877 cash now

back pain and that feeling of nausea that usaully accompanies too many drinks. a dream of soffocation. a heart attack/ he was too realistic. moneyh troubles and rememberance fo high school where losing u locker combo was the worst thing that could happen to me. nothing is due. it all hits the fan at that time of year. its like these sharkds pla it that way. 56 hour weeks. not a dime. I want to travel again. like that nice old man at the craft fair. to somewhere familiar and confortable just for me. im allowd to be selfish with my own money right?!its my money and i need it now! fucking tv getting the best of me. damn you JG wentworth

So I Can Post It On the New Site

hyena: goes shoopping for turrouble

there was no prompting this time. no reason for my sleep to betray me. Stresses have no cause for more stresses. I change my pattern, adapt to what needs to be adapted to, and still I cant even get a good night's sleep. is it even related to them? or was it a brain fart? Is it a secret desire, kept even from me or is it meant to reassure the tremendous guilt had I not been dreaming?
Amazin what can spoil a day.
it could be a look. or someone's tone.
90 percent of what you say you dont actually say.
so what am I telling people? do they know what Im dreaming about? could they help if they did?
I used to find solace in being able to work all day, it got me away from life. Not even thats cutting it now.

In a cafe

On my plate: napkins, honey packets, blueberries.

To my left: Man, headphones, laptop, window.

To my right: Four women, child, church conversation, neighborhood gossip.

In front of me: Little girl, wheelchair, pigtails, cup of tea.

Behind me: Wooden bench, pictures of Venice, white wall.

Awaiting me: more tea, more blueberries, the road.

you want me to set him straight, as if I am the all seeing all knowing conscience behind his decisions. I cant help you. Im not his master. Not his guardian. Im his friend, like you. and LIKE YOU I never want to see him hurt or be hurt. But he is the only one in control of his life.
I know hes making mistakes. No questions there. But an intervention is not what he needs. He NEEDS to make mistakes. Needs to fuck up his and others lives to the point where he is astonished and appalled. Only after he makes these mistakes will he truely learn anything. THEN your words will have gravity.
Im going to tell him that. I HAVE told him that. My work is peanuts compared to the work he'll do himself.
so im sorry if Im letting you down.
but its his life.

Fine Write

Grrrrrrrrrrrrr Graphic Design grrrrrrrrratification.

EEEyyyyyeee love you I want you.

FFFFFFFffffff Fine Art Find me

Write to me. Instead. In my head

We use our hands - not computersssssss
sssssssssssssaaaaaaaaaah.

The Inability to Savor

Under the skin I'm almost sizzling, enjoying the snap crackle pop of it all. And praying for an action just as immediate, a touch to leave me sired and skinless. Crispy pink and finished. The punishment and pleasure sealed together. I want to burn the roof of my mouth, and cut my fleshy tongue. Quickly left licking sticky fingers and picking stained teeth. To wash you down with red wine, white wine, cheap beer and bathtub gin. To tell you that I love you, and throw your scraps to the dog.

kiss kiss kiss

You are slipping through my thoughts, dripping off my actions. And I want to sink my fingers beneath you, deep into you, and strum music with your tendons; the bass rippling across your skin. I’ll hum my kisses until your mouth is swollen and rock you to the beat of my obsession.

A Song, A Fairytale.

he wants me to write. he wants me to sing. he wants me to write but i can't write a thing. without thinking, without stuttering, without idling wishing for you. like dreaming, not singing, hard to grasp and even harder to do.
he wants me to write. he wants me to sing, he wants me to write, but i can't write a thing. as if haunted, with apparitions wanted, i beg you to come instead of go. and as if parted, before we've started, my warmth for you, i long to show.
he wants to write, he wants me to sing, he wants me to write but i can't write a thing. come to me tonight, come to me and bring, your smile that burns so bright, a touch to help me sing.
For he wants me to write, he wants me to sing, he wants me to write but i can't write a thing...

Steam off the used trucks and compacts.
First thing in the morning I can see what I say. ANd a morning of old ladies warns me of routine.
One lady was so old she had spiders in her hair. living, literal, legit spiders.
I plucked them off of her like a monkey, though I sure as hell wouldnt eat them after.

One day I'll be that old. And if im not careful and attentive, It could be tomorrow. Im already on my way. 2 busted fingers so anything I touch hurts. I'll have the gangrene stephanie once told us about. where it smelled from being washed and bundled up for so many proud years.

Mike laughed when I told him how much it would suck to become blind now that Ive finally paid off my camera. I guess I shouldnt think long-term anymore.

Argyle Socks and Stockings

I want to tell you about childhood impressed by dinosaurs, and teenage years with fists shoves deep in complicated pants.

I want to hold this like the first black clove cigarette I ever smoked, hinged between my fingers as I feigned indifference.

I am convinced it has to go down like a well played chess game, thinking four moves ahead of every metaphor and confession.

As I find myself intrigued without sinister motive.

A sucker for a good story.

You entrust me with your dreams, your memories. So that I can make you remember all of your happy times. do you even think about the ones you trust? for what reason other than title makes us more responsible with your thoughts and emotions than any person on the street? I know its nothing. I can live amongst your memories, like the sandman in your dreams. I can copy your experiences, and retrace your steps, and you let me unknowingly. There was a time Im told when people used to be more concious of their impact on us keepers lives, when you were embarrased to let us in on your family dinners and endless birthday parties. Whether you know it or not, every funeral procession I feel like im missing out on. Every vacation I regret not being there with you. you have that power over me, and im not willing to let that go. The best part is youll never know how connected we can feel to some of you. In fact MOST of you we shrug off. Another graduation, more prom nights, sports events, house construction, long lost friends. Ive had enough of those. I cling to those that go the distance, and make me remember theres an art to all of this. Memories are artistic.

All along

You name it, plan your future around it, panic about it, cry about it, wonder about it.
And then, you realize you have to say goodbye. And you're relieved, and you toast to freedom, and you're surprised that you're sad.
Your body feels hollow and empty now and you wonder if maybe, just maybe, it's what you've wanted all along.

Junly 12

I forget the motivation, but I had to jump. Whether it was to rescue strangers or for shear sport, I dove for the greater good. I sunk deep into the water, touching the sand dollars below with my eyes shut. I heard that little voice in the back of my head, warning me of the turtles I had disturbed. I dared open my eyes after realizing they werent sand dollars at all. I open my eyes to a great mouth, lunging for my torso. The water became darker, as taht toothless beak of a beast closes around my stomach. I knoew its too late, I knew it from the second the water turned black. I died.
It was strangely calming, the utter nothingness of it all. Un-conciousness. In it, time doesnt even exist. Who knows how long I was actually persisting until the radio clicked on?
I guess the myth is false after all, which I gotta say is a relief.

there are far worse places to live. Maybe the weather is afraid of us and just trying to keep us secluded. Its working. Our chords run taut to the tension of snapping. Spiders will fall when let go, tumbling into a reckless new world. For those who have been there before, maybe it'll be a nice refresher, like a cold storm with warm sun. There will be lightning and rainbows. Foliage in the sand dunes. Stars around the moon. high tide will drag us further from our broken spider links to a desert island, where carrier pigeons are the only means of connecting again.Without the birds there would be no new warnings, no updates, not a single tear or giggle shared. Neutrality. so let me bobb, tired and anxious for this new world. And please stop plaguing my dreams, its hard enough sleeping in the surf without your constant beestings, and persistant hope. If the surf sees to bring me ashore soon, I hope I feel what you feel, because last impressions told me you were there and happy.

today, i cracked the shell of an egg on the sidewalk
and watched it crisp under the sun, the way my arm
and the back of my neck has crisped, i aimagine myself
crisping similar to pork, when it has been dipped once,
dipped again, and, like this egg, bubbles.

the thermometer is broken; it has decided to move to florence.

restless

Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont.
Vermont, New York, Vermont.
Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont.
Vermont, California, everywhere in between,Vermont.
Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont.
Vermont, Croton Point Park, Vermont.
Vermont, over the pond, Vermont.
Vermont, Montreal, Vermont.
Vermont, somewhere new, Vermont. 
Vermont, Martha's Vineyard, Vermont.
Vermont, New Hampshire, stop.

Wonder when you're coming home. Wonder if you'll be able to find me.

hair saturated with the smell of bonfires old trees hot coals (eyes too)
thinking about letters and postage stamps on the drive home (always do)
dreaming about reading this new book I have aloud to you
I don't think you'd see the beauty in it
I read it to myself in bed and tiny strands of smokey hair fall into the corners of my mouth I taste you
I tell myself that's what it is
your ghost

out of the tool box, into the garbage

i am that little spot on the wall,
the salamander slime trailing behind all things
the jungle cat lost in the wrong woods
the moon on a sour night
the little details
something peculiar
the strands of hair
the cheese platter served with the wine
the cats eyelids
a dogs nose
a friend
a lost comrade
alone
voice
I am the single cactus through the barren wastes.
I am THAT guy
Im the squeaky door hinge that tries to remains silent.
Im the bar of soap
the gatorade
the trumpet song

I am the elephant, though not the one who needs to be concerned over.
Im the one that forgets
I am the coward
as yellow as anxiety makes me
Ive trapped myself in my own little room
and I dont know what I did with the key.

I am the whiner
the egotistical selfcentered no one,
who knows what theyre talking about
in the way that no one really knows
The prophet, the one whos figured it all out,

if I figured it all out,
why then is it all still so topsy turvy?

I almost bought a book today, about being the white knight, the "army of one" warrior through life.
It was too bibley for my tastes, but reminded me its ridiculous to ponder such drivel when everyone feels theyre in the same boat.
And thats the compulsion, the impulse.
We're just trying to be like everybody else. Especially when we try to stand out.
and be unique.

I eat the dreams of children who are lost

This little boy, no taller than about a couple of feet he walks up to me and holds out his little pale lobster hands and he calls out to me with a sound I could not even begin to describe.

The organ grinder is still and the sky is glowing lavender. My harpschiord no longer makes the right sounds, cat screams pouring out of the hyperventilating rat. Looly loo this purple shark floats above us waiting for the next patient to dance into the emergency room. He bites my knit cap off and I am without conscience

I don’t think I want to eat the dreams of children anymore.

(another transcribed from my illustrious art history notebook)

first I eat CAKE

then i fuck cats. lots of pussy. in dark alley ways andnight skys under hot parkinglot building ehcoeing cement. easy niquil induced sleep brings me closer to god. cake has frosting so sweet my gums bleed. eating up the whole of the world. tendrils seek out the jelly filled middle of the world. All is calm. all is chaos on the moving train. the surge of the desert is deep but the ocean is swift. wail song lingers in my mouth brine drips over my lips the seas of the sky are parting. cinamon expanses heave and roll life-like and slithering like so much kneaded bread. The earth is only the shell of a snail we oze and slime and breath through our sides yellow cheese cake, corn bread and slime. easy waking dreams collected like so many out dattted magazines. we are the best. the worst. here is our last great monument to sodomy our last indulgence. I always chew the host. Its one last waking moment before the earth howls and your brain shuts down. One last shining pictograph before sleep.

ambrogio loerenzetti
-presentation at the temple: consult and share journey man
-allegory of good governement
bichorna tablets
-book covers. closing report for end of elected term.

(Transcribed unaltered form my art history notebook again)

Street smart copy cats eat ten pounds daily checate cheese crescendos spiraling back across galaxys a the apex of the halogen colider in the fine art of conversation traped in the aperature of the single note piano each cream filled orange blooms in the light of the night of actual antiques mysteries humming and churning like so much stomach chyme. rolling and gasping like two lovers spawning deep throaty tendrils grip like summer's last breath bask in the never ending waterfall of lush green heart of the mormon makes love to a cadalac. the engine heat beyond the pass of the first endevors lays the realm of saturn. orange shinny motled clay against the black. Dost did cross an albatros stricken with disentary and mold. Made true by the knashing of teeth and evil sperm filled mumified popes. each long cross section of brain showed sign of decay and every time she spoke the air shook with something like broken glass and lies. Dark broody caves of guilty habit stare with beedy orange eyes. Small teeth that eat fingers who like a snake engorged flesh under scales and tight. each angel sings in teh shower.

(there is a small sketch of humping bunnies at the end.)

(transcribed un-altered from my art history notebook; spelling anomalies and all :3)

Her of hearts of valeintino where for art though arlecchino. the face of my sorrow is the low bearing willow laden with pine cones. Fresh, unatural, sweet smell of pine and weeping branches. can you tell me where my love has gone where my deep teen angst has left me now that it is gone. Apathy lodged in the side of a cowboy's head. A mother singing soft things in the night. the soft whale song of the city promising sex breathing deep poison and sloshing heavily of bile.tendrils in the earth sing and resonate slowly of warmth and cute boys never fucked. they sway and moan like so many soft reeds in the miniture wildlifepreserve. feeding rats cocain in the summer rain. needing nothing for protection. needing no one never. need love and finding none. Even il capitano deserves love. even he deserves. I am the end to the means of the last desert highway. After me there is nothing after me and before me. there for the grace of god go I. Over mountains and hill. through valleys spilled with Quils and ink and well hung senior shows. I walk I walk I walk till fingers bleed and mountians talk ia m a warrior of sodemy of guentletted Joan of ARCS and sock monkeys. even I don't know what that means. I am not for the fiant of heart. I make weak hoys cry and the strong pay no heed. I am the cold rush of wind after a funeral I am the forthcomming pitcher for the pope's only duaghter. I am blue, green, bright light testing all bounds of neo nazi thinking I am buhda a pun on my throne. I am the last of the mohegans.
the sun is bright but I am so very dull. the earth is cold and sometimes I feel very alone.

upday

today we packed a van with boxes
for a trip taht will take hours, almost
nine, if we're lucky, if that's what we're
going for.

we have a place to live, and its walls
are purple, and lavender is growing
outside.

i am waiting to become famous. hopefully
i will hear back soon.

Roots

Uproot again. Tear away, replant. The roots, they'll grow, they'll find what they need, and you'll have to fight against "out of sight, out of mind."

Think of a shooting star that youve seen in your lifetime. Any one of them, just pick one.
What was your wish when it fell? Did you ever think it would come true when you wised it? HAS it come true?
Now think of its duration. A blip in time, and its already faded, lost, making you lie waiting patently for your next wish.
Did you ever, while watching, wonder as to whether these stars are falling towards us, or away from us? Are they finding the wishers? Or are they trying to escape from fulfilling our hopes and dreams? Do you think this would have effect on the past wishes that have already come and gone?

Does your attitude about that star affect your attitude of the next?

Does if make you wonder about the rest of the shower?
Whether THAT one was the best or merely and appetizer?

What happened at the end of your meteor shower? Didnt you linger outside for any last surprises; hopes that youd get a secret showing when all others had lost faith and interest? Or did you duck out early because of the cold? The best showers are always in the coldest, harshest conditions Ive found.

I? I linger. And now, my wish did not come true.
But it was one hell of a star.

perpetual motion

I'll be by the river as much as I can. With the bugs and birds screaming and the water roaring. I'll sit there sweating in peace and quiet letting my world course through my head.
And i'll wish you were there.
We could scream with the bugs and bird. We could roar back.
We could talk about our worlds.
Discuss lives
But you're too far away.
So I'll sit there, by the river, by myself.

Ill miss the indecisions. the way we never spoke to anyone and complained how crowded everyhwere was even if there were only 150 people on campus at a time. Ill miss how alone we feel when we cant get a moement to ourselves. I might even miss the fights, the unspoken arguements that should have, but never happened. I'll miss the noise, sit in my room in silence and thinkj " wow, its really over. what next?" and no one will be with me to sympathize because we'er all on our ownm we always have been. And I knoew that this means little to many, but I dont care, because this is what we're here for, like a planet fitness for the mind, and we;ve got lifelong memberships. So judege or dont, I dont care. I dont feel guilty for anything I may have done, I dont regret any decisions I've made over the past 4 years,, Im now starting to see how it ALL strung together, I believe fate is what you make it to be, and Im making mine positive. somehow.
I felt bad for a while that I wasnt leaving a legacy or anything behind. Thats still true now, but what could I have done? We never speak aloud our thoughts until goaded, or until its so pent up in us that we need to expel. Everyone here knows about the need to expel...
I'll miss the lost opportunities, the lack of goodbyes, the times we needed a good drink but were to busy to be bothered. I'll miss that time where we never hung out when we should have. And I wish sometimes we werent hanging out when we did.
4 years come and gone, and like highschool its all over/. I havent spoken to anyone from highschool since graduation, and Im sure and worried that its a repeating cycle.

Being an adult

i realized today that I'm all grown up, looking up my nostrils
in the mirror and finidng nosehairs up my nostrils, mirrored
back at me nosehairs. It's a little gross to think about. It's a litte
gross considering how they can tease out, twist, curl, tangle up.

I realized I'm grown up when my friend told me he wasn't coming
back because he had been kicked out. I realied that I'm grown up
because that didn't happen to me. And I'm sorry that it did to him,
but I'm glad that it didn't happen to me, because I worked for it
and, well, I'm ashamed of that, and that is, I'm told, what being an adult is.

Visuals for the beast

Why are we fascinated with the gruesome? Sea Monsters, Horror - blood, guts, ghosts and their dusty, moldy, gooey bones? I cut my finger a little over a month ago and was close to fainting - it hurt so bad and took forever to stop bleeding - but i wanted it to stop so I could see the tissue underneith - somehow I thought there'd be more texture more sinew. Mangled bodies and cruddy crusts of bottom ocean dwellers (and glacier-formed lakes), skeletons and supposed spirit shadows. Of course the answer is instinct and carnal however natural, I'm not sure I'm proud of that part of my curiousity.

Howling

9:30 the dog howls. Chained to the porch, rain dripping from the links, he howls. Like the Lady and the Tramp dog, he's sad, lonely, dying.
But it's every day. My bed up in the bay window, big white comforter and king-sized pillows and Beach Sand-and-Japanese Maple walls, he intrudes. The outside world comes in. Howling, knocking, crying.

this is for the wolf: metaphor

i'm not good at telling the truth and so what i want to say i choose to wrap up in a ball store it behind a metaphorical wall that is to say a wall made of metaphors becaues when you don't want to tell the truth, what else do you do? you obscure with truth with a blur of fashin, writing sense and sensibility.

there is a story that i'm sure you've all heard about a lion who pulled a thorn from the toe of a mouse, at least i think that's the way it goes. i'm sure you've all heard the story of limes and peaches. how jesus decided to feed the multitude with jell-o snack packs. what i'm trying to say is that stories are journeys, and so the first metaphor will be one about a journey. it has already been established so know that when i move on a step we will be speaking about a journey.

absence is best defined by filling space with as many things as possible the mutltitudinous stimulation the words best fit here nonsense even any word you can come up comjunkular blatntantabulous rumtumtibble anything to fill space becase space is time and filling space is filling time and time and filling time is the only way to fill a space of time because if you don't then you'll learn the secret you'll know the trick of the game you'll know the way time doesn't really work with clocks because clocks are ALWAYS there always FILLING the SPACE of TIME with NOISEsoundconstructionliketicksticksticksticks so what i'm trying to say here is that in the sapce of a journey there was an absence remember to apply all metaphors back a step or you'll miss out on it. absence and journey.

it's not about absense during the jurney but absence after, like a death in the family, like the cliffhangar. it isn't s o si simple t o o o o type.

this hyena hasn't been good at keeping up with things. it's because all he can think about are scraps. it's because he's survived by scavenging for rotten flesh. wolves PREY wolves are after newblood. hyenas are too busy with scraps. images and words, right? the balance of the balance of the balance of beards and moustaches. that doesn't mean anything. it's a space to fill an absence where the reek of flesh is.

the question is how many words can i type to fill a space where a few would suffice. i argue infinity. i argue at least (if I could check the wrod count on this post) 500. 1000. enough to fill a page. enough to fill two pages maybe. how long was the last? how long was a story about a paper doll?

i saw your video today. it was amazing. it made me realize things. it made me take note of outdoors. it made me wonder about the value of words and space. how much absence?

events in a sister's dorm when the room is dark and i am awake

Spiked cider, dorm room, top bunk.
Rain, flashes of lightning, thunder.
Knot it my stomach, red in my eyes, pain in my breast.
Thumps on the walls, car alarm, door slamming.
Saliva, saline, salt.
Tired, awake, dreaming.
Hum, whir, tick.
Sleep?

nonsents

sepulchre. labyrnth. pasadena. tolouse. gerbal. wordsmyt. blaggurd. belunns. tubulur. blur. tubdblur. tensent. twenysent. nineteef. sallod. taberspackle. luftwait. falsy. hamjam. valgular.

rainballs

like roses on fingertips. the rain needs to learn not to take itself so seriously. the rain needs to learn that typos happen in the course of things, and that it's important not to erase. the rain needs to learn that it doesn't need to carry a knife on the subway. the knife needs to learn not to be afraid. the rain needs to learn form the knife. the saboteor needs to learn from the rain. hence balalnce. hence balalalalalalalalalance. its ululuations. ululations. ululululululululuulations. the rain needs to learn that money doesn't grow on trees. the rain needs to learn to sing sometimes because how else are you going to live. the rain needs to learn that twenty-three-years-old-is-not-too-old-to-be-old. the rain needs ot learn that its okay to drink. the rain needs to learn that its okay to get high. the rain needs to learn that when its raining it should wear a raincoat, rain's coat. the rain needs ot learn that its okay to love. the rain needs to learn that its okay to juggle desire. the rain needs ot learn how to go down on you better. the rain needs to learn how to tonguewaggle. the rain needs to learn how to type faste.r the rain needs ot learn the esence of motivation its strugles how it goes how it goes how it goes.

there are still mad hatters to invite.

so here I am, cold and alone in the room of my judgement. In here stands the epitome of what I've been studying for. And I hate it. Ambivalence prevails. Horrid, sloppy, cheap. The time I've spent does not hold when seen up close. This should have been done in 2 days, It's taken me a week, and life is running short.
Meditation, comfort, 120 flights short of revelations but still in understanding. Closest to conflict I've ever been and yet still holding ground. Academic oblivion is on the brink, but we must not give in like Artaz from that movie. You know the one. Where Atreyu perseveres, because soon he will realize that life will always go on, and to give in so early would only be sad and pointless. And heart-wrenching.
So I remain in this room, with my make believe yellow wallpaper, and I'll screw on. Each hour that goes by I wish I had it this entire time, but in not having it I should be thankful. 2 semesters on the edge of snapping would stress my joints too fully.

And will anyone see it? Will anyone care or understand? Will you? or you? Im sure YOU will, and Im sure that YOU wont. But like I told the ET, its not for school. Its for me, and it happens to come with the perk of fulfilling a requirement. That reminds me...

Over. And over and over. And.

All my thoughts, as of late are cliche. Time is short. I want to change my life...is this all there is? etc. I can't seem to escape this "Groundhog's Day" gag reel. My fingernails are getting worse. Then I think to myself before taking a step the direction of wild, "what have I to lose? Everything in just a few people." Well, crap.

Movie-life

It's a movie-life and we don't want it. Didn't ask for it, didn't look for it, didn't choose it.

It'll get rid of it all, flush it away, make you forget and never look back. But you'll feel it sometimes and wonder what it is.

Slice

I will whisper, I want to be sweet like fruit; I want to watch you wince from my juices when you put me to your mouth.

snapping the light, let it bust outward instead of straight and true

to taste it once again, to fall into that cage of distortion, or incoherence, or revelation, of the stereotype.
I know this isnt good, me missing it, but my plans thoughts dreams goals decisions adventures were so much better before I lost it all. Even right before a hair cut, there was some remainder. Im ashamed, as I think anyone in a similar position should be, but I realize that these events of the past are all I have to link me artistically to those monuments. It isnt uncommon, its far more acceptable than one in the light would at first believe, and it was only for experience.

I've had that experience now, so i need to stop. whats done is done, and I wont let the habit strike back.
After all, I choose to forget the bad trips. And I only really miss the clarity, the pristine muddyness of the mind. Making sense and having epiphanies only to forget an hour later. Writing was so much easier then. Conversing with strangers was exciting and welcome. Avoiding authorities was a gamble on the whole deal.
The other side
of distortion.

share

right around the corner and its all over. In a few months time will be like no other time prior. and I can hardly wait. At the same time, what will I do? I cant work, I wont interact. back to that unstoppable pursuit to finding the perfect moment. The solitude where I can call a location mine. I dont want to settle for the parking garage again. The concrete was hard on my bum. And what will happen to her and I? I'd like to see her but I dont know how or when. Maybe her birthday, but thatll be 3 months in the waiting.
And afterwards? I'll be working or something forever.
i dont want to work forever
I want right now, to persist for eternity. I'm so comfortable, here in my little chair, empty and loose. My clothes are fitting perfectly today, no muscle pains, Im clean.
Everything is so quiet. here I am, "working" and no one is making a sound. the loudest sound is my fingers right here and now and the heater humming away. keeping me comfy.
And here I'll remain, for better or worse.
so now what?

I'd like to go on, but will anyone read it anyway?
are you reading it?
I bet you are.
so what do you think? what does the summer hold for you, reader?
I'll be eager to read your ramblings.

Motivation through spirituality

Hello folks. Many of you may not know me, in fact, I am slightly disjointed from this community. However, I always have this nagging feeling, like "I really wish I spent more time on Matt's Arumpahpah: gardyloo! thing.

Every month or two, I will get exited about it, and start thinking of things to blog/rant/expunge from my mind on to the webverse. I will go through past posts and enjoy the talent, but eventually I will be bogged down by the immensity of the catching up I have to do. Soon rapid firing brain will move on to the next tantalizingly fun idea. Without finishing here my mind moves in a never ending cycle of zipping from idea to idea, without any completion.

Well finally I came to this realization, with help from my lifelong friend Travis.

Now I know this is sort-of going to turn into an advertisement/endorsement of another blog, but before that turns you off, I implore you to keep reading.

Now my buddy Travis has spent the last few years devouring a plethora of books, blogs, and websites devoted to self-help. He is also quite a spiritual (hint hint.. spiritual not religious) guy, not the preachy type though.

Anyways hes combined these two elements of his life, self improvement, and spirituality, and created a blog about how the two are inextricably linked.

His ideas here are whats opening my eyes to now ways of bettering myself.

I hope you will give it a shot, even if your not into the whole spirituality stuff. At the very least it makes for great reading, and content that makes your mind churn.

http://www.thinkingspirit.com/

Jesse

Ps, I hope to be around more often!! For real this time!

sour baggage

we were statues interacting. My hand outreached putting the ball in her court. The next move was critical, real life chess. She hates chess.

My hand outreached, honestly not knowing what to expect.

Statues beginning to erode in a vacuum.

Then she took my hand, and we were reanimated. The color returned to our cheeks.

a good sense of smell

Every now and again, I catch a whiff of something familiar in the air. A trace of what it used to be like. The smell of freshmen year, a year when all was unfamiliar yet all was comfortable. A year of alternate realities, and bonds so strong they could support the world. I smell this, like windex, wafting from time to time as I walk through campus. Something about the air tastes just right, so these feelings come flooding back. My first roommate. Pokemon into all hours of the night. Metric cups of winter sand carpeting the floor as I walk everywhere in my happy feet. When music wasnt in style. When the circle was tight.

I've recently discovered an old friend who after telling me stories, is now more dear to me than I ever thought possible. Respect and adoration, understanding and sympathy, minding ones own business unless fatal. These are things we have always exhibited together even without knowing it. He and I always reminisce, and we now know why. While we prefer our current status' of the present, there was something magical about the child years of 2006 and 7.

I keep catching that whiff, that taste in the air that tells me a lot of time has passed. A lot of things have changed. We're all on our separate paths now. All of us. And while we may miss each other when we're gone, we have no choice but to flourish onward and upward, and hope the rest may too.

passable

it is the act of the witticism:

"Knock knock"
who's there?
"Aleph?"
"Aleph who?"

Where does it go from there? Joke joke joke
there once was a man from nantucket,
the ilk
the like.

it is the act of witticism:
birth & natural disaster

it is the act of a single, potent witticism.

i don't know where this is going; but I usually don't
it's usually about the footfalls, the long steps,
the brief parodies of movement, the fantasy
gouge, the blatant apostrophe, the terrible
triptake, the sly beast, the breasts like moonlight

here is your story. you can understand what love feels like,
and what it means to be loveless. you can understand what
wigs are like. you can understand the Principle Of Beards.


It is a competition to come up with a punchline.

(1460)

What's left in these tiny states but the interstate out to somewhere new?
Memories floating in every landscape
Each molecule holding the bitterness
No doors will open but the ones with exits signs glowing above.
No windows to sneak into on late nights.
But out there
Past the doors with no door knobs on our sides
That is where we will escape to a place where the sun only ever rises.

gray

reading all again I get lightheaded and dizzy with memory.

I see it all, over and over again, all of our strife, our accomplishments

I see how much we've changed since we all met each other.

Its different than high school and middle school, where one cant change but now we're adults, we can make choices and see the progression and consequences of our actions.

Relationships found and lost, grades up and down, rooms messy or clean, even hair long and short.

Its too much to keep track of, but after looking at it all again I say we should all be proud of where we are now, for its these changes and experiences that define who and what we are. Regardless of what we are, or who others think we are, be proud. Had anything in the past been different, you would not be who you are right this second. You may not even be reading this had the butterfly effect not taken hold of our existence.

Too much is left to the unknown should we wish to be different. The "what if" scenarios never could play out like in our heads because we're only human, and cant see all the variables.

I find after all this time, burning my past was not a good idea. Memory is so one sided, and I know if the writings were not tossed to the flames, I may relearn some tidbit of realization that could help snap everything back into place.

but memory is so one sided. So black and white.

I'd like to think Im gray now, have been since Santo Spirito.

And im told its noticeable. I hope thats a good thing.

timidity. humiditiy.

timidity. humidity.

halls. (empy of me)

pacifier rights. cuckold.

swell. hubris.

ketchup manfucatured. huddle.

you have beautiful eyes.

childball. stainwaste.

perfected. temerity.

baseball. balls. testicles, to be frank.

come home with me. faithless.

peanut butter and honey

there's a letter under your bed, but you'll never read it.
i've sealed it with wax, like they did back then.
it doesn't say anything important, really.

remember the time we made those peanut butter sandwiches?
the honey you drizzled on top, soaking into wheat bread and making something i thought was beautiful.
heavy on our tongues, sweet in our throats.
crumbs on your chin, on my lap, on the floor.

it's sealed in wax and maybe someday the landlord will find it.
read it, fold it up, tuck in away somewhere because it seems like it's important.
but really, it's not.
not anymore.

we're all 2 faced

all of us, no matter the circumstances are people we would never let on to be.

Secrets so dear, so close, no matter who we surround ourselves with, the whole truth stays hidden. And was it really that much of a surprise? to be innocent or ignorant of the whole big picture? Even now, I think and believe in things that I wish I wouldnt. I know full well details I'll refrain from referring to when the questions are asked. I have those same secret desires, the wishes, the needs to explain everything, but one person cannot handle the burden of all my blathering. I could tell it all, and I have, but I need to tell more than one person. and I worry the people I surround myself now are not the ones who can handle my complete truths.

Likewise, I wont handle theirs. I learn nothing I want to from them, and I cant go to them for support ever, because more often than not, they are part of the problem, or have been. Everythings connected after all.

Everythings changed though. One solid bridge for support and direction is now a delicate spiderweb of alterations, misdirections, lies and fragility.

Im all to blame. But I suppose that would be unfair to those around me, to the people that care.

It makes me want summer to come sooner. I'll claim connection with the ones I hold precious, but I wonder how I'll hold up relationships with these friends. It wouldnt be the first time I've left somewhere and never looked back. but I always look back and cringe at what I've done, what i do, what I want to happen, and Ive always been that way, so how can I change?

But is that fair?

I dont even know if any of this makes sense anymore. My dream now is one of solitude. Not loneliness or separation, but solitude. I'm my own best audience, and was a fool to think anyone around me would be as moved by my show as I was.

thats enough, time to sign off.

I'll prolly post something in another few hours

world peas. butter.

world peas. butter. albatross.

word association. burguny. breakwater.

docks. hot doc.

streamline. baseline. passing line. forward.

tableau. art. chalk. talkback.

faith. fearless. foolish,

sage. parsley. rosemary (you know the rest)

tablesalt. spell. names on walls.

simple. fulcrum.

gravity well. bone.

seesalt.

RE: backyards and falling stars

after travel: realizations had

unexpected twists and full of hypocrisy

negative views and self destruction

would I regret it?

do I still?

each day runs in a parallel loop, a dimensional slinky.

where this passes

a familiar hitchhiker reminding me of a chance of "what could have been"

a what-if scenario played out in one direction, as if from a movie.

and now im in the audience,

and ask if I still regret it.

The Back Page

He said, When have I ever promised you anything?
And I wanted to laugh, I felt my cheeks burn and the moment turn movie classic.
Of course, never, how could he? Who'd even want such bile...
And his poison coursed through my veins, so aware of his poison, I writhed.
Another sip, eyeliner rubbed to bruises.
Days would turn to years before I'd have to twist like this again.
Time is relative.
Fantasies taste better than swollen lips.
And I find myself becoming a woman and forgetting how to cry like a child.

2 wolves in overdrive

2 wolves in their own packs, once carried each other.

bite marks on both now circle the same woods picking up each others trail and avoiding it.

Each claiming territorial superiority over the other silently.

Their concentric circular trails at equal diameters, now growing shorter?

what awaits at a black holes center?

ultimate realization?

or utter oblivion?

or is it cyclical? and it all to repeat once more.

Waxing and waning like the chaos spirals.

Child-Lady

I am just a whisper. A constant child on the outside. you look at my front stage of bundled winter cold and my small, shyness and must think, "there goes the child-lady."

bunches of tantrum words rise in me at these passings by, every day. Every day starts with "if only" and ends with "never." I make desperate attempts to convince myself it's their loss. It's your loss. I am the nice one. The one who listens, who cares. smiles on faces holding hands - frostbite - but together with no hats or scarves.

Why not me? So easily answered - so many different answers I see it as truth. Don't think like that - you don't even have time for a guy in your life. Yeah, but I'd like to have the option.

Am I not alone in memory?

It stings far more than I thought it would. It was of no surprise, but a slap in the face is still a slap in the face even when you brace yourself for it. There was no provocation, no reason as of late for it to happen, though it did. and I suppose it was long overdue. And the worst part, I dont even know when. Must have been at the outset of the new year. Both of them.
Like I said, I'm not surprised, but there was just something about it that made me hopeful I guess.
Oh well.
I suppose that chance encounter will never happen. It's true, the more you think about it, the less likely will it happen the way you imagine it to be.
so why do I still think about it? And am I not the only one of us like Ive secretly suspected all this time?
Am I not alone in memory?

Sunday Pizza

Breath in. Sigh. Sunday - I hate Sunday well no don't I hate the expectations that come with Sunday. Did you do your your homework? No. Then you can't draw you can't work on your own stuff. so how else am I supposed to do it? mmm pizza. mmm warm nap - I wish someone took it with me. well, I'm sure they did, just in a different bed. What the hell is that sound? I hate waiting but I hate being alone. I feel I can use the word "hate" because it's only geared towards myself. No guilt involved. mmmmmpizza aftertaste - *pause for bite*I took two - I'm really hungry. I want Lo Mein and Crab Rangoon. How can Chinese food be romantic - it's so greasy! Sometimes, I feel like I don't chew right. because my mouth is so small. Small and child-like. grow up you're going to to be a teacher!

Tuck away

"My sister and I always had to choose between going blind or going deaf. We'd talk about it in the dark. Eventually, one of us will go blind and one of us will go deaf. We'd have to figure out a way to communicate because, God, what a lonely world it would be without a sister.

I sometimes thought I'd prefer to be deaf. I could still walk around, travel, explore the world like I've always dreamed. Curl up on the couch and read a book.

I sometimes thought I'd prefer to be blind. I could learn how to read with my fingers and stay up all night talking, and it wouldn't matter because it would be dark anyway. I could hear the music and the sounds that are so comforting, so valuable.

Then I realize that no matter what, I could only communicate with my sister with some sixth sense. So I'm looking for one to tuck away inside me until the day comes when we lose our senses."

3d person

I tell people I try see everything from the outside. Unbiased, ignorant. So I can give an honest opinion and judge how it would look to me if I were a stranger. I saw myself from the outside for an entire semester, to make up for the semester previous. I kept my ideas to myself and felt as though I was the only target of my reflections. But I was wrong.

Given all of this time, I havent had any truly contemplative moments where I see others as I saw myself, or really saw myself as other have seen me. I see others, and I see myself, but selfishly.

And I dont even know where Im going with this anymore, so if you have any ideas, I love comments.

yet another day

so much olor so little laces to visit where I can be free as the ealges engagered as they are you cant even take a feather without taking a bite out your banbks asss. 25 grand or somehting rediculous like that. but without the feathers how can I make the wings to fly where i need be? Wax is nothing, thats the caution, the feahters are the ghings you need in life that are restricted . Without those feathers i cant escape. no hope but to stay in prison. I can smell the salted air but can never again tast fox's ice cream. the rocks would be a nice place to contem[plate thes things, ut now theyre overrun with tourists and people like me who only want ot feel uniquie. people like me. its not fair, we try so hard to leave, but we all head for the same place, so how can we escape? when would we be free except to hold back. I dont want to progress if it means the restof the world will keep moving forwards with no cares for me or my feathersuit. They'll call me a chicken, some tar and feather victim, but I'll know what the real score is. I'll show them.

paper:flower:girl

folded like paper the flower girl at the ehart of things
she's up in there inside of me under the ehart with hear
that's red like setting sun not to beat around the bush
but she'sa mermaid and she flies and i've seeen her carried
i watched the ocean washo ver her the way it does
now the way its washing wright now the way its washing
over me its washing over you can you imaging living at
the sea side and never getting buried under the sand
that what is like that i promise you is what it slike
being baked
like a pie
being baked
under the sun
being baked baked baked baked baked
baked baked.
its' laa relative. the nateur of baking. the nature of the potato who's been sabotaged. the nature of the rose thorns on the patio. when pricked when bleed. when baked when dead. when ravens and crows convene to congregate about rose throns the black of their fetahres you can't see through its like ink, like word.s i wonder if anyone knows the truth of hte city. i ownder if anyone knows the beating hearts. i woner for you, mr. loner. i wonder for you mr. skin and bones, under this ghaggard flex. under these nipples udner these hair. i wonder if you've been baked. i wonder if you've been the city. a tumultuous pastime. i left os many behind. i tramped a girl under the city. i trampled a girl under my city. she remembered loving me once, and i told her about the curls and about the rubber soles and about the word that gets pressed when you stamp hard enough. i told her about the times in the night.
dear lady,

i love you

dear sir,

i love you

dear city,

i love you i love you dear city my love. somewhere under concerete is kin and bones. somewhere under iron is the passivity of grave. i wanted to talk about grace but all it comes out as death as skull and pones buy.

dear city, dear city,
dear city, i love you,
dear city, dear city,
this hoel, that i love you

its all coming out here, in this little letter in this last note to grace the end of the colelction.
this matter ofthe city. this matter
of the asphalt. the i disappointment
of the matter o f the asphalt.

the clock ticks down.

dear city.

the clock ticks down.

dear city.

simic writes that the end is as meaningless as the beginning,
or, that isn't correct, it is a paraphrase, a dumbing down, a
simplification of the city. don't you understand lungs?

look, i love you, and i remember things about
you mermaid. maybe leaving, maybe staying.

look, i love you, city.

look i love you! in the mirror,
there is a standout tower, a wall of windows
and portsl reflecting, and looking through
and looking through you see them, and looking
at the window you can see how it is really a mirror
and even if you are falling you are inside and the
carpet is plush or ochre

same time next week, jelly bean

seam times

like sewing

like she sewed

like the city's seaweed
as the saltwater comes up the streets and through the doors
and washes right up to your toes and you count he grains
that tgather in the ply of the carpet and you can see the cat
in a sailboat on mainstreet, he looks disctracted
there is a dead mouse in the bow
and you can see the ribcage
and you can see the organs
under the rib cage
there are organs
like uder the city there is another city
and under that city veins
and under that city bacteria

when you finally reach the bottom let me tall you something
YOU WONT LIKE IT BECAUES ITLL SEEM FALSE AND YOULL
LOOK BACK ON THE THINGS YOU"VE SAID TO THE CIT AND youLL
WONDER< DID IT REALLY MATTER ALL THAt much?

did it really matter because the mermaid still prefers the ocean
and the sandysilt backs at your toes

and your baking under this sun
your skin is peeling
and under your skin is someone
that looks a little like you
but younger
and paler
and more naive

and you just want to take them to town
buy them a present
say be well
say i'll see you another day
say time to go, lover

and then you'll wander back up the street
and the city will yawn
and the vast magnitude of it all
can be forgotten under it all
the vast magnitude
can be forgtotten

its been months

I really considered it. I know what to ask for, I know the lingo enough to play smart. I know who to ask. And that would probably be the worst birthday present I could give. It's selfish and unforgivable. pay no attention to the legality behind the curtain. no one would be suspecting, but unforeseen actions play a role in every stupid idea. its not worth it. and I cant compromise what I have for some cheap thrill. Best to distract myself from reconsidering it again.

And if this wasnt vague enough, I can only imagine what my next post WOULD have been like had I decided to attempt this.

ode to michigan

I danced to music that was built to trip to. The lights and sounds and videos were meant to install bliss and relaxation into the minds off all who were involved. The LSD was in mass doses that night, and I as straight edge as could be jumped and gyrated through the lost crowd to the melodies(?) of industrial light and magic. I recognized one from the crowd. My old roomie. DMT was rocking his brain, but not to the point where he was as lost and wandering as the faceless herds of new age artists hippies and morons. He was dancing and jumping as though he was native american leaping around and through the fire and flames. We rain danced. We warded off the zombie swarms. We were being, not just existing.

Earlier that weekend, I saw a boy lying on the ground. His eyes open, and a brighter blue than the sky. His lips parted in a slack manner, there was no animation to suggest he might be alive. We walked on to the concert. Later the cops had found him, and were either trying to rouse him awake, or checking his vitals. I couldnt tell through all the pot smoke. Where was he "being"?

The night before a new life

Do they have lightning dragons in New Hampshire? Will I be able to taste shooting stars in the night air without out you? I hope for neither, or I hope for a way to fold you up in my pocket and take you there with me into the mountains. Maybe we can strip down and jump into a cool stream with no one looking, and stare at the moon in the reflection of the water. We can make song lyrics for ourselves, instead of clinging to a melody just not quite right.

Odds and ends

Garlic in the juice and chocolate in the pasta sauce. Two pairs of socks and no mittens. Hot sauce in the fridge and butter on the counter. Fly to Mexico and drive to Canada. Live in Massachusetts and live in Vermont.

Wheat Field

Glittering in the field of grass, a gentle breeze blowing the seeds of a new destiny all around. We sat waiting for the lemon drop rays to melt off the sky and plummet to the ground where we lay. I wondered where everything was going to go, how we were going to be, but the sun tasted too sweet to think of such serious things.
And as we caught each little pearl of sun on our tongues, our most important worries dissolved away.

It read so much longer in your eyes

It's a new year. New plans. Our futures being quickly intertwined with our dreams, as if they had always been.
Now we'll sleep under a shower of burning stars slowly soaking into the strands of our hair, dripping cool beads of stardust on our feet.