Monday, August 29, 2005

there's a lot more, but ...

You have to find it.

unreAD unconscious slips and corners' paragraphs to parse.


"If we’d wanted your opinion, you would have known it."

Unfortunately, not one, but two police cars surrounded my sad little dirt bike, jammed in the corner next to the stinky dumpster, where I assumed nobody would notice it. From bad to worse, the narrow escape down the staircase, crossing four lanes of oncoming traffic before mounting the sidewalk, for the block plus of pedestrian weaving, engine off, to not scare anyone. Adding insult to unjust ticket injury, the licence had expired last month, and what’s worse, it shouldn’t legally have one at all, forged insurance, etc. I thought, if I sit here long enough, they’re going to leave. Fat chance. The tow truck arrived, and I kissed the bike goodbye. But what the hell. Hey buddy, what if I slipped you a C-note, you know .,. as a friendly gesture from a stranded motorist. Sure enough, the cop was right behind me, reeking of Chinese takeout. Um, hello sir; is the motorcycle yours by chance? Instinctively, I mentioned my friend’s name, who’d cornered by cops, left it and called me, warning he was leaving my bike, and blowing town. Thank god I’d thrown my psychedelic helmet in the bush, and turned my coat inside out.

They wanted to know a lot about this imaginary friend of mine. How long had I known him? Why did I loan him my bike? What was that licence doing on it, when it was clearly only for dirt? The last one was a bit of a tight spot ... what? I found it and what do you know, it fit? A strange coincidence, not. Um, I park in the street, in front of my house. No garage, you understand. I don’t want anyone thinking its ... stolen? Ditched? Doesn’t belong there. I am very apologetic, decidedly embarrassed, does it help? Uh, huh. Not sure yet.

It’s a bizarre sports bar filled with overtly-monied short hairs, bleeding expensive perfumes. Bear with me, I told her. It’s got the best German beer on tap in town. I have little to no idea why these people are here, or who imported the rarities on handles the tenders yank with polish and verve, whole heartedly wasted in style, as my junior high flame belabors her poor relations with her blood sister, while I listen, marveling at the parallels of her then-best friend, later by two years, my first girlfriend, who by conditional coincidence, just left after a three year hiatus. Within hours, I had downloaded their respective miseries, a love triangle misinterpreted, a married man, four kids, a mono-focus, an inability to let go of childhood patterns, a hard road to chisel. The karma of telling ones aging parents what to do, and reacting when they don’t follow the time line, you devised. I almost laughed, when the flowchart came out. Anyway, the full circle is precious ... I relayed by and by, the openness hedging us to it; they concurred and retreated. It’s as if nothing has changed, except ... you’re more dangerous than you ever were. Which I embraced, and declined. More emotionally risky, than being alone and isolated, or sacrificing a wife, or your heart against a married man? It seemed a mite insane. I know them, so I’m dangerous. I’m less likely to nurture when its superfluous, or injure with blatant ignorance. Without compassion, or knowledge, your heart exposed, and unprotected. I marveled at how women will throw themselves on a knife, they will gladly proclaim as love, and willingly lay their lives down, projecting their dreams on strangers’ ignorance of their quirky kinks and turns. I’m dangerous! I thought. That’s a good one. The ‘danger’ is the attachment to what’s real. Innocent bystanders are rarities in this game

I’m trying to project my fears and attachments, my fairy-tale hardwiring upon you, but it isn’t working. I’m trying to make you part of the puzzle of my life, and I know you’re a part of it, but you’re not fitting. It’s frustrating me, and rather than change, I’m going to take it out on you. I’m suffering for my beliefs, and you have to pay for it. It was a curious day which started cool and quickly towered into the nineties. Groggy and under-slept, the fortress of the in-between suspended hopelessness as the blazing temperature crept to my brain’s primal centers, to instigate unrest. I had the bike back, just barely, but rode even faster to manufacture wind. Cars were meaningless blobs I sped around, piloted by robots in falsely cooled capsules heating the plant world of aeons ago to gasses again. Not that I wasn’t, mind you. Yes somehow ... the yahoo!s and brilliant, crinkle-eyed braille of grins I produced, mitigated the negative with positive vibe.

A rabbit breeding girl sports amazing thunder thighs, and monologues incredible facts about Bugs, bunny that is ... I’m trying to concentrate my depression upon itself, but she’s distracting me anthropomorphically, with rabbit facts. I had no idea the mania had such depth. A well paid professional expert with a seemingly bottomless well of obscurities to punctuate her obsession! The entire picture bred avarice the thrumming heat exasperated. Carefully observing her, I see her work and her passion are one, and although mono-focused, the example is one of enduring success which deserves to be applauded.

Jealous behavior behind, the question of cup half empty i.e. half full assumes a stasis of Neither. It’s just where it is! and I struggle to sea-legs my inner-to-outer world caught in the nasty typhoon or purgatory of depression. So many things have gone wrong lately, I feel compelled to mount a bridge, and swan dive to my watery salvation. I gaze at the pile of paper I’ve scribbled, and wonder how many manuscripts have burned., without one soul feeling their hidden power. Smoke begins to churl from my engine. The rudder feels heavy, and the left pressure needle begins to dip. Belief is wavering; the only thing which keeps this airship aloft in a hostile judgmental environment is belief. The Catch-22 churns me. I think of the trickster Chung Ling Soo1, who died via bullet at the accursed trick renown for killing magicians. "Condemned to Death by the Boxers, referring to the rebellion, no doubt. Snatch the ballistics in flight with your plate, tied to the firing line. Nice trick, if you manage to live through it. And the heavy arsenal is moving to point-blank rage; did I say that? Genetics suggests you can tweak a chromosome, and make animals more passive, or monogamous. How a single letter alters the yarn, is shocking, or nearly intangible, depending on the tale told.

"We knew the stars resided at the University of Wisconsin, so we took a road trip from Michigan, to go drink with the masters; you know, see how they do it. Get some pointers. I tell you, it was totally out of control." Which truthfully, did not surprise us. "At first, I wondered why the place was so empty, and what happened to the windows. The one main hall was cordoned off with blankets, and the surrounding rooms appeared to have no heat whatsoever. The basement was a slurry of mud, which seemed to be beer and particulate matter upon closer inspection, perhaps ashes or dust mite residue. Shortly after we arrived it became apparent the zen-like sparsity of the establishment had more to do with flammability than aesthetics, and there were in fact no windows. At night we huddled four or five to a bed to stay warn, in the cluttered attic, which seemed a few degrees above the hall, where all night riots occurred, and they were not beyond burning man-made products to keep a check on the chill. Honestly, it was quite an education in beer reverie."

We popped the cork on a thirty dollar bottle of wine, because good tales are managed by loose tongues, and quite frankly, we could easily die tomorrow. Imagine, leaving that thing in the cellar for when the rouge tritium bomb hits, rendering us too sick to drink! Anyway, it was quite a departure, and a welcome one that falls in you lap, every now and again, making the dirty world magic again. What year was that, I ask him. 1988, at the Fuji house, I think—and the think mark is me. Now that I’m recording its specifics, there’s no for-sure anywhere. And the wind is burbling against the cinder block walls of past memories, wearing them grain by grain away.

Dude, if you ask me for change one more time, I’m going to have to ... the words kill you came to mind. Not very Christian of me, but then again, the Christians are funneling hate into everyone these days through the lens of the rapture’s political aims. How violent, I thought, two seconds from screaming at this dysfunctional maniac, Why the fuck don’t you take your meds?! You’re so freakin’ crazy you scare people. Suck it up or improve your attitude; you’re a toxic waste zone of angst and stress. He was a big burly dude, with an ugly temper, who drilled into you with those demonic red eyes of his, relentlessly asking for coffee money, again and again. I took a deep breath, and tried to relax. I looked straight at him, and ... got it. It’s the brand label. It’s the intimidation factor, he’s cultured. He’s the genuine article Darwin writes about, a high level niche occupant, who’s honed himself into the jagged crack of exploitation others are uncomfitted by. His murderous penetrating stare bored through the translucency I became. "I know what you’re doing; [it supports you] but are you thriving here?" He stood there are screwed his face into an ugly knot. Faces of others flashed by me; the beings I’ve attempted to show shields they carry, to scrape a living from the ground. They decide to protect them, while claiming to let go of them, catching you in their net.

The cops busted the guy being at the interchange corner, flipping off the polite motorists who tried to look the other way, when he wanted their attention. You need to look at me. I want your money, your time, your energy your eyes. I want to suck your soul, forcing you to absorb by self-imoised plight. Little did they know that bastard ran a heroin ring, with junkies collecting motorist’s bulging guilt, after they .... you know. He knows the locals know, but fear to finger him, because money and violence win in the end. I stand there for a while, and wonder whether to tell them he’s running a small time drug cartel ... and the dude begins to sweat.
Can we help you? The cop asks, impatiently.
The other way around,
thinks me.

Truly though, it would complicate things. The last thing these officers want to do, is have their shift spoiled dealing with a rat like this. They’d rather not know. Another obsequious immoral scoundrel with too much savvy for their own good, stinking up the squad car, or what’s worse, having to usher another pusher into their collective consciousness, watching their nefarious moves for months? It’s like realizing the president is a psychopath, or we actually possess the power to heal ourselves. The information does not make your life any easier to live.

The silent actual cowboy, scars from lariats all over his hands, in a blowsy blue button-down covered in gutter leaves as if Rip Van Winkle from another American time, rose from the relative death of the prairies, was unable to decide what a pack of horses was. A herd? We pulled a smoke blackened 1970s encyclopedia from a neglected shelf on the wall as he cradled his quadruple shot of something, and became lost there. I was fascinated by his face, which held ore few businessman would recognize to mine. A short sexy oddly-tattooed hippie circumnavigated the running pool table, to capitalized every man’s eyes’ roving their favorite female body part. Her striking poses of don’t care lingered in the rat brain contact high, of weigh the costs later. The hand rolled cigarette smoke choked unadulterated lungs at first breath; sloppy drunks slurred malapropisms through 4x shots, and outside, a drug deal went bad, resulting in a stabbing. God gam, dis place iz hard care, the cowboy drawls and slurs. Yea, I said. Drugs’ legality ... always a hot spot. When the shit does you, you’re dead. Which surprised, my intellect, cuz it’s not what meant to say. A drug deal gone south is no minor hit, when you’re leveraged ass high in a piranha river, and you’re there for people you thought were your friends. From either side they’re screaming at you, don’t go there, I tell you. Check the blood out front, for the encyclopedia entry. Anti-herd man bites it, from double-dealing fake friend. When your leg’s broken, they shoot you, because it’s humane to get even. That’s the disillusionment factor planet earth maintains for us to breath, to get lung carcinogens over, or reconcile with artistic enterprises. He puts it so perfectly on page 74 and 75 of The Looser, the crafty Bernhard character! given to me by a late state addict’s slow morph into the perpendicularity of the abyss. No matter what you attempt, it has the capability of poisoning you with its insufficiency, and innumerable latent flaws. To think of the sketches which never reached eyes, because of the errors their first line contained, in whose anticipation, no words were written, no pencil touched drawing paper, and little love was transferred to those
starving for it.

AH, Men.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Fascinated with facets of alleyways'

Crows circled the coming winds of Fall, hypnotizing me. A turn of the century cart bundled with dirty rags clattered down the street, cued by a depressed novelist’s words. Childhood friends skittered in and out of mouse holes, snatching curbside crumbs from passerbys, dodging skittering feet and objects like fencing instructors, making a polished point against chaos. The virtuosity of all the things I couldn’t do correctly welled, and presented themselves in dirty puddles reflecting the skies changing states seconds’ tick unwound. The phone rang for the fifteenth time that day, adding to too many messages to comprehend; wouldn’t it be nice to pass out in a heap of garbage, like this man? Drunkenness masks the small defeats and rankness of life’s weights. I stand before him, as he snores soundly.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Landing in Seattle


I wonder what percent of the population feels they have a life filled with difficulties? I’d be interested in knowing. Somebody I work for, who seems to be going slowly insane, constantly suffers under the yoke he daily affixes, hanging more to hamper his load as he trudges. It’s a potent reminder of what we do, to complicate our existence. You could for instance, simply stop trying to help people, and your life would be easier. It’s true. I basically choose to suffer. And yet, I know those whose last concern is others, they have no compelling aspirations to speak of, except to be lazy and rich, or cared for, and they’re miserable with what they’re creating too. It’s a state of concern, when the role models are so few and far between.

Life if full of deities conjugating tricks to confound you.

I had an extremely disturbing nightmare about home, how it was broken into and inhabited by murdering thieves who eventually cleaved my head with an ax. I felt the blade in my skull for some time, after ground back into the world, uniform torn and soiled from the friction of my ungraceful skid. The dream was so unpleasant I lay thinking, where did this come from? How can I turn its machinations to sovereignty from the problem I must be in?

A steaming-hot hour+ shower is like burning a few gallons of gas. Throwing away hard earned money on organic health food, while smoking a pack a day. Face it, we’re all fakes, choosing what to found as the principles we’ll justify our curvaceous decisions by. An old Peruvian man sits on a bench blowing bubbles with a plastic shark toy he appears to be selling, enjoying the winds’ play with the delicate hail of soap spheres he’s issuing to the world. His creased smile of a face is contagious.

At one fifteen, the evening sailed into high gear, as a dark figure down an empty street cupped his hands, and yelled my name. The shadow land character appeared to recede as I approached him, both larger and smaller than life until his maniacally gleaming smile rekindled my memory. Goddamn ma-man; where the hell you been? Oh, around. You know. As if I’d forgotten what life is, minus an address or phone. Well one thing leads to its other, before you know it four twenty blind sides us, now with a Pommie in tow, fresh off the plane. Kreeeiiist! How dat happen again? Boy, I never git any sleep ta say, ‘round you. I laugh. Yo the old pot callin’ whitie black, I’d say. Shit. Look at the mess we’re in. Organic grapes were crushed in the carpet, the place smelled of speed, and obscure music littered every flat surface. Did you have the whole of San Francisco here for after hours, or what happened? Was this just us, or did a troupe of circus monkeys trash the place? Hell if I know. The horizon frosted morning, and I had a flight to catch (minus a ticket) still drinking the evening’s mix of two dollar red wine and coca cola. Fuck man, where the hell did you find that saxophonist? Dude. Is he the bomb, or what?

The young lady who shacked with a companion of mine while she combed the streets for an apartment, jumped out of bed, and headed for the hour plus shower she was increasingly famous for. The puny one-bedroom met its downfall in people like that, as dirt-hardened poverty cases dovetailed in an unconscious synchronous dance of never needing the loo or the shower in unison. I noted her obsession with hot water, and how it eclipsed the outer world on many levels. It was a devious sign, of unseen complications to come. It reeks of someone hyper clothing conscious, who slinks off to scarf a burrito, then has to nap to digest, lamenting her lost time (and increasing bulge) afterwards. Purple makes me look fat, she declared. I can only weather certain colors. Careful, I told my friend, you’re in for a heap of trouble. Why? Dawn said protectively. She’s going to lure you into a trap of generosity. I’ve never heard such rubbish, she protested too loudly. Look, I said, I’m just reading the tea leaves. You do what you want; I’ll stand by our friendship, no matter what. Which seemed dramatic, but you know how these things go.

The moon rose of its own regard on one side, and the sun't straight razor sliced the horizon of the other. Obliterated on stimulants and gin, I rode the plane to the Northlands, flanked by cookie-cutter persons worried about their hair, or whether bags wielded coherence with wristwatch straps, ditto the designer belts and purses. The meteor trail of the actual matters we wonder why about, never referenced itself, as slack jaw snorers recovered from excessive mental activity, or highly caloric meals. The stewardess, bless her heart, seemed to acknowledge my plight, and saw to it my glass was freshened, on the airline itself. We need freaks like you, she seemed to say, although hidden, under her cloak and dagger of real-world work, busy subverting he dominant paradigm from the curtained off inside.

Fueling up the natural gas taxi hose pulling nearly 3000 psi, the soldier off to survival training haggard in sleep loss, tells me his life. The drama of leaving Japan, and its culturally-insulated base, was a palpable ring around him, busy to radiate release. He was raised in Gettysburg, home of a well-known, but less-bloody conflict that paled beside the place he left. I restrained my hidden impulse to ask him about the firestorms which preceded the nuclear blasts, instead, I queried him where his destination would bring him. Do you know where (-----) is? I sucked in my breath. Sure enough. He dropped my somewhat-shattered self in a downtown alley, and continued north. When I got out, two madmen spieling to unseen persons deep inside and surrounding them, conversed oblivious to each other not fifteen feet apart. Having seen them for eons, reclusive paranoid, and anti-social, at least in a flesh and blood sense, the interaction assumed the air of the diabolical, as arguments with other realities clashed when they also, peacefully coexisted, sharing the same piece of concrete street slab. It was a bizarre circus show, I dropped my bag and slouched against brick, to spectate. Slowly they realized another person was nearby, but it wasn’t me. They’s unwittingly knocked on the doors of each other’s manias, and surprised, opened them to say hello. I found myself filled with wonder, at how close, and distanced I was from their existence. The blazing orange ball of the sun ascended, striking century old clay baked in a hell-like furnace, and I snoozed against my backpack, which for long stretches in romantic continents, was all I'd had in the world. The next day, these two oddballs had progressed to the same wavelength. They carried on bizarre causal interrogations, to arrive in obscure places where round corners wrecked poetry. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it before. I reckon it to the sped-up invention of language.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

Lone De-Ranger co mix books

People say I write a lot about bars, but in fact I write in bars, and the clientele make the environment the writing is framed in. I have to get out of my tiny apartment at night, to think, minus the two cats clawing me for attention, and the two house mates crammed into the one bedroom shoe box urban poverty necessitates. The phone reins my dreams with people wanting things I can’t effectively provide, ringing incessantly with new demands I disappoint, invoking judgments which poison me. Get me the hell out of here, I think, bracing myself to the new onslaught of narrow-minded PMS, my narcissistic bad-cop house mate is pressure cooking, to expose my fragile soul with. Where’s my bag? I hope there’s a pencil inside it. I find places where people don’t know me, and I can relax. It’s challenging, when you live in a small neighborhood, and everyone’s seen you around. They want to know what you’re doing, scribbling in the corner, opening bills, and shuffling art supplies across distressed paper torn from telephone poles.

I’m the lone de-ranger, Neil exclaimed, his stud-colt stick pony all strangely imbued with life, quizzically watches the crowd from his right fist, clenched lovingly around it its wooden mane. The characters were thick as nails, and the music was clearly eccentric. Old films flickered on the black and white Televison, long ago affixed to the wall, and here encircled with art supplies, no longer stupefied with depression and regret, Max found the passion he’d laid within himself for safekeeping as a child.

Friday, August 19, 2005

The relative madness of anchovies

Humor is the absolute essence of life. The chronology of drunkenness as time goes on is life. Is that I in the silhouette? The simultaneous equation of life is the living we do, as we expire into the saneness the paradigm hopes to file us into. The relative madness of typing coherently in a pitch black tomb of a bar, when you’re been bell rung eight times by successful fishermen in from the relative death of the seas, is too fantastic to mention , to the sober. The lists made under the influence spurred us into scientology, where the gods we worshiped were fine gain antennas they now disassemble, as the spirit found the path it always wandered, before it found itself.

I was out with a chef who utterly fascinated me, but I couldn’t remember a single thing he said. Oh, strike that ... I recall a lengthy conversation about anchovies, and all the ways they’re caught, packed and prepared. One tiny facet of food, and it was overwhelming. He too far outside my culinary experience base, but grabbing his apron, I struggled to say something coherent, and stay with him. Steam rose off the ice cubes, as the backlit bartender poured her wares, the scene was an ad man’s dream ... how many had woozily seen this moment, and sought to capture it for the company? Live fast, sell hard. What do you want?! NO! YES! The tension of opposites fulfil the requirements of life. I stop him mid-sentence, and weave to the bathroom around faces in various phases of inebriated, adumbrated with daily vices, where to my relief, I found the urinal brimming with crushed ice. Melting while pissing defeats the existential angst of nothing accomplished. On the return trip I stepped on Gandolf’s foot, and apologized profusely ... wizards are often the people you covet as friends of friends, or distant enemies. Incredibly, upon my return, the chef has more to say about anchovies. I can scarcely believe that so many ways have been devised to salt them. I feel the weight of my ignorance on the matter, scratching a line through the food, because I’d suffered the lower echelon of its historical refinement. I adjusted anchovies’ intensity, by removing them. The blatancy of the indicator never occurred to me before.

Correction: he was light years beyond my experience base. Grill that bitch up! Italian green olives not the Spanish ones, dry roast small chopped pork entendre-loin, scratch the grassy olive oil, mind you. We’re all The TV show of cooking from the subconscious/ as a dream sequence, of the motherfucker having to get up and go to work and toil like a Manic Ant rushing around a computer screen you’re mousing, as if it’s your cursor. You know what I mean? I guess. Fuck. I was shot out of a cannon at a stove, and he fried up the scrapple of what made it into the pan. The bartender has been drawn into the fray, and loses her professional edge, which makes her endearingly human again. Good bartenders are control freaks at heart, who find the monster within them, and occasionally let them rage. When the place shut we drank for eleven hours, she said. The lease said everyone had to be out Tuesday, when the demo squad came, we’d torn the place to bits. Every bottle was dry, and I suffered immensely, but I have to tell you, it was great. I elbowed the chef and said, That’s the work of a professional. He adroitly high-fives first me, then the bartender, jumps up and bellows, "Damn Right!"

Monday, August 15, 2005

The actual truths are Diversions Away

"The dilemma of taking your beliefs in hand, and openly living their consequences, slides across boards we populate with game pieces. Transparency is terrifying in its exposure .... which opens us to all forms of attachment, and attack. The ‘open book’ reads one’s life with extremes which educated people convey in subtly, if at all. The primary living clause of one’s work here, is to expose the beauties within us; sensitizing us to the process nature founds us upon, and in turn, showing us what needs to be saved from the judgmental abyss which hollows our souls." Damn. Did you rehearse that, or is it real time? Latter dude. We high five and I miss, slapping the mustard from the shelves above me, leaving an explosive yellow mess on the wall. Nice art. Yea. I get the camera; he starts to finger paint. Do you think this shit will ever come off? I mean ... I know, your deposit and shit. Art’s an expensive subject, as you know. I shrug. Why not ad some blue, while we’re at it? I spattered tropical Cool-Aid mix, which melted and ran to a rather disturbing sign, much like a Rohrach ink blot test. This shit’s a dream, he said.

Excerpts from : Transparency Underlies Us

Danger derives from not letting ‘reality’ occur. The act of being more transparent in the world serves our souls, belying what we believe into form. Openly asking questions surprise the answers with themselves, for not trusting yourself breeds contempt. Hidden fear is contagious; inexplicable outbreaks occur in the orders of the world around us, whose stories precess us towards miracles we missed midstream, even in "falling apart" with a loss of strength’s perspective within yourself. Switching perspectives on what appears to be ‘wrong’, leads us to our depths, which transparent, make lessons for the population to perceive, and emulate.

Resolutions demand contemplative space to exist. The immediate situation degrades the ensuing situation if a position is too lightly, or righteously grasped. Supports point to bases, whose grounding is taken for granted. Who knows how stubbornly the beam is embedded into the earth? We tend to examine who did it, and how it looks. False borders congeal walls we box our insight within, forgetting its claustrophobia in time. Boxes create false floors and ceilings, making you think your feet are rooted to the earth, and the sky dreams your hair to the winds. Automatic writing expresses itself in symbols the questions themselves seek to hide.

In general, reactions are flags waved, and suggest deeper truths beneath their diversions, designed to protect what the outburst directly alludes to. The actual truths are diversions away from themselves, as their intensity makes us go deaf, to the vision they convey.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

'Chicks are like this.'

The young couple saddled with child forked their instant spaghetti from the steaming aluminum tin. They argued amiably, sealing the fate of the future they each swore not to entertain, while the rest of us listened in. It was one of those greasy food hangover cures, eyes at half mast, the list of things to do insurmountable; general destitution ten touchy-feely feet away. Warily, I stink-eye the culprit, placing my hot pepper extra garlic slice between us, lack of a useable rosary and all. "She’s obviously upset about the car thing, but you know, mistakes happen. I always try to be there for her, but ..." I consider the possibility he’s a sociopath, who has simply figured out how to appear caring. His concern seems unnaturally underlined. Why are we going to Vegas, she asked. I wanted to go to the beach. I did it for us, honey. This is the trip we’ve been waiting for; I’m going to show my old haunts to you, the secret underside of the legend, you know? I’m almost glad I’m so wrecked, because I’m forced to listen. This is a man who loves to gamble; I never lose, he claimed. It’s a cinch to win. I wonder how many times the headstrong use lines like that, becoming weaker as they go. You’re losing now, I think. You simply aren’t aware the cards and dice are

A truck backfired, and I was too exhausted to jump. My ears rang high C, and they spoke as mimes would, with exaggerated facial expressions. The eidetic fog fell as the trees rustled to blow, and a cat pranced with a midget rat in mouth still wiggling its tail. The utter, compelling, disaster of home life radiated forwards, as I paced nervously to and from its emotional disclosure. I have a flashback to watching a squished mouse in the road while peaking on acid. One moment bliss, the next agony, spiraling down to darkness. The glue of the universe I recognized seemed to be de-tangling from itself, unbinding essential receptor sites, the flaws of causality occupied. A screaming match, and a door-slam synchronize minds at a distance, the resultant telephone call tripped the breaker which smoked the vintage, turn of the century wiring. Chicks are like this, Janet says. It’s sociobiological. Men can bounce around with different people and things, releasing attachments more easily. You have to be careful with us; we create scenarios stretching into the future we add to, and project upon. It’s extremely hard for us to disengage, once we’ve felt the deepest places with people we love. Which strikes me as (un)equal burden, and blessing. We remember everything you’ve done to hurt us; and from what point, forget the good intentions otherwise? I don’t know. We’re mysteries, to the mysteries of ourselves.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

The Maddening Wide variated scope of things.

At eleven oh-seven o’clock, I draped my hollowed body off her delightful bed, and surveyed the general disaster of the room. The alarm shrieked I swear three minutes after I drifted off, yet spritely she jumped from her pillowy heaven and headed to her tiny shower. My god, I thought. A double-fucking shift! I tried to raise myself, or merely keep my eyes open, but that supernatural part of me was nowhere to be found. "Everyone’s heart is different," she continued, as the room steamed; as if the concert of the night before, had been resurrected and replayed, she shouted : "You look closely at them, at the structure of veins and arteries feeding the miracle, and you quickly realize, no two are the same." Back in the deafening present, the ashes were deep, and the smell of wine strong. My mouth, a broken shoe of cracked leather, groped for the water glass, brimming in 1890 pipe sublimely mixed with Sierra glaciers. Ah, the slick sensation of wet again.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Lung transplant victims of past repressions' repressions


"The crystalline teseract hyperdimensional transport matrix".
The arabic font’s strict translation to English which struck me as exceedingly odd.
I mean, come on. Is this an embedded find, or what?! Like a door closing, and opening again, as the wind has it’s way with it. I cast the I-ching open at supposed random, as if the concept exits and enters at will, despite myself, and freed a disbelief which wells at the core of my soul. Does this, or does this not reflect my inner state? I could not help but conclude it did. The next entry to its credit, did not, and neither did the entry before it. Just as allopathic medicine treats the treatment of suffering, chaos is the treatment of health. Seeing order under the chaos of order liberates us. I slap the book shut, ask a question and open it again. "What did you say?" she yelled from the other room. "Nothing." I yelled back, glancing down to a revealed page in front of me, addressing emptiness from the standpoint of things and non-things in tension. I’d asked about the opposites of belief and collective causality; under what circumstances do they honor each other, or join. What part illusion, what part reality, when I stumble across them in bed, romping around. "Your nothing was quite startling."
she noted.

It was easily five o’clock in the morning, and Shelby had to do a double shift at the hospital starting at seven am. Wine bottles and chocolate wrappers littered the small elephant leg table corralled tooth and nail in opalescent abalone shells bristling with expensive cigarette butts. I could scarcely believe she was patently capable of dealing with dying lung transplant patients, in our depraved, sleep-compromised state, but she insisted it brought he rmore into the state of love, where he mind, exhausted, stepped from the fray of routine, to show her the divine, in what needed to be done, and said. I suppose it made sense; some of the greatest insights I’d rendered were under the influence of dire circumstances, which often included a sparsity of food, security, or sleep. The room smelled of bacon and sage, and the luminous San Francisco fog boiled outside.

You have to train them to live, she said. Their minds habituated to curtain normal activity off, and worry every literal step of the way. If their heart rate goes up, they freak out ... it’s not like getting a new heart, which people adapt to ... the breath is a sacred act, which liberates us, or diminishes us, as the repressions we accumulate compile, and block our channels to the outside world. I see threads of similarity running through each of these patients, as I spend long hours attending to them, asking them about their pasts, their families, their fears and beliefs. What I feel is what the eastern and homeopathic schools have long recognized in conjunction to illness, and character types. Lung failures seem to arrive from nowhere; it is baffling to doctors and scientists alike when patients have no history or reason for the disease, or no reason, with new lungs, not to recover from it. The answers are more complex than we give them credit for, and yet, they are so simple we are blind to them. Christ girl, shouldn’t we go to bed? I suppose you’re tight too? Totally. Fat and sassy, well-fed, exhausted, saturated with wine, ecstatic with chocolate and tobacco. You know, ready for flannel sheets, hide before the birds twitter, and the sneaky sun pokes through the cotton wool outside. "You’re right," she said, "I suffer if I don’t get at least an hour and a half of sleep." "Really?" I muttered aghast. "Clearly, you are part supernatural." "Aren’t we all." She deftly noted.

The amen of greed and coersion

This hits a state of chrysalis in me; I step from the platform of my life, left in smoking ruins, and abjectly survey the financial crisis her instability has procured me. Oh well. Could have been worse, as things ratchet to crux moves, wherever complacency rules. I suppose three thousand dollars is cheap; students pay gurus ten times that rate, for smaller scraps of change than this. I wonder if I’ll be forced to move out, and get the deposit, to cover her desire to cover us with ignorance. Don’t push her, she’s about to crack, somebody said. How convenient, I note. Become fragile to slip the truth, others modify, to save you. Meaningful, smashed bull’s gall litters the china shop, as the dejected owners sweep, and the embittered human leaves, relatively blood-free but poisoned with guilt underneath. Their saw blade of sharp to dull rasps us all, leaving free space to fill with what’s shaved off, and led to dust, again and again, amen.

A fast moving mind stretches itself sideways, into tangents offering insights, others miss. I dropped the load at the bank, and kissed my life goodbye ... gone today, here tomorrow. Of what dies and what lives ... the consensus is strength, and wombs ... the sword yields to the sword, swung by those too dire and freakish, to consider the alternatives. Greed, possession, and the need to control others wills are currencies to tyrants, who’s wealth is ego, which needs to be constantly fed, to cover ... what stretching your neck can show. The world is blessed and bereft with beings channeling darkness, severing higher cords to pursue, their own nefarious entendres they fall on, for swords are sharpened to kill at each point or either side, in arenas of peace or war. A moment of not getting angry, allows the other side to express its guilt, and truth spun into rough yarn, it’s forced to wear. That must be uncomfortable, the sage thinks. I’m sorry you’re so attached to it. I’d help you, but I see you’re wearing it to attract compassion, because you don’t choose to be responsible, and generate it through worrying about others. Suggesting you need to be free of it, you will fight to the death to keep it on, smashing the glass of the china shop, others insides suggest.

The event horizon of meltdown, and feigned remorse others have bled, reminds us of the Crusades, where philosophy and baser natures rage, to externalize inner wars the combatants are not trained to see, unless it serves their masters, who feign to have masters, to show them these truths." It is horrifying that we have to fight our own government to save the environment’, said Ansel Adams, famous photographer (1902-1984)
[(but the government is a collective of its people’s hidden motives/desires)]
I want to add, asking the very werewolf’s wail, who painted the moon
so brightly.

Monday, August 08, 2005

The seething reflections we choose to be blind to.

A dissected brain of sinful nights pulses a glaring dehydration, altogether aligned with the backup beeps of the moving truck, I’d be forced to load. "Can we turn that thing off?" I plaintively whine to no one in earshot. Pained thoughts breed hunger for relief, a state of ever-shifting sands and rude winds churning the grains to dust. The fast forages us to spirit bodies ... that nice metaphor, or sentiment… or what? Of staying "hungry"… yet so many in that position simply become desperate, and prey on others. Ritual jacks into the "God" part of the brain, whose memes have already colonized all portions we ask it to fulfill. The play doesn’t work for those who think they have answers the ‘answer’ knows nothing of.

The forest treads softly on itself, meditating on each tree fall, and the noise it would make, spanning its uncertain future. The winds of self-protection raged around her, engaging her mind to free her spirit to talk; the fire fanned itself to a fury, spitting sparks of hot venom designed to consume all life in its vindictive path, singing the shoots which intended to bloom. In the face of its wall, I became the wind it needed to respire, and flowed into its brightly-lit center. The intensity surged as it secretly felt me, wanting to purge and protect the place it arrived from, and went to, in a demonic flash. Jesus! As I typed flash, the restaurant worker slipped and fell, smashing a plate on the brittle floor. Things had been progressing like that for weeks, events as psalms ... accidents outside as doors slapped their jams, thrust shut in anger, or rage. She was unleashing her power, which destroyed things around her, another way of saying, it cleared the forest, so flowers could bloom. I was in the Que to be vaporized, my number clicked onto the next served reader-board, my ego left, the attachment fell, I was a spirit form, listing from flesh ... assimilating its messages, or trying to, anyway. "I was so mad at her," a witness said. "She was pouring out her shit all over you." Not taking responsibility for her reflection described, in a close other, she’d locked her formidable horns with. "But it wasn’t about me." I said "I was completely elevated, rapt with the drama of someone, so succinctly decrying themselves with no awareness of what they were doing. It was utterly beautiful, if you must know. I’m speechless in the universal perfection, which I stumbled across." "I’m glad you’re at peace with it. That chick is pissing me off big time lately."

Thursday, August 04, 2005

The emptied chick bank account.

The garbage truck roared past the hedgerow of conglomerate protecting us from the outside world, and the echos startled the smokers, talking smack. I realized, they don’t want a baby per-se, they just want love. Babies give love wholeheartedly, with innocent abandon. They make us feel needed, and valuable, keeping the nothing at bay. What you’re doing take on great importance; there is little room to measure the vast intelligence of the stars, and come up wonting. The pointlessness is overwhelming, when you consider the immensity of things. Commiserate with the sultry smokers, we complained bitterly about the racket of the garbage truck. Jesus. At this time of night! What about the workers fighting for sleep? Which I’d live to trailer that night, or morning, I might add. Millions of acts conspired to derail my tranquility, as demands escaped counting, and hours of rest diminished, but when she went to her therapy, at ninety dollars an hour, the sincerity level peaked, and disintegrated again. Funny how crack has the effect; water under the dire brink of yourself, when the swishy edge wears thin ... the dessication o-so, of self, always wins. We had ten thousand dollars which will seem like nothing in fifty years, heaped in a monumental pile of worn twenties, the likeness of which, our citizens quickly forgot. "I’m suntanning, with this in front of me. We should charge admission to bask here." "What a great scam. If we get twice as much, can we raise the admission charge?" Better and bigger business ploys filled the air, as we shot the tips from beer bottles with antique air rifles. "Dude, gimme that! You’re cut off. Shit; my mom gave me that doll. What’s she gonna say when she visits, and notes the hole in its head?! If you weren’t such a flaming poofta, I’d think you did it on purpose!" We laughed, cuz he probably did. Mike was half fag hardy-har sorcerer, and one third bright nickel-coated nail-hard sadist who delighted in grueling feats of endurance, and marathon party nights, ending in all day drinking binges. The other fraction was momma’s boy, which he unleashed for the ladies. Hidden in his glowing heart, was a searing ember the naughty saw, and tired trying to keep up with.

His retinue of fag-hags was legendary among straight guys, and lesbians alike. Apparently he had an enormous shlong, and knew how to use it, occasionally whipping it out in a state, and blushing the faces of those who felt safe with it, as men are dicks with bodies attached. "On the sly, he’s had a delicious few, methinks." I slander. "Jesus! And why hot when scorching’s in reach? The chicks he hangs with would regenerate balls on a eunuch. I’m sure if you close your eyes, a hot snatch is better than a bunghole, or a mouth, doncha think?" We were counting, and folding the bills, staring at the strobe light hitting explosions of glass at the end of the room. "Is that a trick question? Shoot; he’s proactively pretensing himself gay, to attract the TV-beauty queens,who underit all, want to convert him to snatch." "Damn. You might be right! A.)What a conspiracy; B.)can we get in on it, and how often will we be laughed at, fucked with, or poisoned in edgy ridicule?" "Cee ... don’t forget beat up." "Yea. That part sucks." "Still, it’s a noble Darwinian niche." "Indeed it is. I’d almost wear lipstick for it." Fuck! I lost count. The process lasted most of the night, glass littered the carpet and tore the vacuum cleaner to bits. "My mom gave me that too," she laughed, "but I wish she hadn’t. Too many bad memories of hours spent as a kid, too short to push it effectively. Odd she’d get me that same model."

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Beating browshares into swords.

(Continued from the blog Change)

When all the writing embodiments were exhausted, I left the room. It was well after three o’clock, and the sun was entirely blinding. People in low cute dresses pranced from shopping excursions, and straight men slouched with papers on corners, chomping cigars. The infrequency of everything armed me, with a certain vision I’d seldom seen before; could this be the reality I’d sought, under the incorporation of reckless travel and edgy circumstances?

"Everything is in negotiation, when you’re not married." and the he was not referring to self-marriage, where life is the sound of sand falling to paper, but the satiety of water under the brink of the bridge. There was a large article on nuclear blasts of the past, and where the politics came from which demanded them, whereby the Peruvian’s thoughts truncated at late childhood which many cultures deem early adulthood, where he judged existence by the strength and quantity of cocaine, closely aligned with strong drink, music and sex. His stories were legendary; diverting the realm of blatant excess, to swoon the edge of the divine. In the restaurant we were loud and gregariously ordering noting its absence on the menu, but he spoke the reality of cunning culinary mime, and good waiters know what’s up. They cajoled the cooks to whip the stops out, and grill the heart meat slathered with the boss’ imported sauce ingredients. I thought they would throw us out of the place well before the question of coffee and desert. They told me he was over fifty, and had been a caddy for twenty five years. I was dumbfounded. Fifty~! Aghast. The dude had a demeanor of late twenties, gainfully seeking fun as employment. I thought of nobody in particular, and comparted this man to them, finding them lacking in many regards, as one might imagine, bisecting the crazy circumstances of smoking a wicked dose of bud, on the bench outside of the restaurant, my nonexistence verified. Instinct took over, leading us astray; the rampage began.

"Do you think the universe cares if we live or die?" I said, "We’re instinctually attached to and repulsed by the question." My greedy fresh-thought machinations congradualted themselves. The mystery of what we know already coveted itself; more couples slumped on each others’ hidden hands, seeking the glory their egos craved, in moistening genitals. Break beats music vibrated the plaster molecules binding the walls, as we relaxed in a squishy sea of blaring psychedelic pillows, and dutifully passed an enormous joint over our heads between warring parties vying for the dubious trophy of ‘most stoned’. "It all means nothing, and everything, but ... where does that leave us? Everything seems rather excessive, whereas nothing seems closer to painful reality nobody’s shouting at street corners, because it’s so damned unpopular, few will tithe to its religion." He rubs his chin, and scratches his ear. "Maybe that’s the irony we can’t ascend, having pondered the immensity of things." I pretend ... like I’ve heard what he said. Actually, my full attention was doting a radiant flower girl’s breasts, way up firm and high, to quote a song. "What?" He repeats his thought dutifully, suddenly cognizant of what blinded me. "Damn." "It’s a strong argument for everything." "She sure is; probably on E though ... hard to sustain that incandescent quality in the world." It was a sore thought; the deal had gone bad—five thousand dollars was unaccounted for, and collateral was sparse at best, more truthfully wishful thinking, the chain had snapped at a single link, kinetically robbing our coffers for gain. "It’s odd how when the world explodes leaving you fucked, you realize the world hands out directions on how to view its actions-reactioned anew. Take it or leave it; your choice. Suffer, meditate, or rejoice." "Shit... you ready to blow this place?" "To where?"

Into the pulverizing beats we swayed and spun, as jerked metronomes spasmodically ticking a tune of beats per minute, DJs optimized our collective heart towards. The doors banged, and we entered the chill airs of feral cats on fire escapes, and nicotine addicts’ doses. The realities cleaved by the fire door were breathtaking, disorienting us.
"Of course I want children; I didn’t say that wasn’t important."
"Then why are you breaking up?"
"He’s gone a lot ... not very present. I want somebody to knit a juicy, nourishing household with." I elbow my compatriot.
"Did you hear that?"
"Yes I did."
"Crazy. Women are wired completely differently."
"She was actually offended!"
"Yea. Her friend suffers a knee-jerk repetition of what women should do in their world. Be a mom and validate themselves. Make a juicy nest and reproduce, with a homebody provider."
"So easy to say, so hard to resist."