love is a passionate addiction. I mean this in the sincerest form. The word addiction must not be viewed in the negative connotations for far to long. Love is a person’s habitual reference point. It brings you from down in out days, the ones that feel if everything is going wrong, to that mean, the reason we are living state. The person you love, the thing you love can open, better yet unleash that wave of relief right out from under you as almost that rotten day never resided in you, in the first place. If you want to embrace, and feel that love, that inner freedom toward ourselves, you must stroke that addiction. We are all slaves, in a good way. No one ever said love was wrong, except the ones that never had it or appreciated it. And if love isn’t wrong then your addiction can’t be either. Some times you need that support, some thing to lean on when the day, like all days, eats you alive. It’s easy for a therapist, or any one else that works in the field, to call it an addiction because first, it is their job and second, they don’t appreciate the requirements of life. Who cares how we all live especially if it doesn’t harm anyone else. We only live once, don’t live it trying to be something you aren’t, covering up who you actually are. If you desire, take.
I would like to call myself a simplist. Some of our new found glory such as technology, which indicates science to be its benefactor seems irreverent to me but only if we view humanity as a state not a being. If we view humanity, the history of us, as a being we view everything we do, past, present and future, as a natural process. Nothing we do considerably harms the planet because we are here, using the planet to our disposal as we should. Everything we do is natural since we are from Earth. Nothing blurs the line because our mental capabilities only, eventually, can lead us so far. Where they will take us is the uttmost serious question we should be asking.
If we view ourselves as a state, a civilization working like a cog, then technology, science, even the root of language and our history is , at times, obnoxious. The world around us feels tiresomely scripted and we are so caught up in this scheme, work, school, government, sleep, that we will never be able to change the manipulation. It is a pattern, a routine, that we get so wrapped up in that, even if we try to speak out, we need some sort of funding, some sort of monetary value to obtain. All humans need value. We are competitive. we view that we are the best species and we want to be the best human. We are almost hitting a breaking point in our continuous process where our steady rate of evolution is about to cease. Another question worth examining is this, Are we still evolving, is each human a different part of an evolutionary precinct since “none of us” are the same which is primarily based on personality or biologically are we averagely the same or are we in a downward spiraling, signaling mankind and our future state of being extinct. Can we even stop it or is it in our root? Mentors like to say, think outside the box, but is their a box or do WE make the box?
Sometimes, life is just to hard to explain. If you keep zooming out, the more you see or more is in the camera lens but less makes sense. You have to connect to many dots and a lot of things don’t, entirely, group together. When we start grouping things together, such as individuals, things become less apparent and counter-intuitive. But the closer you get with the lens, the more everything makes sense. When you are in your own mind, thinking, talking to yourself, the more the world seems like a reference rather than an object. Your life seems worth-less, and the world around you sounds like a narrative. Something's are just to perfected in life, that it doesn’t seem like life at all.
The closest you can go is first person and just live your life. Everyone can speculate on what is going to happen next, what could happen, when will it happen but possibilities and chance should be saved for games, not life. Even if the guess is right, it doesn’t make you right. You either just shot in the dark or studied trends.
All we live in, as human beings, are systems. Organizations, to the purest nature. Completely organized, that it the real essence of them, slips by our vision. Government is the probably the easiest to explain and while explaining it, it will become easy to compare to the others. Its a spectacle. Just like the media with their interest in celebrities and hollywood. Do we actually care about these beings or are we just drawn to their power or their prosperity? Probably a little bit of both. The government's system is well drawn out with branches and organizations that exist underneath, and for what reason? Is a government really in place to manage our well being? Are we at a risk? If we didn't have one, or any of them, would we be drawn to harm or is it the government which harms us? They call the shots, make the decisions while we try to shout, at the top of our lungs, our actual opinions. We have checks and balances to get our voice heard but is it actually heard? They can make it seem like they are trying, like they really want our best interests and our obtaining our priorities but when you hear about the bills being passed, the votes being tallied, the numbers being crunched, are they actually taking us into account. They talk about our freedom like no one else actually has one like it is some designer fucking jeans. We watch through our windows, we listen through the waves, we watch the debacle being presented to us but it is only a scene in a movie. Completely staged.
When does something turn into an addiction? Is it how much you think about it or how much you actually do it? What turns something into one and are there good or bad addictions? Aren't addictions just a tendency we do continuously through our lives.
It feels like I am constantly in a transition, Every step up, every door about to be open,
I take it all like a well paced mission.
My plans look for my personal perfection
No, I'm going to restrict my self to a conformist perspective
We can re-invent them.
Majorities shouldn't exist. This battle between percentages seems to much like a game of literally chance for public opinion. We shouldn't be giving each other words like neighbors, community, public, town, city, country. Why is it someone's ability to restrict your freedoms. We are the people, but some of us are afraid. We wouldn't know the power we held. All of us from the clerk, the banker, the executive, the president, the stocker, the construction worker would appreciate such a life.
Sometimes it feels like i am so detached from our world that i think my head is just a satellite tied to string.
My hearing hasn’t gone but I think I am already already listening to something, most of the time being the myself. I can’t piece together the fragments I hear well enough to form your sentences.
I woke up today, already staring at the wall. Eyes opened and already just blankly, listening to that, finally, noise-less noise.
Why do we judge everything by either right or wrong? Because to have a right or a wrong, which are two opposites to a spectrum, you would need a neutral as well. How can an action consequentially be neither side. Staying silent would even cause a subjective answer from one watching over him. The only way to hold a consensus would be to, quite seriously, poll everyone’s story into a database and determine their alignment. Quite literally our stories could be used one day to factor in our civilizations laws. The only known downfall would be population increases but either, one day we have to finally recognize that for mankind that “population” and “control” should be used more frequently in conversations and debates or we can just adjust the parameters in our theoretical database. Or you know not determine actions, behavior, or tendencies under such a white light. We need to stop attaching our words as an opinion, which enters into the definition of belief since you believe in your thought but you, since you added the connotations, are adding subjective allusions to your conscious thoughts which are, since no is wrong anymore in my experiment anymore, right. Who cares anymore if someone did something outlandish. First it has probably been done before and did we really not see that coming. Can we not accurately predict the future or are we so deluded by our thoughts, which are always a fact, that we can’t assume. Or better yet no. When has your thoughts ever proven you wrong? Obviously, never.
Patient: I have been listening to silence, lately.
Therapist: Yeah, and?
Patient: It’s been pretty loud.
How would one define a thought? Does everything, that materializes in your consciousness, count as a thought. I think not. A thought isn’t just a spontaneous combustion but a well-planned out idea. Something that helps you move forward and explore into this abyss. Anything that runs through your stream, while day dreaming or working or driving, doesn’t designate it a thought. Anything personal is stricken from the record. They aren’t a thought but a recollection. You are, so am I, past tense. The thought is a future tense. It’s an action, a plan, a step up or even a lay down. The only thing present is your story. The only thing that defines a tense, is you. You can never talk about the present because then it makes it the past. To much of life is “man i can’t wait for this” or “dude i shouldn’t of done that” when we shouldn’t even be discussing it or even thinking about it. Life is to full of organization, planning, tedious fucking tendencies that ultimately betray you because every second you thought of that one thing to look forward too, its broken just as fast as glass on the concrete sidewalk. You already made up memories in your head, things to do, things to say, reply, define, and it was never even worth it. No matter how organized we are, with age limits placed on substance and mother nature being barbed wire fenced in, telling us to hush hush and move along, the more chaotic life will seem. The more your thoughts linger in the future, as you architect your life-time, the minor changes seem like tsunamis rather then you spontaneously air out, absorbing your life like your own shadow.
You want this life
Fine just take it
because what is a life
when you haven’t even been awakened
The words haven’t even left your tongue
and the worst event just leaves you numb
you rather just stare and twiddle your thumbs
then discover thought, some people call it dumb
but i just call it individuals rights to be the one
It’s all nonsense, this system I work in
I got to work till i am 65
why don’t i just do what I love and retire
when i am fit to die?
So yeah, just go on an take it
Everyone’s are already wasted
so, i’am begging you, just take it.
so you think you found us out?
it wasn’t like you were that hard to find.
jump like an enigma
and float
as you catch the waves
the really fantastic part is the fall
skipping like a stone
as we all do
falling through the pockets
missing our chance.
beyond the threshold, looking passed the street as the biker gets completely splattered by a car in this dense city, you see a women, completely beautiful, ambiguously wearing nothing on the sidewalk.
the chip
oddly shaped but left bleak
because we didn't know where or how to take it
to many memory said the corporate executive
to much power for me said the janitor
the real reason we all die is not because we eventually deteriorate through time but because we caust it to happen. We believe in it. The earth is just a concept and we are who we are because we think we can. We need to prepare ourselves, individually, for the cure. The vernacular of being so we can possess for eternity. live to see the mist be put over our eyes.
trap, trapped
in a cave, cavern
been here for to long,
too cold with two eyes.
Jack left me, leave us alone,
feel the conscious, subconsciously interrupting my unconscious from its hibernating patterns.
all around us, never fully aware because its all underneath like the mantle and the core
at it, trying to meditate on someone, something, someplace until the spark hits,
ripping open a humongous, human
and is that me or us or everyone. contribute?
like nature vs nurture or is it
nature plus nurture equals what?, personally, individuality, conformity,
something repeated over and over until you give in or take out or just bluff
your hand until you are to far to be brought to the surface
up in the clouds, shifting your eyes, crying to form rain,
trying to be complete.
shaded by the sunlight, underneath this mistakenly blue sky. In this canoe, been in it for far to long. Looking for paradise but only stumbled on the forgotten historic lies. It's all still home to me but the experiment failed and they were exiled. Something sees me and I can feel its glare, shaping me into a pancake. He must be hungry because his stomach growls, almost directly on me. I search around through the foliage, the precious greens that collect to the leafs being constructed by the brown vines that remind me of veins. nothing is here until i here the grown again. Its my own damn stomach!
sometimes I feel useless. i just can't do anything. I can help, give suggestions and might I add, try but is that enough? to most yes but when we live freely, trying is failing. It buildings anything but character. And it hurts because the only way i process pain is statistically. the more i return to such failures, the more I realize how much i am useless. No purpose but do we absolutely need one. A self purpose is the only purpose worth it since individuality is key to living.
the blank walls hold this moment
listening to voices, bussing their noises
as a drone does while the clouds pull over
our open light, the blue we once loved is
forever remembered and as the gray washes over,
fearing annihilation as the smallest of things change
chaos is help like, like a victory flag
however, the minutes tick slowly and the
attachment to us is slowly diverging until
either we fall apart, or fall off
is it to far off?
or are we already thier
no one wants to hear my voice
what would make me want to here yours?
spit and spattering from my peers
in the background of my mirage
opened with words to fill thy tyger with desire
added with meaning, given our notion to inspire
and when we form a line, it gives a concept
but filled with to many, making the unknown into nonsense
with these words we commonly use to describe senses
our given to us, to form definitive benches
definitions, from one to hundreds, where words
become superficial, like a flock of birds
the memory of the lost
is the beginning of your innocence
was your life just violently tossed
you might have to contemplate your menaces
and when you compete to complete
and finish the moment
to finalize anything and everything
but it all, happily, or just perish in torment
so does it really matter if your
actions have any meaning and
seem quite trite and boorish
isn't life just an allegory
to continually flourish
because who over thinks their decisions
as a moral dilemma?
your individuality isn't supposed to be
credited to being a member
just remember
hope is only a dream
and your path is only designed
by your, minor, socialized self-esteem.
(A Continuation of Joes....)
[It's distantly familiar, through the surface of a faded picture
Rehearsed through so many words, a single line of scripture
A morbid monologue, the type to make you shiver
Sly and clever, narrating the most wrenching endeavor
A single line, one that might just go on forever.]
but what if that line came to an end?
or even a slight curve or drastic bend
Diverging from your thought of perfection
leaving you like a thoughtless reflection
And i feel like i would never know the truth
...Even though its more weighted then a parasitic tooth
and that line, ended from the beginning
forming a circle, so I'll never know if i was losing or winning
A single line, one that might just go on forever.
when was our minds first let free?
aren’t we all in a massive slavery
we all just came to be
and all you are is what ever you claim to be
when will us leaves finally fall and bloom
like a birth of a tree
words don’t exist
they become life
they give birth
through these detached ears
the swirling of hydrogen
like inside of a seashell
but after years, missing senses
discussing literature like we wrote it,
analyzing is just high end gossip
no ideas, in a circle
when we dissipate
forming an absolute figure
that never changes,
the circle still exists
but the words aren’t beginning
they are just floating,
never being heard
but, will they settle?
if I can’t nestle them,
these sounds, paused in time,
will eventually be
trusted upon our children’s children
and when they listen,
patiently, understanding
that we were completely rubbish
The beginning of nowhere starts with the unknown
commonly, through the thick appearance, is yourself
believing, respecting, searching for ambition
never dutifully acknowledging my ego
as if the provocation decided my inflated fate
steadfast in the doubtfulness
like a sincere handkerchief
between judgmental and normalcy
trying to find our own paradise
discovering a buoyancy
that, somehow, arrogantly mimics everyone else's
but has the destination ever been explored
can it be
or would we all rather dream
and believe after we leave this damned place
that will finally, miraculously, with a ticket
that was over-paid for
waiting for the decision, a clearance
in a line that holds all of humanity
and lasts longer than eternity
just to realize the same places,
identical identities exist here as well
so how could this be any different?
its just a parallel of damnation
which makes life our
first and foremost dream
since we all hope for this tranquility in peacefulness
but i believe my feet are
already planted on that divine soil
but my head revolves to the
distinction of turmoil.
And this life is already limbo,
our body and mind being held on by
the dissatisfaction of our
geographical equilibrium.
As Jack, the shoe salesman wearing his button up work attire, rushing down the broken escalator, chasing after his train that was leaving just on time, while Joe the “L” conductor who was completely smothered in exhaust from the several trains surrounding him, caught eye to eye with this common man and decided he would do his out of the way, good deed for today and took his gloved hand and clutched it to the emergency break located right next to his right knee and put so much force, which was absolutely needed since it was hardly used, to just temporarily slow the beast that was un-tamable while the stale collection of cigarettes and breakable beer bottles defrosted, dissolving their wretched on the mosaic tiles that made up the better half of the LaSalle subway station, an old black man with his wrinkly skin, wearing too many clothes, sat strumming his string less guitar in a cellar for no one to hear and even less to appreciate his kinship nature even though his howls echoes through the tube resonating upwards into the busy street corner.
time went so slow
i could tell by the blank faces
hopefully i don’t get used to it
too much living on a false basis
we still continued to work
pounding in the nails, one by one
never mentioning the circumstance
but i could feel it in the air, all holding their tongues
imaging this house completely finished
even though we just began this week
or it could of been earlier today
it’s to difficult to comprehend, which makes it all bleak
continually aligning the wood
and pounding the nails
practically countless until it’s actually a house
so we are done and the works now can tell tales
I wouldn’t be able to picture
even if you had it
feared by the affliction
interested in the perfection of magic
and the looming innocence of beauty
condemned by the off chance that i might preserve
throughout my whole like a statue
are we mummified by skin?
wrapped tight around our muscles and bones
and kindling, spinning, revealing
our superficial age but our eyes always appear the same,
through a life span stuck in this same rut
never searching or striving like a plants root
but sticking to this comfort
will make us dead
mirrored with statistics and forced to understand
as if any correlation meant a truth
science isn’t only for believers and listeners
if I am here, why don’t dimensions affect me?
forget the humor, that laugh will kill you
die like a normal, quite while we are ahead
look up into the clouds like their is a bullet in your head
and try to accomplish acknowledgments but
you’ll find the colony that is selfishly
made out of antiquities and ironies
discuss your occupation and why it
dismissive and helps you lose your provocation.
each minute you are there fools
like a persistent mistake
like a like minded politician giving truth less handshakes
as your mouth quakes,
trying to scramble for words, panning
this is really absurd, witnessing everything
like your a watcher, like your set in stone and
you were the Earth’s father.
I could see your honesty, as if it was tied to your wrist, like a child being attached to their, newly discovered, balloon.
I could particularly hear your heart, beating and fluttering, just as fast as a humming bird flaps its wings
your smell, the one i can sniff even when your miles away, lingering satisfactions that surrounds me when we are separate from one another.
the touch you give, always reminding me of a massage, makes me lust for more and wish it was happening every time you and I are together.
your taste, I can not get enough, your are my favorite sweet, never quite filling me up and it lingers for days thinking I could taste it.
but with all my senses, I could never enjoy you enough and even though words hold no meaning, I love how I love you and I love how you love me.
Occupations is something that is very fascinating in only our species. Well, is that particularly true, technically it is but every species, be it a plant to an ant, everything has a specific reason it has to live. Most commonly is to benefit it’s ecosystem. Each animal has it’s instincts but it can be rooted to survival which is the meaning of life. This doesn’t mean “survival of the fittest” because, if the equilibrium in our nature is correct, anything will survive. Yes there is the circle of life but first that is just a metaphor. Life doesn’t attach itself to meaning since it is constantly random, ambiguous and fragmented. There is no explanations to this but occupation is something terribly stricken to human beings. It is set up to strictly bring us stress. We already have to worry about surviving and now, through occupation/ owning a job/ raising money, we have to worry about fitting in. To much of our society is based off the fact of how powerful you are or how much money you. Money holds no value especially today. We waste most of our week working so we can fit in. which brings me back to why I am not talking about survival of the fittest. We don’t ever need to fit in because then who are representing. Someone else. Then statistics aren’t right.
Just realized how to back up one of my arguments in my poetry. I preferably love to add a capitalization to words throughout my poem, grammatically making it wrong but I can never change them because they just feel right(?) and the answer is I use them to as my off way of CAPITALIZING full words, it's full of subtlety because I don't want that level of intensity, it's like an exclamation point in the middle of the sentence because sometimes the emphasis to your sentence or though is supposed to catch your intention instead of the end, it puts a weird strain on the relationship of a sentence. Change our language of writing?!
why money value has more value?
a cold air swallows up a sunken body of water
the light that once reflected gets distinguished by the shards of bubbles.
Each Pressure, every temperature becomes abandoned and begin to form.
Up and up from the floor to the shore,
all is encompassed by our atmosphere.
The Lake gets heavier as we forget
shh, the Architect is at work,
constructing patiently from the souls of the forgotten,
the least common denominator,
surrounded by desolation and freedom.
To never have and to always stay.
Well that was in the itinerary
But,
inevitably,
the destruction had to come.
The heat whipped through in a furry of regal and queries
fulfilling our orbit
Patiently raining elongated steps by the penumbral of objects we hold,
memories,
in a specific, illuminated pattern.
Crawling away with humility and bullshit
as the dedicated few, a Very Important Person,
never the you’s and the me’s
as my strength less independencies decay under the gravity of societal conundrums.
Displaying heightened magnitude and leaving out my soul to be saturated,
in these swimming things we call molecules,
made out of tiny fragments of stacked up time,
each moment relapsing over the next,
until the blend of deviate miscalculations,
when ages were simpler,
and the air was fresh.
Don’t you just love when a child screams in your ear?
It makes me want to scream right back.
But then the parent would, inevitably, say “Jesus, she’s just a kid.”
And then I would reply with “Yeah and I’m just an adult.”
I am gonna make that shit look terrible.
Tell everyone it is exquisite art
and make sure it’s reasonably affordable.
I found a new thing recently and that was something called poetry. I don’t really know how to explain it but it feels like I can finally say something after so long.
I feel like I do better with the blankest period. And it makes all the syntax seem so subtle
because I am me again.
And now that we are starting to talk again,
Remember those tulips that sprouted last spring on the south of our rental house?
I’m sorry...
They bursted on contact revealing their bliss.
You don’t come around anymore, so you missed it.
And can you recall the bed we made together every morning
after the long nights of force less bonding?
Well I pawned it to that thrift store on the other side of town.
You didn’t call me back after I left you the voice mail, asking if you wanted it.
I wish I didn’t but I just could not fall asleep in between those pillows like I used to
Life seemed better when we were room mates but I think that was just my delusion.
I never talk out loud anymore after that full day we screamed at each other
I think I lost my voice inside my own head after replaying that moment so many times
I am still searching for it with little prevail.
I wish you didn’t graduate or I never dropped out.
You might of moved on but I am just cemented to this house with
a desolate flower bed,
sleeping on a couch I found in front of those old peoples house across the street after they faded into death,
no voice,
and hundreds of letters so I can write you everyday even though you have never responded to one of them.
I sometimes think you don’t live where you told me but it hardly matters anymore.
I found serenity between the pen and the page and each word
I write,
I terminate it until I think about the next.
Then it tells me its still there.
Its the only thing I do anymore and I do it for you.
Can you come back?
This place and everything in it feels hollow and sparse without your gentleness.
It is in need of your delicate touch to live on another day.
The rock was open, caked in residue,
filled with forgotten amounts of stench,
it laid there, cracked but not deferred.
Under the palest of shrubbery.
Shadows double cast over the texture of that jagged stone
It was sheer trickery,
from afar it looked like a mountain,
containing the region,
vacuuming in the sprinkled stars from the outstretched sky.
but the closer I got, the mountain shifted into a hill
That was still pure in size and emptily broken in place.
Proportions stained into the rock.
The illusion of rest weighed on past age and all other dimensions.
When I became in hand reach to this rock,
I noticed it was just a pebble,
scattered and separated by a thousand others
resembling conformity,
but the moon shined with the suns distinct rays,
creating imaginations out of the staleness of nature.
When the deepest of reds shone through that tight fabric,
you impatiently rushed on before the sun even rose,
if it even does on the long, impervious, February day.
Your legs held up, barely, with bumps to texturalize your timidness
I could see that paprika glazed skin
through the black tights,
as if they were completely visible.
And she then started walking, rubbing her raw skin against the other,
Irritating my eyes and inflaming her limbs,
she itched her inner thight and I could hear the sand of flakes being
revealed from her dry, cold, legs.
She trods off, through the infinite strangers,
diving into them, being masked by the other scratchers and uncomfortable's.
All lost whole.
I follow her, watching her peer back, anxious as she enters a public bus with
black plumes that tickle as they evaporate in metaphysical contact with rays of light,
coming for the skies forgetfulness.
Since we our creatures that like to destroy what is better than us, when will we have weapons of mass dimensions. We should take out the 4th, so everything attached to time is no longer held in ages and everything becomes stacked up, transformed, into a confusing dali world.
born broken and bruised
tossed around noose to noose
like I was living loose
and when I think I had enough?
They will still be throwing me then news
Until I’m down, buried alive
and all this mold encasing me
just might as well strived
because I’m mis-used
and clueless
I’ll give you the exam
If you give me the test.
When should I die
Isn’t that the ultimate of questions
when will we live without time
age old solution
to a period of an echo
Festivities are not festive if there is not a fest to be had.
Did you here those selfish thoughts raining from his nose on a loose handkerchief being held in between his fingers, never drying up the right area of his stupid fucking face.
Where did the innocence go?
Where did the balance go? Have we ever had it or are we conpletely swaying from pole to pole, sporadically, spontaneous and randomly trying to pick out the connections single-handedly and they keep coming, falling off the cliff or being built up like a snow drift. I don’t know if we could still explore it? Don’t have it in us, or is the defined unknown just to strange for our media filled consciousness. Who could possibly, sit in a room alone, staring at a dark abyss, able to pour it out. I can, it’s my paradise. Getting finished to get lost/able to explore.
Stolen, after a long day of abuse and transported though the train, in a brown paper bag, being handled like I was weightless, shoved around like a mosh pit, hardly breathing, no more space to let go of. Fingering for an eye hole or an air hole buy my fingers only coming back wet, surrounded by this strange shad of blackness that my eyes can bare to take, doped out by visions of delusions. Coming out against me, getting closer and closer reaching out for me, like it already knows me. I’m trapped but not ready to give up like a baby not ready to give up its sippy cup so I close my eyes but they actually open up to me sitting in a crowded room completely alone mimicking a eulogy.
I was taken by a burly man who looked like he was in his forties and had not had a thought in his life. He practically carried me down my laboratories hallway to an, I thought abandoned janitors closet, but it so happened to be a Interrogation room. I try and squirm a little bit because his gorilla hug was giving me a case of claustrophobia and anxiety. He spoke through his groans, as if my muscle-less arms really was testing his will. All I could murmur was “your a bitch.”
He didn’t like that sudden out burst, I guess it was the disrespectfulness of his status but this fifty yard walk, down these tight corridors, all white, really tested my patience. The lack of explanation, the duty to apprehend a scientist trying to conduct his experiment infuriates me. If an artist can get away with public pornography, why can’t I do whatever I curiously want in my confined space. Even if the hypothesis is wrong, you can always learn something out of failure but I could tell this guy just listened; just took orders and hardly thought of the explanation for his actions. I want to keep pestering him but I want the barrage of insults to really hit home. I see my opening.
As he waddles ackwardly to the entrance, he finds himself puzzled on how to open the door and keep me in his strength. His right arm wrapped around my waist as he pulled me into his stomach and his left reached for the handle. As he tried pulling the handle open on the door, seeing the stress bubble in his cheeks, I let loose.
“Your just a grunt!”
“Fat, fucking grunt.”
“Real brilliantly way to do this.”
Upon opening the door, he realized he didn’t have enough room to fit his fat ass plus me through the doorway. This man is a fucking idiot. Hypothesis proven: never thinks. He didn’t even half-heartingly calculate this situation, so I begin flailing as he tried to balance his foot on the lower frame of the door, propping it open to this all white room, with wooden, willow, chairs and a mirror. Really, still reversible mirrors. Through this technology ridden era and we still play hid and go seek. Just get a camera in there and place a fucking microphone under the table. Whoever these mongrels are, they must be some old fashioned Neanderthals.
The security guard couldn’t work out the kinks in the door so he just chucked me in the room and I couldn’t catch my balance after leaving that man’s gravitational pull. My arms catch the table but my legs slipped out and I lost my grip and fell right on my ass.
Through this maze of memories luring you by the smell of tulips but hurting your faith by the anger to know, pinning you against regrets, beating you with certified failures.
Your drop-out.
Your sunken life in a 9 to 5.
Something you always promised you would never do breaking this agreement with yourself keeps you navigating, in complete terror running frantic, surrounded by past decisions that are hovering over you like a dead body. Problematic, tortured by misery, un-called for, turmoil, you think your finished like the end of a sentence but moments, always negative, negotiates with my dreams of being passed by these intruders that suck you back into our 4 dimensional reality.
Have we all gone insane? I see people going through trash cans and placing the objects back on the street. Two puddles shaped like W’s have formed down an alleyway after a blizzard. Homeless people on their hands and knees resembling shadows, people losing identities, every person that walks away, others sinking before they rose, some kissing before they even met, others dying before living, and everyone always complaining about the future and our awful ramifications or our past, and how we need to least from it or our present and how we are forgetful but who is to say what? Even if a thousand people have 1 voice does it help? Or are you just insane.
Sometimes I wonder who is in my head
Did you get abolished by the sickness? Have you won? Its never that easy is it, when you tihink you have something and then you wonder if its left but when will you know, can we? Maybe they are always there, burrowing into your transparency and reaching your abode. This disease, your body is flaring. It’s pulling the fire alarm. Who is it determine if it’s false or not? Well, it doesn’t matter, you need to do the same thing if there is one or if there is not.
Am i addicted? Probably. Do I necessarily care? Not entirely because people worry about other things, they keep it in their minds all day as well, some care about their health, logistically planning there mortality others worrying about their beauty waking up early just to put on their identity. Others soaking up commercials, buy/buying, selling/selling, giving value to credentials. Striving, loving, all tied up with conclusions and I get chastised for cigarettes inhaling/exhaling, we have been doing it for years, breathing, counting, obsessions, give me all, let me structure my own blessings.
This is my internal revolution, its time to break my conscious and feel the ramifications breaking everything down, shooting it when it squirms, its time for a change. I need to find a way to radicalize my current status, being stressed, reading others but never analyzing oneself like a therapist, trying to find clariy in life when I never peeked on the inside, never dared looking through the cob webs of nothingness. The preservation of me is hard to be liked because every day is new, everyone transforms because we missed so much when we feel into our slumber. People, out lookers, telling me to listen to my heart but it has no voice, so I have to try and interpret its archaic beats like morris code but it never leads me the right way. I don’t even know whose in my head anymore, is it me, someone else, is the meaning of life trying to find the person and match our subconscious thoughts. Can we switch when we met or should we just keep going on and on, day by day, trying to translate the end, hopefully it will mimic my own conclusion, only provocative in the senses, filling pigments, each space, with our own imaginations but is it ours, is creativity individualized or is it symbiotic, does it matter? is it me or you, or should I change when I still have the time, still that sense of free will or should I just stay with this equilibrium, between insanity and morality. It keeps yelling, constantly, in my inner ear.
Silent. But I don’t wanna bargain myself. Mass produce my personality. I guess its for better or for worse?
We have always had this meaning. The meaning to be this exclusive but sane dividuals. Can we ever make it if we will never find ourselves. Is that this meaning of life to try and live and through the experiences that life might bring to us, good or bad but lets put opinions on the side, and figure out who we are. What brought us here and what made us do what we do. We talk about a drive like some sort of force that pushes our ambitions to a place we never actually wanted. Is it because we fear something, failing towards ourselves. We care how others view us but we want to find who we are, we need to so we can eventually live. If you don’t know who you are don’t trust your method in experiencing moments then either you need to duplicate some one else which would be replicating yourself because no one knows who they are. How can we know others when they don’t know themselves. How could we possibly achieve such a feat if triumphs don’t exist. They only hold meaning because someone sees it as a moment of winning but whose to decide. Rules. Nothing makes sense anymore because words begin to blur, definitions that are so loose to how linguistics use them, how people correspond to a word now is more important to what a word even means, we care about the rules of language, the grammar, besides worry what the word means, not what it is supposed to mean but what it means to you. It makes no sense when someone asks what a word means because every word means something different to everybody and anybody.
Sovereign
The worlds kind of hit hard from that new news, yeah that one they just played, streaming it throughout every where even to the rural's and we even got the same truth in the city. They didn’t smear it, put a spin, say to much, tell us to little, the information was finally received instead of coded. The words fill up our peripheral, its hard to concentrate. They fly at us and surround our day, everybody always warned us of a filter but now all of it delegates into our stream. All these meanings, never holding a definition, a concrete make-up. People always strived for freedom of speech but when we actually got a hold of such a nightmare, everybody went loose. No one held back anymore, we didn’t hide in the shadows of contemplation anymore and the voices all blurred since spontaneity was a virtue. There was one of everything, no stereotypes, so much personality that it was wasted, things became a mess of regularity. Nothing is insane anymore because their is no comparison to what we deemed healthy in the past. Not all is bad but nothing is good. It all just puts a hold on you like gravity, there is no witness to it but everybody looks into each others faces the same way like they want to say it but the words are like prison bars and are holding us back. We don’t want everyone to know what we are thinking. We just keep to ourselves, never speaking even though we could. The ones that are, they won’t pause and they keep passing by us. The reason we don’t talk is because we are trapped. We don’t want everyone to know we some times want to be personal, formal. Our voices aren’t supposed to travel to so many waves, each arc, the angle forming a circle. We make up one.
A ghost is coming right through the doorway. I can feel it, hovering and absorbing. Did someone just whisper? As I looked to my left ear, which is where the sound came from, all that existed was my barren, attic wall.
An author has to build everything in his story even if he steals something, you still need to enter it into the story through your own voice purposefully filtering anything that might be copied. The author crafts characters, personalities, back story and development so he is actually more than a god, an author is a scientist creating an experiment. But an author is visible because a name for some people, bring in an audience member. I do believe the author shouldn’t matter but we are in a time and age where dignity is attributed to knowing people. This should never be an ideal way to work in the arts. The author has to know everything in his story and even if he doesn’t, he proves his theories in an inclusive manner.
incomplete underneath. Shatter of glass while the rest of us stare at the shards each splintering uniformly until they collide into on another like electrons sending sparks, trying to explain the magical spectacle as it happens but most of us can’t truly say. That glass was back to sand losing its forward mobility and the collisions stops as every fragment gets returned to the ground. Now we call it a beach.
I am going to keep scraping until my teeth decay one by one until they try to wiggle out then you can help me put a funnel over my bloody mouth you can hold the coffee can when I spit them out and then when all of them are gone and in storage we can tape the whole cylinder one layer at a time and then we can start rattling.
Now, tooth-less, trying to smile genuinely with bloody gums, tossing the stomach of the crowd. I’m sorry, you want me to play a song made from my teeth, the pearly whites turned to shit way before the cracking of the lips but what are we supposed to do when the music dies? Manuel or electronic/ digital or analog my teeth shake, trying to spit a song.
I started to think about death lately. Not my own death but my mind would all of sudden take a friend or a family member a character in my story and then kill them off and than I would process how much that would affect me. Then after having no emotional attachment to the death of some people I supposedly love, I thought about recent funerals I have been to and realized something about myself. deaths have never affected me. I made myself cry when my grandpa died in o4’ because I felt like it was the right thing to do. Death doesn’t affect me because there is nothing you can do to stop it. It happens to everything and I can’t stop it. I get upset when something happens that I could of possibly changed and now I realize how selfish I have become.
The buses, the ones with the accordion connectors, passed through the alleyways, scraping against the brick walls shining ash lit sparkles still making its stops, next to the garbage cans, lets the ghosts out but no one ever gets picked up, just dropped off, throughout the whole city, one after another like a hearse dropping off the lifeless at the stone cursed cemeteries. As it swerves, trying to interrupt the trail to the next alley, almost tipping over underneath its weight but everyone I wish it did, finally stopping this limousine of mortuaries from taxing anyone else but it just keeps driving, right through the cars, no one else notices it but the other ghosts, on top of the buildings and below the sewers keep watching it make those heart breaking stops.
A Nightmare inside a dream
There is never just good
always, statistically bad
nothing ends in perfection
not the way you imagined
because your plan
was structured like a narrative
you didn’t sprinkle enough
chance, spontaneity, or
randomness in your life.
But I got it,
I hold myself
I won, my dream is reality
and my reality is great
Don’t you have me to thank?
conquering your fear with
this pressure of failing
strived you, made you
feel alive next to your
own side, the only
one you ever judged
I want to know how the brainstorming session to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles went.
The joke “I want some lick her (liquor.)
Finally finding that the end was upsetting pieced together formally under a loose leaf arrangement that just so happened to be two men betting. Wishing their picks were accurate that the deaths of many would fall underneath and their wages would stand corrected. Both of them stared at the television waiting for the news to vividly discuss the death toll of the war which was a clock that just kept ticking, was this their decision or were they just obsessed one of them pondered this while eating a well done burger. The workers poured in but no body could win.
the wind resisted, passing over time gust pushing past our little moment put it together, live forever not worth the length, all that chance but filled with blanks, those memories just began to sank, should I give it some thanks? Fuck it, I’ll just wait, let the sun constantly revolve whole bodies animate shadows on their will, everything goes so fast but, your just stuck in a stash, paused, even though the direction is still affected by a moments reflection.
Did that just happen? or did I dream it, when all the eyes blink or when does my mind think, Is it all instinct, or is it less routine that, is there some hope, that I still have feelings for, or did all these years, dry me out to begin the stealing.
Its to much or to little, wishfully respected the common dose of every day eagerness, the stress possessed each gesture, bolstering my bones, pulled by the generosity of today and given to you tomorrow. Hopeless, with Styrofoam and packing peanuts in his eyes like he currently wasn’t being spiritual--but his normalcy--the attribute every body could conform to--was beginning to bear thin inside himself. He hit the wall, I exclaimed to myself, he is in deep thought, impersonating himself!--somehow self-plagiarizing the person he is and stealing from the person he loves. The two points are on the same line but the length--distance--is incomputable.
Can we become creative? Is there anyway to grow to it or is it in us, individually. We can’t all be original, someone has to do the copying, could everyone have it but it is currently lost and one must search for your voice or do some make a conscious decision to cease their creativity to become who they went, replicating a copy or is it just their, always hovering--floating--, in between your eyes and the more you succumb to your creativity, the more insane you become, trying to piece your self together like you’ve become rejuvenated and recycled but really your just as broken as everything around you.
The tow truck dragged the car down the street, away from the scene with its front bumper dragging on the pavement, splinting off in different directions, staining the road and leaving a trail. The driver of that car crashed it into the fields greenhouse after he got off work, before he got no sleep to really work, this being impervious to reality while being demanded to leave by his own unconsciousness. His imagination got lost in the greenhouse, as the plants sprouted out of the crevices and grew at him, inching every time he got closer. The greenhouse looked empty, as if no one was babysitting the plants, so they acted out, lashed at the stranger that drover to near. “The plants are after me!” exclaimed the driver. Is his perception of reality really false if that is what his senses made him believe? We just such by normalcy and majority so the driver was hand cuffed, only 5 minutes after he thought he had enough of the plants bullery and decided to fight back by their source but the vines, leafs and stems dodged his car and he smashed right into a wall of the green house. The driver sat their dazed, marauded by his own imagery until he saw the car sputter oil over the insides of the will, he smelt the singeing of thick plastic as the wall incinerated and he felt the heat, the smoke, the haze wift into his car . The driver almost didn’t escape but the dying tulips, the browning persimmons and the roses that were burning lifted him out of the car and placed him in the grass a few yards from the accident and then the driver instinctively fell asleep on the ash lawn where the sun burnt grass surrounded his silhouette.
options,options;options
we all got em
but can’t pick
decisions,decisions;decisions
we all have one
but fear being wrong
I’m a god damn bread winner
in a place between luckiness and insanity
like a martyr; your still a sinner,
and in the end
every place and every bend
forgetting what you said
before it even sent
and couldn't that be my discourse
tick of a clock irritates
like the stomp of a horse.
Worrying, on a balance beam
open me up like a broken seam
and keep the fabric, the one that weaves memories, extravagantly unraveling
beating’ the brigade, we might have to be the ones that do the traveling.
Humorously eradicated and silently fortified
perceive my eyes to be rolling like a drum beat
up and down, closeted, like a folded bed sheet
past decisions, semi-climatic
holding onto life like a gymnast
we are all under water
suffocated by language
periods and spaces, open fields and braces
all of our races, determination, returns in self-hatred
pouring through lost documents because presently we are out dated
printed in different colors to show trepidation
have you heard of the woman that was suffocated?
they all were convinced her with communal pressure
brainstorm forever like a political lecture
injected with personality and humanism
I feel a beat, is it my memories rhythm
or is it hidden in cataclysm
or an ill-social schism
After retirement, everything happened to hit me with concrete despair, it never was fully realized and every visualization fell through like a drip from a leak. I remembered having a family and what everyone looked like but nothing new re-surfaced, everything was still in rickety color; no more high definition or made up hues. They hardly ever stayed in my hands, those photographs, the years deteriorated them to a mere shred of a memory. They only reminded me of the breaks between paragraphs, the things that no one remembered or everyone cared to forget. Faces sprout out but the only one I numerously recognized was mine. Pictures of me kissing a women, hugging her, holding her but where did she go and how come I haven’t seen her in so many years. Have i been cooped up in this room for this long. Also there is other pictures of me, with that same women with a young man and young woman looking happy. Happier than I was but we all shred the same smile. I look at these everyday and try to remember these distant dreams but they never have time to come back. They always promised but once one left, saying “bye,” they meant good bye for good because they finally got rid of me, my illusion, they escaped who I tried to be, escaped it for good. Maybe they don’t remember me because I don’t remember them like some weird chemical made us forget or did life just separate us for a reason. They all left on different terms because they were different people but each one for the same like nothing. Missing someone never happens at first but after a little contact, the bond that family, friendships and relationships hold get soured by the conscious act of forgetting. First it was my daughter, valedictorian at our local high school. Going far away for college for a full ride. No one but me took that drive with her, in the u-haul, but I think everyone else gets to see her. Then my boy left me after he got a corporate job offering in the big city, upstate. I bought him his first suits but I haven't seen him since he cried in my arms. Its if we didn’t have time anymore for each other, this unconditional love was too true and we felt like we didn’t need to work at it anymore since it was persistent. Maybe they got out of me what they needed like thieves and jumped town. I wouldn’t care.
Sometimes I got letters in the mail from people that tried to disguise themselves as my children but I think I would know. They look nothing like them but I still responded but in a father-less tone. I would take the pictures and juxtapose them from old to new but their quality was not the same. Maybe I should visit? The one that knocked me over the worst was the day my wife left, unexpectedly, without divorce papers, just a taxi with her clothes all luggaged up giving me a kiss without giving me a clue.
the best days in life are the ones where you, right before you go to bed, look back on the day and ask yourself what you did and then just laugh it off.
I am to old to care about personal matters. If someone wants to blow me off, not talk to me, or even doesn’t like me for me I am okay with that. There is to much going on around us to care about such trivial manners.
Peace was exactly where I was, His hand some sort of portal and his hand touching heart, brought us to the most sincerest of moments. One's that only pertained to us, the only moments I still hold dear to me. My mind raced backwards, stopping at subsequent memories. I don't know what gave me this ability to relapse time but I think the audience at the funeral home discussing the pictures as if they were apart of them helped me reminisce.
I felt the cotton breeze unfold over the prairie grass while being blindfolded in the middle of a preservation. The most important memories stay inside your cerebrum but hardly ever come out after such an age. It's to hard living in the present then to remember the moments in the past but I guess that is why we celebrate funerals. He laid me down on a red and white checkerboard cloth, as I took orders to follow his lead. He placed a glass, smelling of crushed grapes and the bubbling of carbon dioxide that sparkled off the liquid and splashed against my nose and I titled in for a sip.
It's amazing how all the senses rush back to you and stay preserved in any given moment and the preciousness of the things that trigger such events are quite marvelous.He places his hands on top of the folded handkerchief that blinded me, as his hands awkwardly grabbed around, clumsy as usual, and as the lightest of fabrics brush against my face as he is gently pulling away, a circle was illuminating in between my two blue eyes, as if it was a halo cast down from an angel. He, traditionally, got on his right knee and took my hand from my glass of wine and proposed to me, never leaving direct eye contact from my tear stained pupils.
Pieced together with a different assortments of tapes. Broken beyond fixable but each body is manipulable even when we lost the blueprints a long time ago. Now we are just stitched and made sure that we have a special attachment, a zipper, so when ever we need to SHUT the FUCK up they can just pull it over to make the noise end ever quicker rather then what they used to do which was segregate us from the riches but all of our bodies are from the same thing, used up like a wooden ladder and you just made a sound, you need to be quiet quicker make sure the noise falls out like a flicker.
And when we all tip toe to our graves, make sure you leave you shoes untied so someone else can try them on for size, just remember, what I have taken from this world, is nothing is re-usable. Everything IF touched must go to most horrendous place on earth. And somehow, we never see them. I see smut shops, I see gender only work out areas, age restricted culture shops but I have never seen a trash dump. Maybe I have smelt one but I have desensitized my nose to burning wafts of chemicals while living through the city, every day I wake up sneezing ten times and blowing my nose from point a till I hit point c. Drip/drop. Drip/drop.
It was so hot out that we all wanted to take our skin off.
The Heartbeat of the Brain
This capsule, the one I swallow so well, trying to catch the glimpse of an error occurring simultaneously with this resilient sense of momentum, encircling the heartbeat of your brain, which makes you resemble with the uselessness of a moment but also favor the extravagance of experiences. The difference being the lack of triumphs in ones doubted will possessed by the torture of being the least common denominator while being conned by the heartless numerator, doing the splitting of chances one has in a second while we explore through the mazes of peripheral (actual) reality intruding with our destined (utopian) perception, riddled by perfection and questioned by the uncontrollable's.
Brutzkowsi
our soul lies on a string, suspended, facing the sky. It's the only thing that allows us to sing
and the only way to identify with it is to fall from a high very high place, holding your breath through the weightlessness, breathing, only with your shadow aligns because it has found you, body reaching for its silhouette made from light, fragments of abandoned years, rushing as anyone's triumphs would seed, sprout and bloom in a death defying second. But as your body, dislodges into pieces, for a specialist to stick back together, you'll finally crack the egg to release the soul to be cemented in that same blank glance taking to much in at once but a picture is worth a 1000 words and you paid what you owed.
Through the brown eyes, every day still a burnt surprise
blinded by ergonomic sounds softly displayed on a delicate wave
differences between a man’s life and a distant others
how we segregate from another and still told about in the same reference
like we were just some, innocent, objectivity
because we might have the same history, grown up in the same nurture
or nature, predictions as detailed as the last
stories being double checked before birth
like a meteorologists forecasts desperately trying to tell
the future of the weather
but our built up duplicity
is just telling the authors
that experiences are aliasing
and we are inherently undistinguishable
washing up with the intention to piss after
these hands have seen better days and better dicks
tire fell off my 2 door sedan again so I had to
jack up my car and retrieve the tire in a irrational farm field
caked on my hands was mud and other wet substances
hardening when I needed them to twist the bolts
drying on my arm hair so when I pick, Ouch,
giving my arm a bikini trim.
I really need to use the urinal
but my hands won’t grasp anymore.
my left side mirror is my worst enemy
It plays trick after trick on me but I keep trying to mend the wounds
I don’t think where I am park helps the situation
because I generally wake up really, wholesomely restless
and try to back up next to some thick bushes
which I don’t even look at because anything that is still dark
in the morning will make me remember closing my eyes
and then I’ll blink and not be in the same moment
but while I back up, my side mirror likes to touch the bushes
but remember when the teachers told you not to stick your hand outside the window?
well it did it anyway and the mirror was loosened
So I tape it, fine enough not much damage and aesthetics have never been my goal
because I need something that can be used
So I keep going, hardly waking up for work and as soon as I forget that I need to make sure
I can clear the bushes without beheading my left side mirror, I hear a loud crash and witness
my mirror get ripped out of its plastic casing. I know not a damn thing about a tool so I leave it
dangling on the side of my door while I floor it 50 to work.
My dad fixed it by drilling some nails into it so it’s not useable but the vanity of a mirror
is still there. Whatever, It was a great gesture but this mirror is teeter tottering on my
loving and hating side. I keep watch that I clear the side mirror every time from those
carnivorous bushes but the day that I think I got this, I don’t need to pay attention because
I rather drift off into my life like dreams, I hear another loud crash. The nails were still holding it together but now the car just looked goofy. Nails sprouting off in every direction with
a side mirror dangling like it just hung it self a tape residue surrounding the area. I don’t even look at it anymore but a friend decides to fix it and I say okay but I want no part in it. So he gets his drills and nails and does what my dad does but really gets that motherfucker stuck in there so it has no place to go to. It holds up for a few weeks but I am backing up, knowing I will not make it from these bushes when I hear a loud breaking noise and the drill job held up so I was surprised but when the first rays of the sunrise hit that mirror I noticed that the bush fragmented the mirror into tiny pieces and now I can’t bear myself to look at it.
Have you ever met that woman on the corner of Jackson? She is trying to sell her possessions but doesn’t know a thing about business. She gives you money when you take an item. She tells me that it all makes sense, now I own something forever and I am helping her become free. She doesn’t want to be stuck down anymore, rooted in this place we call life. She calls her self Mother Nature. I offer her some money for her charity but all she gives me is a delightful stare. All she gives me is more stuff and more money until she was naked and dead. She gave me her last breath while we kissed and the next thing I knew she was gone, hardly remembered but barely forgotten. I asked around, wondering if anyone encountered her before trying to piece together her history but no one ever saw her, heard of her, and I sometimes forgot that I had those few minutes with her.
I have always wondered why people cared about lateral movement in their jobs. My brother, who got his doctorate or working on it or whatever the term is, got offered a full time job to work at a pets store and all he would have to do is walk some dogs and pet them and feed them. He loves animals but he turned it down. He said it wouldn’t be a good career move but he’s unemployed and still searching for something to do. Why not just take the job? Occupational status is the key to this dilemma. People have embarrassment doing these jobs that are currently needed because it is not in them and it’s not part of their plan. We make plans to try and delegate our future too, like a narrative, and we never realize that life doesn’t work this way. The only thing we can do is predict the forecast, we can’t try and script out our life’s path because life doesn’t like to be predicted. If it is predicted, it usually ends up a different way entirely. Occupational status is defined (by me) as a search for dignity and respect. It has nothing to do with what we can actually do, what we want to do, or who we even are but it stems from our dying thirst to be important, to be wanted, to be something other than our lifeless self's. We strive for this in the workplace, to honorably be remembered in a dozen of strangers when we hardly account for ourselves. We rather be important than do something we love. Who honestly wants some of these positions that are offered? How could we lead people we don’t even know? I would never be able to answer these questions because I am not everyone but I disobey the definition of Occupational Status, yes the one I defined, because a job is just for money, which is a value we all need to survive in this life, and a career is what we do for ourselves which when it comes to life, is all that matters. We should stop feeling guilty for others because we only live once, and life isn’t the surrounding nature but life is our experiences. If we worry to much about how we are perceived by others then we are living in their lives rather than our own.
We are organization creatures of habit. We do the same things day in/day out because we can. It makes life easier that way since we know what we like, what we don’t like that we rather live in our small world of qualitative reasoning rather than try new things, open up to the world and survive off it’s essence. We sway one way, either in the do that or don’t do that group that we hardly find time to DO anything because we rather just sit around and complain about the people that do stuff or don’t do stuff. I can’t believe that person did that or who would even think of that. At least that person did something rather than sit in our house watching his life on television, wasting our life and being filled with news that we can harshly criticize rather than living our own life and criticizing on our own reflections. No, why do that because we are creatures of self-importance. We can’t do wrong but everyone else can because they are not us. Good ridden's.
what it means when people say, it felt like life was fading away, a rather suicidal thought that either leads to depression and/or the ability of overwhelming cascades of thought that makes life unbearable. On the contrary to that thought though is their statement is actually the exact opposite. Life isn’t fading away but actually fading in and reality is transitioning with their perception of it. Let me explain. Life, as we know it, is our perception. Life is what we believe it is. But this statement says life is fading away but usually suicidal victims are to caught up in reality, or the concrete life, that their perception is trying to run along, paralleling, reality and that is why it might be “fading away” because the life they once knew is actually dying because reality is to hard to bear at moments.
the reason money is losing its value is because we aren’t believing in it anymore. It’s not a facet in our life but an commodity/ a un-needed luxury.
The discovery of thought/ the problem with money/ nothing has a definite value because value is subjective. Objectivity doesn’t exist anymore because I said so.
Freedom of species.
possession causes harm. Ownership and property insists that you have more value then another and the hope for equality is squished by greediness.
governmental monopoly. Justice does the governing but not vice versa. Democracy is a monopoly.
we are in a state of predictability.
piracy and profiteering.
Here is my argument in a nutshell. It is only a small fragment of my angst, in lengthiness. I could possibly, and will and already have in previous entries but I feel under some sort of weight, it could of been recently watching a movie about ufo’s and I asserted to it was this ability that we need, as a civilization, need to overcome some barrier of decency which is something we have been hearing about in the last 50 years which is defined as peace but also this nobility of technology. They tried to state on loose, eye witness accounts and footage that these beings were using extra-dimensional technology and then the they need for us to strive for it but the more and more I ponder this movie, this strict idea of a technology driven future for us. Somehow this got to me, broke something inside that I wanted to say personally, and that is we could never achieve such a certain mankind because it is to impractical and un needed and also the fact that everything is driven by greed and uselessness because we are just living in an age of recyclability in which I mean that we hardly think of the long term and everything is based in waves now rather than linearly coming out based on need rather than want and in a schedule that is based on a calendar, waiting a certain while before releasing which brings up the need of competition. do we severely need it? Why not develop technology that is, like I said, needed not wanted. Something that doesn’t extinguish our growth based on debt rather than just thrust ourselves. We push like a game of leap frog and let us grow individually so we make things that people are interested in, personally, rather than be an evasive mass pushing you to decide your decisions based on social pressure. If we all do design what we need then we can possibly do what we want. They are inversely proportional because when people do what they want it then, as consumers we are definitely are, will buy based on this social pressure. It’s designed to work like that.
But do we need it? Do we want it? I think we are to far into this depth of addictions, definable diseases and overwhelmed with stress to ever achieve this perfectly but wouldn’t it be easier without it all. How many deadly sins do we commit, which is the only readable thing I’ll ever reference if I should possibly prove anything to be subjective, right or wrong, but I only talk about the survival of a normally perfect human to exist and these are these, I believe, are a distinguishable list of objective decrepit notions on humanity and nature itself and that is what makes them sin. Right and wrong is necessarily based in humanity but we do not need it. These are what governs killings and if they aren’t then the act was a pure mistake. Are bodies work, on times, by themselves. If we can distinguish these sins we might be able to decree is usability rather than our state of trepid predictability.
where did those pieces of my
mind go?
I remember having them and I even
noted down that I wanted to remember
it
how do I find
them?
the ones that are gone for, possible
ever
can I retrace them moment through
moment
really, retrace my
existence
sending flares to my
witness
I just don’t get
it all
sometimes
the way some thing that
can be
lost for
ever
like we did it
on purpose
some how to
workings of time
didn’t want to stamp
our importance
or maybe I just can’t
feel myself anymore
I lost all personal identity
because most days
feel like I should be
here doing this instead
of commonly
existing
why do I and how will
come to be
natural
Its all an disembodied moment, floating from the next one to the next one, until a reaction develops and chained to a degree of letting go is an option then it all starts coming in again, that feeling that one is actually above us but maybe they are referencing this loosely maybe we all have the definition of god in us, trying to piece this crown on top of another crown, absorbing this secretly born secrets we designed rumors sprouted but after so many generational lies eventually turning to conventional truths the mask has been on these ideas deeply routed and that is one of these moments, the things that enter in once is about to
about to what?
go for a little ride before the ending. It all happens sequentially, all plotted like a narrative.
the things in the middle don’t count, we don’t need them and whatever else can get the hell out of here? We don’t have the storage for it, we became so poor that we couldn’t design computers anymore because we were all in supernal debt and we just flush out the ones that we deem little of importance.
How do you decide?
Well that is tricky, you see.
Why is it your right to decide, maybe I want to remember all my memories instead of you daring my mental capabilities for your egotistical design. What do you even do with this information?
Sir, I can not answer that question.
music/ smoking a cigarette. Record all noises and start off song with flick of lighter and build up with that into a smooth inhale and exhaling and then pick up the stomping at end it chaotic. Maybe music video too.
Words fall from many places being saturated by past meanings and intrusively suffocated. The breath is to hard to form and when many exhale it all becomes the norm, they attach letters to words forming a garble until we all hear it and repeat it, giving these noises we hear every second of the day another meaning and that meaning leaves when we astray like a check on payday because value is what we determine and this amazement of language isn’t refreshing it’s unsettling, trying to put knowledge in its place, trying to decipher between stupid and brilliance all in all its just a fail-switch.
The sun rose and plateaued before noon.
Stuck up their,
we all took turns watching.
Blinded by the radiance but we still
tried to understand this phenomena
We formed groups like detective units
hopefully it will return to it’s natural state.
We demanded it, risking, persuading.
but none of it worked.
We were all so hot so we started removing
our clothes in a uniformed fashion.
When we finally had none to spare we all
wanted to peel our skin off,
like it was our last remaining innocence.
This organ that has been tethered to our bodies
that never knew the differences between
temperature but only knew the feeling of
hot and cold.
Like a fit of rage, our skin started steaming
and smoking like it was wood catching flame
and we all went for it and started with
our fingertips and peeled it all off
one strip at a time.
We couldn’t feel the difference.
my mind is surrounded by paranoia; figuratively shuffling, being dropped in a foyer, looking for a door or a hang out because I don’t want these beings to fly in my mouth and doesn’t it feel like these walls, you know the ones holding us enclosed, are actually falling constantly , and we are continuously floating to our graves and we are to late to be saved by a few centuries. Brain has been ashamed out, its un-needed, your heart will reset right if its coordinated to the seasons, the conspiracies, the lies, the hidden agenda, like a judgement that was to under but ill try what I can, hold up my hands to see if I can reach any higher but every day the dye keeps getting set on fire.
Michael didn’t see this all happening the way it all did, unraveling to the point of absurd. He always associated himself with the good people, only because he need a Sunday to wind him back, he wanted good people to balance out his options; to weigh on his consciousness but the next thing happened at an alarming rate and he felt like he just woke up in a 10 by 10 studio apartment filled with nothing but a bunk bed, with a guy no less than 6 feet tall and a brown buzz cut, a stranger, and steel bars acting as a boundary to keep him concealed away from society because these criminals or some one falsely accused could persuade our perfect society to desolate destruction even when they couldn’t even kill themselves.
Michael glanced around, too much and the grogginess of the prison struck him down, making him dizzy on the brink of sickness until he laid back in his bed, right on the top, trying to go to sleep but all the lights were still on while the convicts all wailed. He just laid in that imitated position trying to fill the gaps between his last memory and the present. Yes he forgot about the outstanding warrant, no, did he cement any corrosion, no, and as the list began to grow shorter, Michael was very curious of a the thing he could of achieved, the reason he was here, but that was the present date and he was busy waiting for the future.
I hardly drink anymore but it’s the only thing that brings you to friends you don’t get to catch up with anymore. I wish we had something better to do, I wished it all night but all we ended up doing was standing in my friends packed garage, around a electric heater, and either drank beer or bottles. They got more fucked up than me, they usually do but I the one who had to watch them un-ravel their decencies that formal life arranges us to act upon. They continued to laugh, almost the whole night, as I tried to analyze the situation in front of me. The whole night. When they hit their breaking point, the one between just passing out or being still intoxicated by tomorrow morning, they stumble inside as I follow turning off the lights. We sit down in a futon and watch television for an hour. Somehow the electron magnetic waves turned there drunken stupor into sobriety and the parted ended right after the show. It was only the three of us and we slept in different houses.
i am a chance monster. I watch the situations and prove how they act upon me such as happiness or great victories in life but that could be overstepping the value of those words so if I achieve it, it boots my emotional barrier. Some might confuse it with the soul which in my mistake isn’t real. It just couldn’t be. We have more than one though, if that is what you are asking. The soul could only be describe as a personality. In a personality, or in other words an individuals life, you get memory just through living in time each day more moments that add up to memories that turn into emotional thresholds like how well you handle things. DNA is also a factor but that is more a constant. That is what you start at but life with culture stacks upon that.
“no,i’m laughing at myself again.” Samantha Prusac
from the depths below, the beauty of the water shifting the ground beneath us making you sea sick. It was their possibility, life does, exactly surrounding a whim, a circumstance, a consequence for us all, a cornerstone letting you jump up or down, a companion that was evitable dissolve you like a parasite, taking us all under and suffocating us for acting out.
cliffs interest me. This ability to be on top of the world but near death. It tricks you, elevates you and you can see, for what seems like, forever. Years of decay. Either the land is sunk or the cliff is raised because of plate tectonics.
for the time being, I can't touch the delicacies. From the glass to the finest moments in life, I'll only obscure the chances, witness the movement that led to that moment that will be displayed as a movement. It's all in a wall being held up by our standards, your policies, their organizations but if I try to man handle that fragility, the hope that life is beautiful, will end in a vague plague when I breathe on it, talk about, yell to you, scolding the society, the culture that we believe our imperfect but something has to lack purpose to cease perfection and that absurd designation will uphold the truth, which is objective and our understanding which is insanely subjective. Each moment is subjective because we all want to be selfish and twist and tie each event around our central hub but each movement is objective since we are living, experiencing, moving.
in and out, in and out. That is all that comes out of my mouth. Maybe it was these words that I said, the reason I'm not called anymore. I just tried to give some constructive criticism to her relationship but maybe I shouldn't of been so vague.
"He's just a dick."
Referring to Bill, Stephanie's boyfriend, but maybe I overstepped my boundaries. He is one of my longest friends and obviously she told him what I said. There is no other excuse for them not to call me.
Maybe they think that I am trying to overstep this friendship into a definitive relationship but, hopefully, that is the furthest from the truth but maybe my subconscious lusts for her and my consciousness is just confused on the lingering subject.
We were just eating, her and I, deciding on what desert to devour, cheese cake or a banana split until she, I want it in the record book, brought Bill up because before that we were just joking around like we all do but maybe the playfulness could be attributed to flirting.
Oh Fuck.
She probably took my social cues as some motive to snatch her away from my great friend and her committed boyfriend.
No, no, no.
Well what was I trying to do? I felt a little anxious before the dinner because we have never hung out outside of friendship gatherings, the cobweb diagrams of tight knit friends and all of our alter ego's, wannabe's, and those impervious skanks. Maybe the looks, the ones I tend to give through my art of anxiety, somehow reflected poorly towards my fenced in boundary. Maybe I tried to hard, second guessing my personality and took the situation, conversation and all, to a seamless altercation. We only got dinner.
Possibly, I shouldn't have gone in for that kiss, my lucid lips startling her goose bumped cheek. It was a mistake and I can admit that, now, but aren't we mature enough to do that to our friend's partner. I see adults do it all the time on television.
Shit.
Only females are supposed to do the kissing. The only images I can recall are females kissing both cheeks after saying their greetings or farewells. Hopefully, they just think I am gay.
Brnngggg, Rinngggg
Oh look a phone call from Bill.
“What’s up man, long time no see.”
“Dude its been like one night.”
“Oh wow it felt like longer than that.”
“No, I just had family shit to do, you know.”
“Oh It was just weird, I guess.”
“Yeah my mother was in the hospital and Stephanie really wanted to see me or some bullshit.”
“One of those nights, you haven’t had one of those in a while haha.”
“Yeah I had a lot to juggle yesterday, weird day.”
“Yeah I hear that. Me too.”
“Why is that, not because of us not hanging out?”
“Naahhh, it was more than that.”
“Well that is no big deal, Mike was planning something tonight. Party, I thought I heard him mention that at work.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You should come?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Okay, peace.”
“Bye.”
Privacy, this idea of being or having the ability to isolate yourself. We ask for it and beg for it. Hey can I get some privacy! but it has shown a double sided personality. One person does one thing and because they don’t want to share or let people know their private manners causes gossip and or never knowing who a person really is based on trust and what you think is the truth and what actually is un-just reason.
Social networks are exploding with ways to stop certain people like family or workers to view your pictures. If you are so concerned with not having anyone seeing what you are doing then maybe you shouldn’t do them. If judgement from others is such a weighing factor in all of this then maybe you don’t have reason to your actions which the reason in always living. Privacy just causes us to always have a disguise or be wearing a personality camouflage on.
corporate policy demanding us to apprehend like average mind numbing beings. Be able to have violations that disrupt our livelihood. Money has made us human less.
I wonder what it was before we started symbolizing faces.
You know our preface;
before anyone started speculating
with that look in your eye
or put value to each bruise
and scar that ruined the
beauty.
life is full of natural complexities. these complexities become absurd messes once we throw in a population and a means to be known. We need to create industries and a job market for our giant population and it’s effecting all of us because we are relying on outside sources.
the pizza crust was a little to thin. They shouldn't have kneaded the dough so much. They made the slice to big like it was the only factor in a perfect pizza. The crust wasn't just thin but it had no substance. I like biting into some crust that will wake you up. Just one chunk of the crust will take you the same amount of time chewing it then it did to eat the slice. And if they put some cheese in there, wow could it of been some damn good pizza. The slice had everything going on. They had tomato slices instead of them being chopped and it really made the world. The cheese was browned just enough for the cheese to loose its stringiness characteristics but still taste like cheese. Nothing is worse then eating a hot, out of the oven, piece of pizza and the cheese slides right off revealing sauce and dough on your first maneuver to get that slice in your mouth. Or the other possibility is the first bite, the cheese comes with and the sizzling, stringy, cheese droops off either A) embarrassing you because the cheese strands are still connected to the pizza that you just put back on your plate so you have to take your hands and rip it free or B) the hot mess smacks you in the face and burns your chin. Well, what should I expect from this place any ways. The wood looks pretty old, trying to still support us after supporting thirty years of time. The decal of the restaurant was ordinary. Pinball machine, ripped vinyl, and tube televisions on every corner of the wall even though from all the dining vantage points, you still can hear it or read the closed captioning. The owner is constantly in back just making fodder with the clientele, mostly regulars and some high school scragglers. I feel like I should say something but I don't know what kind of relationship this guy has with crime syndicates. It feels like this place might just be a tax write off.
The man, I believe his name was Mr. Wellsworth, Kevin Wellsworth, looked up at me while he was rummaging through the used book store collection at the Mouth Public Library. He was peaking at me behind a book of an interpretation of hieroglyphics, pretending to be interested while he kept watching me walk into the Library. New renovations and local donations led this place to lose it’s enormous book collection but they added about 30 more computers. Just what our lives need is some more of that. People still talk about the amazement of the Internet but they are just lost in its seamless, boundless nature of scam. Every site is out for money, everyone is trying to network or connive their idiocracy on the rest of us.
The man kept glancing, I could feel his eyes like magnets watch my monochromatic striped shirt and short khaki shorts. He put down the book and was just pacing towards the entrance to the main floor, enticed by his own thoughts. After a while, it felt like I was putting on a show for him. It was like a library strip tease. But it had to be G rated because I was in public and also in the library. If you have never been to a library you should know that many parents take their children there and acting promiscuous is looked down upon. I would know because I found out that day. I was dancing up and down the aisles with books between my arms like a Librarian fashion show. I bent over slowly and pondered at the books on the lowest level trying so desperately to get him to come over. I was practically taunting him. But all he did was look and so did all the parents. They had this fragile look of disgust maybe hoping that I was recently possessed because I am quite familiar with the library and I have never acted this way. Everyone only peaked though for a few seconds at a time and went back to their leisure behavior and I continued. I was enthralled by my mood swing because when you usually enter a library, all emotions stay on the other side of those electronic doors, and you bore yourself. But not today my fellow e-friends. Today I was living through my new found skin, this organ tingled ever rhythm I expressed through the gestures of idiocy and sexuality.
I don’t think Kevin was watching me anymore but it didn’t matter anymore. His lone eyes just drove me to this point of arrival but now I must ride myself and see where this adventure ends. I strutted up and down the adult sections which was bare and abandoned by the guests. Everyone just sat at the computers that lined the middle of the room which separated the kids and teenager sections from the adult orientated sections. When I refer to the adult orientated sections I am not talking about pornography. I am talking about the mature content. Some of these explicit romantic novels could be called pornography or art or shit but they are still for adults only. I was straddling some philosophy books, I think by Chardin, rubbing it on my mammary’s as if I had some itch that only a book could cure. I put good use to those theology books and sinned them by gyrating my ovaries all over them leaving them with a forgivable stench.
The anger subdued; drifting from some soft spoken lips across the room’ if I was mad I should of just told you; sitting on the bed, soothing and sighing underneath a wool blanket; But I wasn’t ready to scream and speculate on your defensive qualities; sleeping on the couch; tears filled your red plastic cup; face widened with temporarility; Frozen to breakfast with our tempers filling the air in our kitchen; shower together but we were back to back letting the water lather us both’ spread like peanut butter and I’m the bread; “I can’t change because it’s a developmental process;” you talk; I nod but can’t determine the words through my own self contained monologue.
No one ever cooperates when you mostly need them. Breath, horny, look suspicious, shifting your eyes rolling on our Cornelia, blood shot, red, electricity moving through the whites soaking up the light, reflecting the trepidation of our actions swallowing the shallow waves circling our decisions that you pretended to let go...
you had eyes like magnets, sulking me into a though, was this part of your tactic, static, is all I can envisions because this emotional tensions is like a line on a malfunctioning television. Oblique because I can only be hypnotized so many times by your streamlined eyes, watching me tempted because this new fever broke my concentrations, my pull and every sign I try to reshape into that state but last can never turn to fate and coincidence burrows into chance after possibilities can you try my incivility? can you try to soothe me, with one eye on two rings, just to brush my fears and collect my tears.
Layers
stacked up, one on one, it’s all a blend
lines swirl on top/in bottom
so you can’t even determine the beginning
just like us, it all just passes
and the only thing, your first known thought
was driving to the hospital being run
by machines
suction cups scattered taking
my health data.
The beeping of the EKG woke me up
wallowing the first breaths
but I was already born
starting the way we’ll end
In bed from start to end.
The butterfly is throwing a fit again but like he said “It’s all about fitting in” like being so cold that the bus driver chews riveted. It’s all confusing, to much to little. Suicide is just around the bend and in the middle.
its strange to be on this side of the fence, perched on top viewing the good and the bad, seducing it until the purposes are blurred as if no one could benefit from a helping hand, nothing can be malevolent either because it’s just how it is. Everyone is out for themselves and that how it should be but I take it so retrospectively, viewing it as if my actions had no consequence like I was actually on a side while I viewed it in this watch tower. We should be ceased by now, a few centuries back but our greediness, lust pushed as to this confused state. some people have warrants but these politics, policies, constantly changing some even amended for some but not others. Equilibrium doesn't exist, equations don't need to balance out anymore. Add, never subtract like a blink of an eye.
we have all been possessed before obviously or still are. Those glimpses spewing through your imagination. What if this sidewalk was increasingly into the mantle, swallowing these crumbs and all these holdenesque phonies, doing nothing but starting at each other with their clue less eyes, talking into the wind about un-deserving characters without even knowing us. Complaints flood us and we can hardly breathe anymore from our blood soaked throats. I hope they die because we don’t need anymore criticism, talking what is good or bad, generalizing our opinions, putting down or lifting up another person’s work, we should just be our own critics. People rather be on the side of criticism, critical and cruel then become the artists and have to deal with these blind perspectives. Just because they have done the reading and have collected the knowledge doesn’t mean they can decipher all of us. Generalize us like we worked to stick to a movement but I imagined them crumbling into the ground, being forgotten and then we can ah just flounder and float yet again.
just keep falling through the bushes braking the ground from breaking you. Now your stuck on this branch made of hands, trying to hold you, steady you on top of their shoulders, but I don’t like the freedom, this honor I can only sway and break myself, crack open, and lose it all at once and wake up from my coma a new, forgotten, vision. I rather just get off, because even though I am on someone’s else's shoulder but it’s just to much. It’s to heavy, these responsibilities and my creativity trying to possess me and turn on my societal needs. I was blinded before, the reason I fell by my laptop light. I got startled by the words, my own, screaming from the screen until I frightened myself, tipping my chair and falling through dark air, I didn’t feel the creak, the break, the glass penetrating my skin. All I felt was the hands positioning me trying to take a form I never conceived until I was told too.
there are 3 states of change and going to or from each state has a change as well. Liquid, solid and gas. Liquid spreads and hold no form, it cover anywhere it wants to go but has no control or destination that it is aware of. Solids are grounded and can’t move but is all together and is steady, conscious but its stuck in itself. If you don’t enjoy yourself, penetrating nothing. Gas is framgented and is lost but gradually rising and spread out and has no boundaries. I live to distinguish my being as being different than all of life’s collections but I have come to realize that we still are regulated under the same principles, politics, and periods. I need this feeling because I am lost and continually, constantly flying higher and abandoned. Condensation spreading over everything dispersing because I rather be mediocre at everything than an expert on a few. Limitless in the stupor of the hands that shake and the sewage that bellows us into cemented social feudalism.
Language has killed us. It has tried to define us. Keeping us together which is the last thing we want. It has created us harm, created differences between us, some how someone is somewhat better than some people but then others are greater than you. Communication isn’t exactly purposeful because we think we are better than everyone inherently so why not demand it and shut it all off. Do we strive to know our own answer? Is that the meaning of life, to find our instinctive life long question to know if we are better than everyone else so we try and then when we understand we aren’t because groups have more privileges, our fear or any other reason and considerably negate our question, we apprehend our progress and set like jello.
"Your Welcome." The orange hair, scrawny face, green eyed women said while barely stomaching the door open while leaving. 5, college students walk through the door and she lets go with a snoody attitude like she was doing the most humane act of kindness. She only held it open for one of us to grab it. She wasn't having the best day with her door holding duties because no one has thanked her and she had enough by 8 o clock at night. 4 doors and not one thank you. Maybe it was her door holding skills she thought while walking to her yoga fitness class on Halsted. Why shouldn't she be bitchy? Isn't it her right as a female to get a courteous thank you but no. Not even from one of them. God, some times a women's life can be so hard at times. It makes you wonder why more people don't commit suicide or even more homicides. Not even a fucking thank you. Aren't thanks easier to do than taking a shit.
the door knocked ever so gently, so noiseless, the only reason I heard was because the sponged wood vibrated through the floor towards my chair. The door is also rattled, so battered from the last break in. Good thing I wasn’t here because the desperate intruder was very frantic, maybe he knew who I was. He almost knew that I would be home in 20 minutes. I never thought I would be afraid of a door. It happened about a week and a half ago. It still permits itself to harm my psyche. Since it seems to be coming up lately, People taking your money without your participation. It’s always brought up. Even though I have lived out of the house for 4 years, my mom now calls me daily to secure my mind. Even my friends frequently bring it up, curious at most but maybe they don't understand the caution I go through now living there.
The fragile door rattled again. Hasn’t it been like 5 minutes, shouldn’t they just leave. Should I wait till he busts down the door with a small push or do I get the door for a rude kidnapping or cap popping?
My mom, dad, and sister Sheridan were in the car driving back from a grocery store. We were shopping. It was early September and I just started community college and I picked up cigarette smoking and was indulging in pot smoking. It was a month before my brother Kane’s wedding reception. He already got married in Germany over the summer with just his wife, Michele, and him.
My mom told us how he was coming out.
I was curious to find out when because even though we have a 9 year age gap, I always looked up to him and at the time he was probably my biggest inspiration or role model. I never really fancied comparing myself to others but we had the same DNA. She said that he was coming out in 2 weeks to go to a cubs game with our cousin Nick. I didn’t know if I would be able to see him. He always did things like this, come out and have a fully booked itinerary so he would never see us. Maybe I would see him if I squeezed in some time between work, school and my other hobbies.
My mom said that he was coming out for his bachelor party and that was the baseball game.
Sweet, I’ve never been to a Major League Baseball game before. I was never too interesting but it would simply be something new. I asked her if I was invited because it was so close to home and ever since my brother moved to Nebraska, we barely got to see him or speak with each other because he was so busy getting his doctorate and I was busy being a nobody.
She told me I wasn’t invited neither was my dad or my other brother, 6 year gap, Sean.
I was immediately broken, crushed like a can about to be into 10 cents. I don’t know if it was this new but stale life I was living. Most of my friends went off to school and community college sucked, I hated it before I even started to attend. Maybe it was the un-purposeful retaliation, my age, our gap, our deteriorating friendship or my inspiration finally telling me no but I lost it. I started berating him to my parents, how I wasn’t going to go to his reception or if I went I was going to get drunk off wine and make a mockery of my family because he was already ashamed of us. We didn’t have money.
I started to cry.
The first time after my victory over depression and still is the last time I cried about reality.
I realized that in life you shouldn’t have flawless inspirations, you should never leave someone up on the pedestal for too long because it will either get to their heads or to yours. Without you, you wouldn’t be living. I became my own inspiration. Life became serious after that moment and I started getting more and more detached from not only myself who was going through dramatic changes in my adulthood and maturity but also just from reality. I started to become more independent doing things on my own and exploring my experiences all by myself because in life you are all that matters. Life is in your eyes, between your fingers, around your nostrils, sucked into your eardrums and sprinkled on your tongue.
I never made a fool of myself at the reception but I started to become honest with everything and everyone. I didn’t live in a veal of privacy anymore. Who you see is who I am. I didn’t acknowledge anything that didn’t make life a joy to live. I just picked up the groceries, hiding the feelings, pushing it back for good and using it for concerns and experiences and I found out how to cope. This is when I realized that life is full of actions and consequences don’t really matter. An event is not black and white but just are and life is full of absurd deviance's but that is just life and if I get concerned in them then I am living to far in the past and I should just live. Reflection isn’t supposed to be a disguise or a way to make you look “right” but a way to analyze the situation for the benefits in our life.
I’m just in a bubble, It could be still leaving the pop to be the thrill and when you watch the spherical entity floating towards our permissive eternity, limiting life to our conclusions, only thinking about ego and our worlds intuitions. I can be a substitution with only the subject of constitution feeling images it’s a vivid view knowing when to stop until I am pulled towards the person parable. Stories in a story. Expanding with the influence, popping when you become original, could of been interpreted to be absolute positivity. Freeing through the aura of centuries diffusing into an atmosphere of re-memories like a static particle picking up e-motion like a common place and would you just join me in a closet where the bubble keeps growing exponentially, until it seen because that is like a survivor like when your afraid of your own shadow.
the reason you die is because life gets to complex. The simple way is to identify it in the body. Each organ keeps developing until development needs to stop or it takes off. Cancer easily spreads, multiplying, diseases and virus overly complicated, latching on to our host cells, parasitic, killing you. Everything deliberately only add us to the equation with double vision. Holistically, it’s all natural law and order. It overlooks our compassion and just adding not only a thought but more diseases like addictions which are based around our hobbies but they look down on us. They pick at our personality and compare it to the quantity. We don’t have disorders or we all have disorders but why does it need to be contained, inspected, dissected, and experimental. Just give us our freedom that the animals need.
I want to be able to hold myself in between my two palms. I want to experience all of the endless undiscoveries in all my lives. I want to live in a dateless realm. I want to forget everything I now know right now so I can know. I want to escape the impossible paradoxical facade of being. I want to enjoy the mind. I want to deny language and the irrational complexity it beholds. I want to erase the sketched immoral conundrum on the theory of a group.
gladly, we intertwined like twines squeeze to begin with, struggled till I breathed in, conversations through the bark splitting with each head nod. Together till the end; winter; pieces together by the disturbance of melting snow. I don't know what I forgot to show; the berries; deteriorating our arms tangled to our wooden surfaces until it incinerates. We try to peel away but we were burned like a bush in hell. But we still had our roots to draw from, the fire didn't destroy us. We contain perseverance. The winter just took our names and we grew together using ourselves as the support.
I hardly envisioned my physical embodiment. Looking at the moment as a strange, someone I resemble that I was used to but to far from similar. We were disengaged, finding the cruelty in their hidden eyes, the innocence left that skin when the smoke embedded itself in my skin. It is me, it's easy to realize but I don't like the physicality. Rationally knowing that I exit, that my place can be determined, my schedule can be conflicted, this world, the one I witness, do not take part in could diminish at a circumstance. I wait here. Not floating anymore with all the smoke. The disguise, watching can never take place. So i breath in this smoke, emitting from the wasted soil and let it take a toll, steadily enveloping in my lungs so I can bridge the final chapters.
It felt like everybody in this class room laughed or giggled or sneered or smirked or even gasped in their head even though I could hear them when I confirmed that sly was an adjective. I am just unsure so I was just curious. I rather know then be dubious with my own words. I guess their are dumb questions and I guess I am just dumb compared to most people, rules, laws even if they are embedded in our thoughts, our life, our language. Adjectives just signify the description of a word. When I talk or write I never choose my selections of words based on grammar but on the context, definition, subject, and me.
I see it was finally my opportunity. To sweep her off her feet. She was alone, smoothly striding down the sidewalk, going away from the city when I was coming. I had my car today for a purpose. I park next to her and glance at the back of her next and when I noticed she was still wearing that shiny necklace I just started at her through my peripherals. She turns back, looks in my direction as if she knew me, not yet, and I just keep the car running as I slyly slide out. I walk behind her, resembling her pace, not to close, don't get to close, and she checks her surroundings dubiously barely even caring. The cracks in the sidewalk are causing her to slightly stumble and lose balance with her red high heels. I wait till we are underneath a bridge, about a minutes run back to the car to take my approach. As she goes down again because of these cracks, she uses her hands to sway back to safety and I lunge forward, grabbing her left wrist and I jerk her toward me into my protection. She wont have to fall again. I lock my elbow in with hers like we were walking down the yellow brick road as she silently screams into my sleeve. Panic flares up her cheeks and her eyes are barely visible as water opaque's her yellow auburn eyes as I continue to pull, calming her down with regularity. The usual, nice weather, her vanity, I applaud her as she tries to kick around aimlessly only losing her high heel in the process. I open up the passenger side door, pull a black towel from my car floor and toss it over he head for safety precautions. I tie the safety belt around her just in case she tries anything noisy while we are in transit. I lock the door and get her high heel for her and return to the car.
finally it all settled into itself, original, like before all the rest of the instincts we are diagnosed with. We are copy machines but each ink splatter is different. Some are better replicates of the unknown. To judge you need a negative and a positive, the worst and the best so you can accurately place the other subjects but we don't have anyone because everyone is just themselves. Language is getting cheaper, easier to broadcast over the world, louder and more threatening than any animal but we just blabber and use our screen-less mouths to project our noise-less transparencies trying to be me but also connect to many others so I can feel welcomed by duplication. I fit in because I use these words. I am left out because I want to be.
If you say something just to prove a point but you do actually do the thing you are referring to its called being a hypocrite. But if the only thing you say to prove a point are things you do then you are biased. Can’t we just talk before we start interjecting negative connotations on ourselves.
What is an interior motive? Actually is there an exterior motive? Is that just an action. Nothing is implied but just the objectiveness of the event. The man stole a candy bar. His exterior motive is just to eat or is that interior? In some cases the exterior or the physical can be the same as the interior or the idea. With exterior motives, we don’t need to fully see the invention that is surrounding the action. We just subdue the idea because we acknowledge everyone to have their own motive, or their want, in hand. Why do we think that every action, or motivation has to be set before it is actually done. Can an interior motive be set after the event? Isn’t that just it. We put the concept after the art. Is it the same as an interior motive or is this delayed? Anyone can place their idea after the event but is that just placing meaning to the nothingness. It just complicates the matter. So do we add this subjectively to our stale existence because it adds personality to our meaning. Because it forms a story. He stole the candy bar because he wanted to take down the corporation that manufactured it. But he actually just ate it. It adds a bit of insight to the person or character but it doesn’t really make sense but that's the absurdity of life. This news juxtaposes the action but floods it with to much meaning. Meaning interjects complexities and/or excuses. Excuses can shed light on a motive and that to the interior. Why you did something so it doesn’t exist anyway. Are we afraid of looking bad? Yes, we want to prove that human beings are naturally good we want to show our seriousness to ourselves by adding this interior motivation so we can cleanse ourselves from the shitiness of our wrong doing.
the carpet cubes multiplied by conclusive patterns drowning out complete thoughts but it takes my insight and makes me consent, each one, in the room. If this room has 68 squares that all rest on one another like a line, a queue, or a crowd then how many are in the next room. This floor and all the others. How many are in the world and who put them there, each one surrounding by 8.
being un-robed, naked, privacy escaped puts you in a stunning position. your body frees itself while I stare. Your shoulders together and the participant feels experienced. No acknowledgements in our natural state, no better then yo or me. We are all the same when we remove our material obsession. We can all glance at each other, perversion has dissipated. Beauty has relocated and we can return to our sexuality which exists in everything holistically because we are all individuals.
I have seen this lady a few times now her face always looks the same, elegant, but she is always doing something different. She walks with her energy on low, like she never is in a rush, never in danger. Her blonde wavy hair makes her look so calm and frozen in time. I have been here every time of the day out on the street, town to town, south side but she's never going anywhere. Just living in the moment, soaking it in,. I am supposed to be taxing but I pick the spots that never get an fares.
Finding(ot it)
oroedo
irctiw
nrheoh
diarte
itnmr
nacie
gte
ee
dd
Co the Peace
u possibly
l m
d e
I was ?Asking? the officials
but they B their eyes at
ee
a a
m m
e e
d d
ME and r
ea
t ch
h g ed
e u for
ir ns
We just keep watching using our senses with our interests even though we were born with the possibility to stop. I can’t. You won’t. Just keep watching. I.
Just keep spinning like a spiral would and never ending and keep going round and roung untilyoucan’tmakeitup.
The end of an era
in a year, that could of been my savior
but it was a decision that I and we made
a few differences but we assimilated
and began underneath the shade.
We are all particles scattering in
different directions. Some times we
talked and other times we just stared
at our own reflections. Will we still be
here in the end? The freedom helped us
stand but can we still be friends.
Outside of the hallway we were invisibles,
duplicates and replicas. We found ourselves
in the brooding first year. I found peace
between my two ears. Gratefulness changing to fear.
Packing up and passing tests
is it time to put this era to rest?
Sulking over the corrections we grasped to
but it’s got to end like its supposed to.
Say our farewells and walk the line, we will all
meet again in the concept of time.
If you could figure it out let me know, So i can show an tell, my abandoned faces that left these compromises that changed to removable traces. Shine some tepidness on the trenches of permissive doubt. Figures are taking over my evocation, shadows are surrounding my passing nature.
Oh yeah that seems completely fair, so do not mind if I begin to share, sipping on my own liquids, blown just like I was osmosed with lipids and then gusts of winds pull us out and start a stint of liminality which was right between history and humanity.
Documenting the reaction on our faces. Let the holism stay competent and take over for me any time. Take this because my heads are busy in a petri dish as you try and find out the difference between our literary and the thousand obituaries.
I can’t see through the meaning of the morning.
when did the faces start showing up, they just kept coming, looking at me. Everyone looks at anything, curious souls but they stare just a little bit longer then usual and it’s not fair. They should know through these eyes if they want to glance that I don’t like being noticed. I am a wanderer, struggler that rather be a shadow then a window. I rather be a bum, never selling anything until I am definitively dead. what do people do with money and famousness. I am selflessly selfish. Everything is holistic but economy and society doesn’t do anything for me. They don’t fill the void that blankets me before I sleep, they don’t fill my unused time. I just want to be able to explain life so I can navigate it eventually.
I don’t know the difference between truth and lies. My friend Sam tells me that they are the same but how do I not know that he is lying. I believe myself over any other identities. I can change but this always risky. You never want to stick your feet to long in the cement or you could get stuck for good. I am continually, continuity, changing, shifting, balance, my consciousness. So I can always be nimble. I am the gymnastics of language. I could be delusional seeing things that aren't actually there. Tying together loose ends of everything from politics, culture, politics, economy, society like they were part of my shoelace. Whose to say that those aren't there like a puppet to the master. If I say they are there than I can’t be wrong because life is only my life time and nothing can be proven making everything a theory, an idea that can be conceived, birthed into facts. But what are facts. A proven hypothesis but correlation will never prove causation, its just a coincidence like us, the world, the universe.
a ton of feathers and a ton of bricks weight the same amount but they don’t pack the same hit when you are trying to fall asleep. Staying up trying to talk, converse with them. They both don’t matter even if there mass equals the same.
The outsider doesn’t just stand there trying to look in. He is contempt where he is because he knows where he is standing. The insiders stare at him and the outsider just has to take the stares. I find it strange that words have emotional resonance to them. Staring is usually deemed negative because if you stare you are acknowledging. But staring is just observing. If we don’t observe we don’t realize. If we don’t realize we don’t absorb. And if we don’t absorb the world we possibly live in then we aren’t living at all. We are just skipping on what we are supposed to know which we deem positive. But if we keep skipping on what we know and go to far to a stretch of the pond we have never seen, witnessed, or even cared about (trying to hide it) then we feel lost. Lost is also deemed negative but words aren’t supposed to have weight qualified to them. They are just our language that we un-solvable need to exist. It’s a mystery that’s for sure. All words hold this kind of weight on them. Some times we don’t even realize what are and aren’t words because our processors be it a program on our computer, our peers, our mentors, don’t even know how words and language are supposed to converse to our world. We are supposed to be able to create words like we are destined to create the universe with our minds. We fill in the gaps with actual wisdom that has been passed down from us, skeptically, but we fill these gaps with our imagination. If a word isn’t actually a word but you said it and the word can be defined through the looming content and evidence, does that make it not a word or does that make it your word. I tend to agree with the artist or the human that if they meant it then it is a fact. It’s up to the populace to decipher what is meant to be and what isn’t because we have norms and schemas to uphold. Being held up by fictionless frictionless supports. Continually slipping but we have enough people, hired, to hold it up forever because without it where would we be? We could be lost but that is the only way to be found.
But what is normal anyways. A place that we can go that our livlhoods contain while some try to obtain it and others try to seperate themselves from such ideas. It’s a sefety instead a place that we want to associate in the good or the bad if you subjugate your theories towards those planes. If you are good then you say that you are just normal. Anyone would do this because it’s the right thing to do. When you are bad you regress your actions by conjugating them to be not be normal and then you resort to religion or the barrier between faith and dumb luck to place your blames onto. When we all think that everyone would do is just acting against our individuality. Saying that you are one of those people just categorizes us into groups and places are reason or freedom into a thin line. I do something differently or for abstracted reasons other then some one else. He probably thinks the same of my thoughts. Nothing is normal because its just a mean in mathematical sense but to us who don’t subject ourselves to such facts or realities might call it as limbo. Normal is inbetween your actions and someone else you like to compare to. A poor person picks a rich and a rich a poor or a conservative against a radicalist and vice verse. It’s a humanistic war that tenders to our Earth. It’s drastic to it’s core. Distill it and it will just relate back to us. We like to blame the government, or the corporations, or any other agency that is big enough to accept such compaints to use as power to distract ourselves from the real problem. Ourselves. When we blame something else, we are just providing that we are low energy organisms, or lazy, to change anything that we, past tense, generally accepted the plot when we ended our emotions at fear.
I wish I could have my band back. It stems deeper than that. It’s not just the feeling of making the song but it’s mostly the nostalgia. I wish it could father then a peaceful despise but we all still see each other ssometimes. It feels like our sudden break when the band stop functioning even though we were friends before seperated us to this unknown void. We all still hang out but it’s different. I started to appreciate my past and what I have accomplished in a life of 21 and some days, in those rare moments I ponder at my last mistakes, those creative spurs we attend, and get nostalgic. It’s hard to weigh so much of your thoughts on a word but I like to think of the word being used in many definitions. In the first one I wanted to say that it is not the song that brings back those feelings you wish to preserve but it is the experience that you would like to relive. Making a song or the ones we did were sporadic even when we loosely structured them, each re-take was a new moment in time and a time where you hung out with your best friends, in my case, and discovered yourself creatively. In the second one I was trying to say that it was almost slightly depressing because you know that it will never happen again and those moments attack your thoughts, not fully, but in slivers. Then it sends you to the music you just love to hear because you remember recording it. I hear musicians say, Tom Morello, that he couldn’t pick a favorite song because he has heard them so many times but I now think there is some truth in that because it’s not the love of one but each one is new every time you hear it because it is here within you. Every break, riff, or snare brings back another moment that you have innocently forgotten but that reminder, the sound of it, brings back those very moments that you slip through your cerebrum. It’s the best time machine because you don’t need to change anything but your reaction. The worst feeling is knowing that we tried to record some songs and they didn’t get solidified as glimpses in the past. That is what creativity to me, experiences that we can go back to. Sometime it could help as memory or other times just to recollect yourself.
did that person just look at me. Not just a glance but really try to apprehend myself in a single glance. Did he just look away like he had enouigh because either I noticed him staring or he thought he had enough to attain such information. Well it hurt, your green eyes sketched a barrier, a spiritual tattoo that is now cast on me. Every eye contact now only is for ideas rather then customs. It pounds you down like a pest and trumps you because you can’t turn around and yell no because it’s constant. You should of said it at first but now it’s just obviously a turn that is played every day. It’s my fault or should they learn that my face is the same every time you say the exact same thing, the similiar action, to even complete a phrase or gesture.
He never would of thought he would of found it. A low-level scavenger finding, to his knowledge, the rock, the ancient artifact the shamans predicted. It was forgotten centuries ago, the thought fell from our consciousness.
when did the solace begin? probably right when I started finding clues, pieces of dreams started to flourish into my perspective, rocks tumbling from cliffs, coming straight at me. Rolling like waves towards my body trying to end me. Earthquakes wrestled the ground when each boulder struck into the dirt splintering the grass leaving blades floating like dandelion seeds. The path it concreted into the plains resembled a snake slithering onwards. I thought about running from their destination but either I realized I did not own up to my own strength to dodge these violent stones or I had a better chance standing completely still they came at me like lava from a volcano, striking off a few large rocks from the avalanche but each smack into the earth, their form broke and split into less catastrophic sizes into violent shards built up time, ash from the ruins, sprinkled on my face like a mist, pebbles skid on my blush face and bounced off, stones whizzed by me like dragonflies in the middle of a lake. But the boulders rolled slowly past me on my left and right leaving my life to be.
i only can count to a few but then the objective evidence will start a fuse to allow me to obey the truth usually we have to break the bonds to disperse the shield like a group of needs raising in an open field and while the sides try to take each others territories and can't decide decide if I should try and help the under privileged, non-denominator, and never represented or should I shove my feet in the cement and gouge my hand in the sand and swallow down my beliefs. Does it actually matter or should I just pick up my cape of selfishness and join the collective ideology to numb our spirits but hopefully change our tides. But so many questions conjure through this social scheme. If we change, how would we represent every individual or is that just too trouble some. Won't every event deliberatively end the same. So many people come up and ask me for a change and to just tell them that no one does. If we did, nationalism returns back to tentaviness. We applaud but in the end we just enrage the same amount of people. Negative is equal to positive but if we shift, the ones in power become judicially opposed but they still have the only thing that will cause terror and there best way of attack will employ paul bearers.
Nothing is objective.
Example: If something says another thing is wrong then it means that to someone else it is right. This is because words, our language provides us with definitions. Words are our own so we got to hypothetically call the shots since we use words that are universally and infintiely defined by other people, we could never just tell the failures because words just don't have definitions but text can hold weight which is the context. Godd and bard are just opinions and their is nothing in the world that everyone would agree is absolutely or constantly bad because people use good/bad as either a way to respond to the action or as a way to see it as a whole experience. Killing can somewhat be justified, in self, defense and war but killing is usually seen as bad.
Rain just burns through the capillaries of the privileged let it pump, spread throughout until every liter of your blood is exposed to its foul premise and wither your safe minds trees to leverage your manifest it pumps faster like a frantic fiend about to knock after
as your observations creak never seen as the answer just compliments you wonder why these strangers are blank your voice begins to swift, it starts to rumble like during an earthquake as the pillar of a stone building begins to crumble. We all fall aprt you thought you had the answers but we all did the man wanted to stick it out and stay traditional. The woman wanted to accept the blame and move onto the same. The boy wanted to look the other way. The girl just wanted to stay trapped for one more day while you wanted to maneuver into a radical shift as this rain drops and the wind begins to drift and even though some of us want to donate. We got to remember that others just want to thrift
finding evidence in our life is rudimentary, basic, if we can explore the dilemma than at least we can assert to face it. Do you enjoy the taste less, well I'll be able to secure these temptations, to gauge our proposals so we could steer to be sentimental toward our floundering, increased awareness, statistics, but we could inject false nature, pretext these feelings until they are in stasis. Can we hide from our reality and our isolated emotions, the feeling that we could properly be alone just might varnish through our transparent garments. Privatization is just for one like a circle of confusion even if the facts are prove like the clattering surrendered by self abused bruises. Talking is to simple while typing is anonymous and public. Our future is cordially to hard to stomach and we won't look forward to it but it will grown on us like a fungus. Should i refuse the fantasy or acknowledge it. The altered reality is as useful as a garnish but our levels, inbetween, complete extremes, need to be monitored because life can be full of chains and harnesses but we have because I thought of it. I know because I started this.
intelligence is if you have the will to try something new. Not just once to say you did it but actualy stay in it.
Property is properly fading away.
Are we dying? Yes, just like a sneeze. Life is spreading at rapid speeds into our open space, colliding within parameters that we call privacy but we all collide, dissipate into each others lives. Such not disintegrates apart of you but the lives never leave just attach
I heard your name but I couldn't listen to the spite, these one word syllables that amputated these disruuptive decibles, shreaking like I was the loud one but, in all seriousness, you just laughed like you found the sun, substance it or distract tricks, all the authentic motivations never logically discovered you as a nation each call should get a voice you are in multi-dimensional wakes where the air breathes like a manslaughter and if you attain your condolences in your last gesture in these first remarks, should this detour like a blind start and at times, the worthlessness turns into a bubble that forms jaggedly and you get real. Shove the growth of the edges, the stubborn things but it bursts it will be juxtaposed to a scuffle and the reaction will form ridges in provoked ruffles. Let me tell you the difference between thought and living, one is an earful and the other is underneath a freshly dug hole.
I'm trying not to bleed on your onions but there is a reason they make you cry. Each notch of the blade, stainless on my repairing fingers but one of these days i will get down to my hands and lop it off. I'l replace the would with my neck. Like this fever that occurs monday through friday which is past tense. They will past my minimal check onto my wife and she will laugh because it was worth half my life. She giggles while I gargle, letting my own blood ring around my mouth while the bilingual workers tell me to work faster so I try to breathe, eyes caught, staring at the grater that took my skin and ask for it to do it again. But it just strikes back at me reflecting my silhoutte and the rest of the ghosts this deli has taken victims but she the light flicks on even though it was, but how I'm staring at the meat grinding in the slicer, I'm the executioner as the log of salami turns into thin slices even, one after another, getting closer to my finger until I am shaking but it's not till I am cleaning this spinning, circular blade when it finally catches me off guard. All these band aids around the tips of my fingers will eventually peel off like my sanity when I am doing this human less task again, before I wake up.
No comments:
Post a Comment