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.

Underwood...

I miss my old typewriter.

We never understand how little we need in this world until we know the loss of it.

Masters Of The Universe....

You know, I've wanted to get rid of this for a long time. I barely write anymore. Blogging's...what? A little bit of exercise and a lot of self-indulgence - or at least that's what it seems like I've been doing for the last six years or so. I've lost focus and have limited amounts of energy. It's hard to be witty and clever and to invite new people to read your smatterings when you're trying to regain or cultivate some of your vanishing spirit. I think that I should use the internet strictly as a tool and not as a vessel that's supposed to define me as a person. I'm really tired, man. What little energy I have needs to be saved and not spent on self destruction or stupid writing that goes nowhere.

I don't know. I know that I need to continue to work on my soul and work less at wasting my time - which this seems to be.

The enlightened buddhist would say to cast off my attachments and personal possessions.

Isn't this one?

One less thing to think about or to be a slave to?

Now that sounds like peace to me.

Yes, I Can.

Dear Camping, No Ones Gonna Love You Like I Do.

The Funeral...

Not really... I'm just tired And Full Of Poo...

"I want to live a real life... I don't want to dream any longer."
Now. Now. Now.
Everything that you always imagined
Everything that you've always dreamed
Every night and daymare
every mistake
every beautiful moment
everything you've ingested
needs to come out, kid
wake up wake up wake up
no more dreams
Now. Now. Now.

Abre Los ojos, Puto...

I am the nightmare of stagnancy and the god of imagination.

A river always flowing.

Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses...

Sisyphus, sweating uphill.

I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn.

Now that I'm a complete whore and have to bartend for 30 hours a week, I can start writing my will. It's all over folks. Stick a city's-worth of drunks in me - I'm done.or now. It forces me to not go downtown and talk to drunken idiots because I'm bored of being at home. I barely have patience with myself.

I just decided that I AM going to go camping this weekend because I need to.

My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments.

i hate bartending

My fingers are Santa's little helpers.

I'm writing in a backyard while everybody else is asleep. My, how things have changed. Oh, I forgot to mention writing absolute crap is all still my norm, right?