic dust
yeah, and a vowelized cross rhythm wubbing in my left channel
dust banger, web scrubber, for the sake of -
what they called flow ten years ago - what i called precise detritus
seven years ago -
never been more estranged
even from my best friend, even in death, whatever that is
is it gonna turn me full bore atheist? i don't think so
just getting more or less what i expect from the universe
no answer, no clue, nothing paranormal
but i'll make it up to him
somehow, at some time
when i'm a little more human and whole
indecent and imprecise distance from emotions that should be processing -
so now i can't sleep, so now what should i do now that i can't dream, and
too many dreams and drughouses
sleep surplus, elvescircuits
excess lappage, self-lappage
leavings of the blunt chemical experiment
trails of particles in tensor equations
it could be miraculous that it feels mundane
4/03/14
why the fucking hell do i ever look at my facebook newsfeed?
it just makes me irritated, angry, and depressed - what a stupid stupid addiction - social media is making me anti-social
that was a more profanely worded observation than was necessary - but it kind of fit a mood of casual revulsion
that was a more profanely worded observation than was necessary - but it kind of fit a mood of casual revulsion
4/02/14
3/22/14
3/01/14
college of kinesthetic sponge topology
Introduction: Conduction. Synthesis. Conclivity... Levitate. And there I went, into a plow chute, was worth it for a little bitcoin, for as long as the commission determined the guts grinding the millstone. I can use the word little in its long form, I needn't shorten it to 'lil' all the time.
2/24/14
2/14/14
Contingency
What to do when someone says it sounds "tinny"... as they will inevitably do... as everything you touch turns to tin... beautiful gleaming tin but nobody likes the enamel... and your warm is their cool... and your cool is their warm, except where it would help you... is to accept the fate of being tinny, and go on about the business of transmuting tin from sub and supersonic signal. Import, never export, and amass til you drop from sheer exhaustion. Which you thought was imminent, but look, here's a fifth wind, a hollow howl crossing zeros, never transactions, just manufacture for in-house sequester.
2/07/14
2/05/14
frog on a log
waiting, waiting
Waiting. (is the convention), waiting:
for someone
to make something
interesting
of course, it seemed like things were on the brink
of pouring, but then it became clear there was merely a drizzle, soon bone-dry, like the wit of a wet blanket survivalist
i know, i can't be waiting for someone - i say i'm gonna be the change i wanna see, but that was just cloud talk, man - i mostly talk in references now, but a simpsons reference is extra cool if it's left uncited and we all just know it's a simpsons reference but don't mention the fact, just treat it like a public domain figure of speech, like it's flouride in the drinking water. Hydro-metaphors. Drought seasons.
Until I get a phosphorescent concresence of artistic essence, I'm going to mention things that are real, I'm gonna get real on ya, and raw, like a radio pirate lounging about in this makeshift booth, and say that I'm driven to type words lately, but I'm out of practice.
Also, on the subject of real things, to paraphrase a hundred mile-long trail of inoperable drone-struck analogies, I'm hoping something delightful and unexpected will suddenly come out of the blue, in the form of some one showing me there are ways to be I'd never even known - as such things have happened in the past, but not for a long time, so long I stopped believing in miracles and even drug magic! Ah, oh, drug magic, fairy dust, angular momentum, ketaverse! But I'm so open to fucking up some shit, or fucking some shit up, for I have drunk of the kool-aid, Oh Yeah!
But I can't do much with this fetid fated state of lethargy, I need said theoretical person to make a thing happen, whereby I can be energized, regain old faculties, synthesize never-before-seen ones, generally 'n fundamentally be an all 'round down to earth post-human 21st century schizoid. So this is what it's come to. This is where life begins, at abortion.
Waiting. (is the convention), waiting:
for someone
to make something
interesting
of course, it seemed like things were on the brink
of pouring, but then it became clear there was merely a drizzle, soon bone-dry, like the wit of a wet blanket survivalist
i know, i can't be waiting for someone - i say i'm gonna be the change i wanna see, but that was just cloud talk, man - i mostly talk in references now, but a simpsons reference is extra cool if it's left uncited and we all just know it's a simpsons reference but don't mention the fact, just treat it like a public domain figure of speech, like it's flouride in the drinking water. Hydro-metaphors. Drought seasons.
Until I get a phosphorescent concresence of artistic essence, I'm going to mention things that are real, I'm gonna get real on ya, and raw, like a radio pirate lounging about in this makeshift booth, and say that I'm driven to type words lately, but I'm out of practice.
Also, on the subject of real things, to paraphrase a hundred mile-long trail of inoperable drone-struck analogies, I'm hoping something delightful and unexpected will suddenly come out of the blue, in the form of some one showing me there are ways to be I'd never even known - as such things have happened in the past, but not for a long time, so long I stopped believing in miracles and even drug magic! Ah, oh, drug magic, fairy dust, angular momentum, ketaverse! But I'm so open to fucking up some shit, or fucking some shit up, for I have drunk of the kool-aid, Oh Yeah!
But I can't do much with this fetid fated state of lethargy, I need said theoretical person to make a thing happen, whereby I can be energized, regain old faculties, synthesize never-before-seen ones, generally 'n fundamentally be an all 'round down to earth post-human 21st century schizoid. So this is what it's come to. This is where life begins, at abortion.
2/04/14
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.
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.
1/23/14
1/20/14
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.
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.
1/07/14
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.
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.
1/01/14
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 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.
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.
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