The package said, Extra Soft, but I bought it because I had a coupon.

It happens at least once a week now. I don’t have any control over it and I don’t think any particularly special thoughts before falling asleep. I don’t focus in upon, obsess quietly about, or even ponder it in passing. Mostly before falling asleep, I attempt to masturbate, realizing yet again that I forgot to look at porn for some new inspiration and get by on what juicy tidbits I’ve cataloged in my brain. And no, I can’t tell you what turns me on, I’m shy to the language involved.

And yet, come the dream, come the subconscious, whether its set in a dusty western town, or down wet New England roads, the same action finds it way, the same feeling, almost a comfort coming as a tickle on the heart, a slip of a grin during a dark moment.

I can rationalize it for you, I can break it down and make it simple. Explain the reoccurrence, the stutter of the mind, the stubborn situation that brings it up. An attempt to make the unknown familiar, an attempt to get closer, to feel closer and a small measure of satisfaction.

At least once a week now, and I can’t tell you I look forward to it happening but on the mornings it does, I try harder to remember…

beat beat beat

Sometimes you wonder if this is it.
He's got feet like a monster.
Turn the pages til you get papercuts.
Beat, beat, beat, there's a rhythm in there somewhere, I'm just not qualified enough to recognize it.

long day

What is this? simply my id being jealous? or something more? I thought these thougts were gone, but no, they were jsut repressed. I still feel like i've always felt. Nothings changed about me except my manners. I wonder if that IS all thats changed. I know I care less for many things, and on the same side I feel more care and compasion for things I once didnt. I sound the same, look the same, i thought I acted the same, but I guess not.

Is it better? I mean to everyone else?

I spent a third of a year telling myself to focus on the me, and less on the once was. I spent 4 months being selfish, and thinking this is allfor me. I should live to the fullest, becaase IM here and no one else. cant have it be wasted no can I?

but thats rubbed off now, and Im here, talking about it, for you and others to read if you'd like.

I need to be more polite methinks. I dont really know if that will help but I dont like that I came back truely different. I thought it would be an enlightening experience but now that I know its happened, I wish it didnt happen. I cant control the world.

I dont believe in solipsism. Existentialism drives me wild.

how can we believe as beings that everything has purpose,

likewise, how can we believe we're completely random?

to believe we're random, I feel its too much to ponder existence then. We shouldnt ponder our life if we're jsut a cosmic accident!

but the flip side, whats the purpose? I see strangers everyday that look unhappy or dull. We all do. We invent stories, and forget them. In our minds eye we swap out the faces with any one can imagine. Its days like these that make me question being an artiest, it makes me feel pointless and angry and afraid to know that Im one of these failed participents on existence. Im part of the same system

how i write in my notebook

odor of vinegar --- i read about five
that always seems --- girls whose lives had
to follow around --- been irrepearably harmed
There was a dog --- by the men who had layd
once named vinegar --- hands upon them and the
because he was short --- words that had caught
and sour like bukowski --- in their throats because
who loved women and --- weakness had betrayed
loved his pecker and --- them. I wonder what
the story of words --- the eyes of their children
that flowed around --- are like. the three yeard old
them one and all. --- clutches a bottle of soda
Huidobro takes about --- half his size. All I
the divine creativity --- can smell is paper and
the revery that takes --- ink. What are the value
the poet and all I --- of these words anyway?
get is the low rage --- moving on to the word
I feel below my --- around me I have left
stomach that I --- the past behind for now
want to pinch off --- except in the context
to keep from polluting --- of colors and silence that
any blood vessels --- have had an influence on
the beating of the --- the the way i take my
heart is a simple --- sucks up and ball them
furious motion in --- in the corner with that
the historical context ---
of things. ---

Windex

The smell of memories. I was so small, so high pitched, so innocent. JKujst excited to spend the day with my dad while at work. Those were my favoirte times during winter snow storems and school cancellations. I was allowed to help my dad clean the store. He let me wash the display cases with windex and a neatly folded paper towel. I would go over the seams over and over where the dried glue was showing. The smell stays with me now. Like

Bagelworks, and its smell of coffee. Hot cocoa and chocolate chip brownies for those winter breakfasts. I lived with those smells and the 123 inch tv and a stack of VHSs. My little lego sets too.

Our brains are our time machines brining us back to the past to an extreme not like the original. TImes bubble up and flash memory is always apparent. I remember Joe Tore telling me baout Christina and I under the couch in 4th grade. A flash of PCC, lost connecting memory there. Somehow flash to the cute and flirty asian girl at the museum of science. Oh right, Christina and I went there once. Our only date. Dates outside Dating.

Its all dead now, just more memories. more dissolving time travel. Jy dog. I had a dog. Her name was Saffron, Saffy for short. She died 3 days before my 13th birthday. ti cam over to console me. I remeber I was worried once that my mom got into a car accident on my 10th brithday. the day papa and I rearranged the furninture in my room for the first time. And now. in the present its so empty. Devoid of spectacular spectacular detail. only memories here now. and it fels like a very different place. Ive never had sex in this room but I have. I once had a Knex armada in the corner where my bed used to be/my dexk sued to be/where my closet used to be/where my camera trunk is. The carpet was pale in comparison to the child colors. my carpet shines comfortable now, and I wish I could take it with me now. Every inceh, even the tack holes: my memories. Flash bulbing and windexing my life.

Windexing my life.

Oct 6

A group of us had a plan.  We needed to feed

We would cut the power to the house, at the box in the basement.  

Chris would have NO CHOICE but to come down to turn the power back on.  Even if he brought his nerf pistol, the pitch blackness would force blindness.

I was going to pounce.

So the time draws near, and the stunned brethren join me in the basement for the spectacle.  

We cut the power.

He opens the basement door, but the hall light is still on, he would be able to see us as he turned the corner.  

How was the power still on for that light?!

He begins to descend anyway, and the brethren start to giggle in anticipation for my impending kill.

He hears the giggling. Dammit.

He runs back upstairs, and I chase after him.  I've got nothing to lose now.

He shoots me in the head, the nerf dart pricks me with the same "HA-HA" feeling Mr. Church was giving me with his eyes as he waited for me to ascend the stairs.

I wake up

the three tan bags

a trio like every other.

but its mine.

decaydelay

in the basement building the father with his son
who sleeps touches his cheek adjusts the strand
of hair on his frehead and proceeds
to tell him his future as he dreams how he will grow old
and his bones will be dust but fulfilleda nd how
there will be statues and also how he
will fall in love and how the palpitations
will dictate a course -- also he will speak
of sunsets the sun sleeping in the ocean and he will
speak of the future in uncertain terms because this a world of earthquakes and he will talk about the love between men and how tht isn't to be neglected for the way
best friends will drop off cliffs--hetells his son all of the lesson
he learned watching his father cast stones into the water counting the times they skipped. when the boy woke his father had gone.
this sort of thing always ends in death
love
sex
etc.
et etera

but in the city after is has rained there is amist
that mornign adn the rain is caught by the sun
and surrounding my head is a million tiny
glass pieces and prisms and i wonder if the poetics
of the situation are appropriate because if i had
an apartment it would be a basement and if
i met another peot in a coffe shop i would call
him a fool because he gave up love for a muse
and what is a muse anyway but something
that a junky wants and who can give youthese
sort of answers anyway.

the real question fo fate lies in the decision to
swallow one's gut. to enfold in on oneself.
to engulf ed in a black hole. the city itself.

180

one second playing, the next hurt

one minute searching, the next giving up

one hour happy, the next agitated

one year wishing, the next regretting?

when you finally get what you want, wouldnt you want to keep it as close as possible to ensure that nothing threatens it?  Not even itself?