Shut Up Because I've Stopped Shutting Down. Shut Down Because I've Stopped Shutting Up...

I Can Hear You Talking About Me...

I care more about the next election stolen from me
children of mine that don't exist
broken hearts
and
unspoken conversations

the October wind tonight
curls up the corners of my mouth
and I'm hopeful
I know this
because
I know that
I'm not standing on my head

I can hear you talking about me
and please shut the fuck up
I say the same to myself
when I really dont know
what I'm talking about
which is often I've learned
shutupshutupthinkmorespeakless

there's nothing wrong with staying in your room
and being afraid to go out
you know where it comes from
you know what little moments in hours produce
1
or
2
moments of clarity
that help you get to step
3
or
4

there's nothing wrong with throwing yourself outside your house/heart
and not giving a fuck
you know where it comes from
but you know that Einstein's most famous formula had a lot of previous scribbled incarnations and that his crowning achievement equaled DESTRUCTION.

SO.

There's nothing wrong except what you'll make right.

Anti-
bomb

psalms

I am Einstein's mind
and my mistakes
reverse in.

VOTEVOTEVOTE

Why Is There Spit On The Computer Screen?

And why haven't I noticed this?

I'm lying. I write these posts on a typewriter.

Also?

Hearing a hawk screech in my backyard from a neighbors television is a bit funny.

Now hyenas.

Now Puerto Rican children.

Time Warp...

Maybe I'm more like the reclusive J.D. Salinger, but without the talent and the one good book. Am I'm totally not comparing myself to HST. Well, I do have access to arrows. I can't wait for the day that I get arrested for shooting drunk kids in the park with my bow. And no, I don't have a quiver or go to Renaissance Faires (sp?), but I am as pretty as Legolas if not prettier, that sissy-boy.

I'm thinking that I've got to keep up the blogging-things because I'm developing some serious gaps in my chronological documentation for my future sperm-spawn. I mean, I sure as hell am not going to talk to them, so how will they know what I was doing back in the day when we talked on cell phones and had polar ice caps?

Not that they'd be able to gleam anything useful from Fat Free Milk because unless they were looking for bad poetry and fart jokes, then they'd be better off asking one of the many Tijuana whores that I've traded comic books with.

This is why I don't write as much anymore.

Because I am even more distracted than I used to be, more of a drunk, super-sexy, totally Greg Louganis, getting paid for writing on a regular basis for an awesome company and pecking away at things, but not consuming them wholly as I should.

My brain gets so synaptically overloaded, I think that it just goes into Cherynobel-status. Meaning - whatever.

What? Huh? I can't concentrate. Air conditioning and planes and the setting sun and to-do-lists and have to drive to pick up my car

bzzt

Similar questions with creating, reality, TV, show, premise...

Trying hard to concentrate and trying hard to dredge up a small glimmer of fiery ferocity in my fetid and failing mind to write on a reality TV-related proposal, synopsis thingy-ma-bob for a guy that used to run one of the companies that I worked for a while ago.

Hard enough to re-invent yourself and to try to use a mind that's not really focused on words but focused a little bit more on love, loneliness and the last year.

What's funny is that I used to tell myself how strong I was, how unique I was and used to define myself in catch phrases and terms and didn't realize what defines a person is action, consistency and letting both of these be the conduit for what your heart feels. This creates everything. This keeps the wheels turning. This conducts the symphony of the uphill and downhill heart, man.

I just can't concentrate, because of you - because of me.