prelude: what a mess.


definitions of delusion. circa fourteen thousand and twenty of the common era. to play false. i play and play again, and the line is blurred. i don't see what separates me from minutiae. false obsession and the resulting characteristics offer hints. filed away manilla folders. foundlings i've been shaping, or trying to shape. demarcating space. placing. delegating. weaseling myself through longing. i take a rose from the bush outside. put in water in jar in studio. it doesn't look as nice without the sunlight glaring off the pinkyelloworange. and yes. i think of all the pain i'm not in right now, and, at the same time, of all the things i'll never do. of all the minutiae i've already missed. of all the sweet lines curving and spiking in places i didn't look. and in places i won't look. i kick the habit, then apologize. i'm sorry habit. i take a seat at the bottom of a canyon. stay there and study the art of layering. of building up until you have something quite stunning and still, or close to it. a study of being deep underground, buried and still breathing. let's find a cave. a deep hollow in the earth with you. and with breathing, with words, with echoes. echoes always welcome. draw myself out. back into sunlight. parched. covered with dust.
wish i had a well to draw some water from. wish i had a river to bathe in.
wish i had.
wish i had.
wish i had.
wish i had.

something about that inner glow of flesh that sneaks out through a small cut.

don't got no god.
don't see no light.
don't see no fog.
long time down the valley.
long time up the hill.
don't wish no evil.
don't wish no one no ill.
and in the bookshelf,
oil and bone. indifference and marble. cigarettes and anything. indifference and anything. gold is touchy nowadays, but anything made of gold. not looking for nostalgia anymore. can't do anything with it. can't take it anywhere. memories and the taste of blood. finding yourself grinding your teeth. centuries ago is such a meaningless phrase; i haven't lived that long and i don't intend to. shacked up inside old industrial building materials, or tied up with yarn. don't hold back your innocence. and what kind of birds sing at night? been getting curious.

new here to been here a year. looking and finding lines that curve and spike, turn into people off of these quick streets. the smell of exhaust below the palms all condensed and ecstatic. researching the colors of apartment buildings and the bicycles locked up. hot dog carts and their vendors. urban repetition and cheap overabundance. oh, how the heat turns my hand lazy. but still productive in the still air. secular here. the indifference of diversity. here we are. all condensed and ecstatic. free and looking for shade or for air conditioning. quiet wrinkled faces or young mothers. babies not crying so much. and on certain walls, texture so dense and specific i can't copy. so, instead, the feel of nice paper. imagining vitality. flipping through and criticizing color indexes. tip toeing through traffic and classical tunes. digging for scraps and picking through scrap yards. wanting that rust or the implication of it. falling back on the couch or under the ceiling fan pen in hand. tracing the cat or faces i find or the mess of still life before me. been drawing a lot lately.

no belief save for what we created. look at our endless subtleties and complexities and this web of meaning, spiraling outward and at constant flux. after a million years i finally made it here. ancient waltz. loud, plangent. fertile or impregnated sound. open ears, can't close em. listen closely.

purgatory all riled up.
belongings stacked in an open grave.
freedom as seen in the book of Job.
the feeling of a welcoming cunt,
and that cigarette-after-sex.
conveniently inhaling emptiness through the nose;
might as well have a reason to roll around
later in a fit of can't-fall-asleep.
can't see no fear. no depression.
cold demeanor, warm weather.
ain't no future here.
but small sons growing.
strung out jesus.
or jesus piss drunk
cursing his father
throwing stones off a bridge.
behind door number one, solipsistic suicide.

memory in a shade of quick, quiet lapse. this is the bedside sentiment of a poet in dire need of closure. this is his development of a tundra mentality that sheds, leaves behind any possibility of being led astray. no wolf howls are heard in his barren household, and so he ditches it for the dirt and dust and devilish deliverance of the desert.

no wolf howls.
none to compliment the howling wind.
none to echo in sickness and in health,
till death does his part.
the sunlit sandstorm
(ain't no water)
is burying the dead dead bones,
bleached bones dry in the times.
drenched in light,
or, still drenched,
in darkness in the night.

he picks up correspondence. pen sets off anew. as if to mitigate the devil he met in the desert. decrease the severity. detain the destructive details. the dead moments. so he takes up pen. dips. and dribbles across the page as such:

dear migration,
it was great until you left me behind. and that place was far too good at sucking the life out of me. i have left that succubus of a city. call it retreat. call it cowardice. call it disaster. i call it all of those things. and i was royalty. Royalty. i was the dying king in a kingdom of the sick. i was Bukowski in a pool of his own vomit. i was Hemingway in a shotgun shell. and who would've known but you. known who was behind it. stalking the nouveau riche in their greedy disassociation. in their wine-stained forgetfulness. i wrote their fates. wrote them down into the ground in their smoking jackets. in their smoke. and with certainty i grant this. i am not preoccupied with the illustration of ego. i am modesty in chrome coating. i am destruction in the morning. i do not hold a grudge against you. do not resent your departure. i must thank you, i suppose, for leaving me. otherwise i would not be here. and if i were not here i'd be as good as dead for all i know. thank you for leading me into the desert. i have lost touch with all hope. all love. all love. all love. i am free from that addiction. that whore. i am sanity devoid of domestication. i am the real. the end-all-be-all. read me. included is my book.
as ever,

stamped and sent with no delivery address. no return address. dropped in the dry river bed awaiting a flash flood to take it to the coast. deliver it to the seafaring birds. the birds of long and arduous migration.

a million miles from that,
kiss kiss noir. wings flap.
straight whiskey. cocaine. where i'm at.
and in my head,
fifty people watch as a single pallbearer struggles with a box.

day breaks. flies out of the gates and the window glows white with light of the unexpected.

ambition. here i am. here to work. to move. to push. and stand up. sluggish posture gone. sluggishness ceased. and in the day the whispers of seven million radios. from seven million sickly silhouettes. here we are to work and thus the day drags on. i pull. push. give. take. kick. scream. hit a brick wall. brick. lick the mortar. scrape at it with teeth. and the wall's in a pile. pile turns to pillows. day breaks again but i refuse to do the same. i lift my hands and say "new day." i lift my mug and drink down hot coffee. here is to work being done. undefined work to be dug out and reassembled. treasured and difficult work. crucible of labor. and in the warehouse. in the heat.


enough with the (silence).
what a way to kick off the day.

i don't hear the noises coming from my childhood kitchen table.
i don't hear no death rattle of childhood. never did hear it dying.

seven long timeframes left to kick around in the dust.

we don't care.
we don't care.
we don't carry any baggage.

the marriage of heaven and hell in the desert.
don't be scared.
high steps down the hallway.
not a far cry from cannibalism.

a devil. or. a devilish dumbsaint of the mind.
a sure-fire way to win
is to reconsider the winner.
and certain days
hand scrapes
insensitive until pain
and fingers drag
and finger paint.
never just crimson
but red with a clever glimmer.

see that.
the golden wick has been lit. that smell of burning.
faucet feeds the drain. drain smacks its lips.
this is bedside sentiment.
low lamp blown out.
quiet spreads.
somebody at peace. somebody.


a mad age of dayless nights and nightless days. an age radiating out of the middle of the middle eye. this age, from long ago until now, is our writing block. it is our chisel. so we chip away at the wall of our cell. so we proceed. we, a condensed mass strewn across their sphere. but with an open door we are free to come and go as we please. free to move freely between heaven and hell. and all movement via a small burning sphere at our core. a flicker of light. standing tall. a vague horizon at a certain height. a beacon shines from here. and here is what it marks. a place of protection against the self. against all that threatens the self. a place between heaven and hell. or rather. a place of marriage between the two. consecrated with an ushering in of the light. an illumination of a long, arduous learning curve. a subtle but steep mountain range. and day breaks over the ridge line. silhouetted madly in the distance. still, we can only walk one step at a time. and as we break into open air atop that ridge, heaven on one side, hell the other, I stretch our arms as far as the eye can see and bask in the glorious freedom of expansive space.

a man and a devil meet in the desert with not a sight to see. flat sand without a whichway to leave.

sparks. then darkness. the smell of struck flint but no flame. we tried, but still we will be cold through the night. and the bare desert sky spites us. shows us how many sparks it can make. shame shame. low side shows itself. exhibit in reality. living it up in sickness.

nothing to race. no clock. no clock. the time for that is long gone. left me in the dust.

scars to decorate the body. wounds to work on.

fire, take a walk with me. burn burn burn and the whole forest will see.

set out for the eighth day.

[this is a fragment of literature. and, like literature, cohesion loiters and is expelled.]

our hearts bathe in blood. the rules have changed. once upon a time the snakes were the most sinister. not everything looks good on paper, but green sure does.

laughs at his own despair.

a table you can see through. read. the carvings say things you're glad you never heard. and thank god you didn't hear them because sound is so much more penetrating than sight, unless you open all your senses to the same aperture. a black cat saved the day. scent lingers like the last lover. fuck. but whatever happens when a loss is loved: days upon days upon days upon days. we cry. or is that just me? the carvings on the table read an unstable life, just like any other. a life of peasantry to the elements, and only because the world is a bit too bitter for forgiveness.

she didn't say it, but she said nothing's actually a fantasy. stop that shit. she could see the etching in the moulding next to the door against which he wrote the note. "to daisy, from bud."

this here is a sideways look. this here, a humble curiosity. and left behind is a soft seat of fur. this here is a destination to which we walk miles. but i can't recall where it was. bones rub. chafe tendons, muscles, whatever elasticity is in the body. let our bones not splinter for they are not timber. we are a petrified forest. cannot build or burn. unless. drive yr cart and yr plow over the bones of the dead. bury them deeper as to spread their nutrients across the harvests. but perhaps the harvests will not yield. will shy under the elements. perhaps the children will go unfed. and perhaps famine washes over. perhaps we lose nourishment. fertility. life.

dead seed, sprout. please. spring forth.
definition sinks. deep sea fisherman.
how fortuitous.
how fragile an occurrence.


a break from sentiment. splinters from which we transcribe quiet dialogues. we find rituals. words that repeatrepeatrepeat and we repeat them. far flung hopes close to home.

wish i had a well to draw some water from. wish i had a river to bathe in.
wish i had a well to draw some water from. wish i had a river to bathe in.
wish i had a well to draw some water from. wish i had a river to bathe in.

flower patterned curtains. an anxiety attack in the corner. beautiful.

i think of the few places i've been. the immensity of some places. and the simplicity of all places. i think of how water travels. and the difference between rocks and sand. i consider how fast automobiles move. and the speed of weather. we are not natural. we've surpassed natural in too many ways and so all people should spend some time in the desert. America in a valley. America, naked in its process. naked in its wardrobe. a flex of the muscles. a sigh or release of breath. a mirror to stand in front of. to study. to obsess. here is all i can find. myself. a vague rationality. a pathetic fallacy. and a simple line, altered. bent, loved, hated. rope to tie me up. here i am hanging myself. hanging myself out to dry. dehydrate. until. a strong drink. big gulps. acceptance of something into my body. my body. body. that's all.

the way to create art is to burn and destroy ordinary concepts and to substitute them with new truths that run down from the top of the head and out of the heart. -bukowski

i'm looking for the harbor where boats burn.
a harbor where we can dance on the docks.
throw rocks at the fishermen.
i'm all for visual cohesion.
but i'm not finding it.
looking for small changes.
wish i had a ritual. wish i weren't so vain.
sitting at the mirror staring at my face all day.

never in my life has a sun been so perfectly centered down an alley way. discarded alley where strippers and mechanics leave food for feral cats. perfecting a frame for sun on some LA morning.

black and white across the globe. let's shed some morning light on our desires. let's let certainty take its toll. it's worth the cost to cross that bridge.

sober up. or.

whiskey again.

the past embraces us. welcomes us back. discussions of forgone emotions. or the denial of them. a soft heartbeat turns slightly heavier. i have a small succulent on the dinner table. it's grown out of two tin cans already and now lives in a yellow and red espresso can. it's outgrown itself, drooped down to the table and blossomed upward from there. dreams of love twice removed. bad candy. and hard proof when i wake up that i grasp and squeeze like that loss in retrospect. she doesn't dream of me like that. we get back together. and she looks the same. and i touch her between the legs and the sex is the same in a good way. and i wake up nostalgic of how we fucked.

19. accept loss forever

l(eft)overs ever after.
my god. dreams of the past
and strange feelings in the morning.
i remember her body and the
way she thought of me
always. and, at that, i disguise
myself to those thoughts again.

"you will hear thunder and remember me,
and think: she wanted storms."
anna akhmatova

aimless longing. i thought i'd lost you. and i thought the days got longer. i need to force myself to the rose bushes. need to remember crawling through the ivy. but without any soil i drink the water. i try to grow. i hear horns from what seems like ages ago. trumpets rusted out. and weak old songs that are still true in some corners of my mind. and from some similar territories, all the same wishes and miseries stored away. the horns come back in. a puppet trumpeter shouts rusty notes. it's something that's not abrasive but still hard to listen to. he's lit neon from slightly above. he's someone that's been around but he's new here. i see a spider on the ceiling and kill it quickly. it makes me feel bad but at least now i can sleep. no need for mercy. and no need for guilt. the carpenter always said he'll just build until it's built. but not me. just getting drunk and falling asleep. making it easy and forgetting all the stuff.

now i'm lost.
but i should remember this. let's see what comes back in the morning.
do you remember begging for those bruises. it was late last night and you ran into the door. remember?

stringing together vernacular. what fun. stringing myself along. floating the river. floating down the dry riverbed and falling asleep. WAKETHEFUCKUP. get some shit started. my year is here. my teeth growing gold. look past the black kittencat on the window sill. and my car sitting behind the palm leaves. and across the street a heavy set woman in pink pants digs through the garbage can and closes the lid and moves on with her shopping cart. i see her around here digging.

i shave my eyelashes and eyebrows and all the rest just to see what's really underneath and there's only skin left. kind of cold.

kitten becoming a cat. burnt toast. coffee. swimming pools with no owner round. this is sunlight in a cup. drink it up drink it up drink it up and the world goes round. kittencat yawns, stretches with a high arch. not exactly graceful but who's judging?

like kerouac, old teahead of time. and likewise writing and reading sketches. and imagining young man dead in car. drove uphill and blew his brains out. insanity and narcotic dilution loom, milling about. the drugs have only half worn off and it's been too long. sitting inside. very little going on and the occasional car. kittencat sleeping in the bathtub. i need to get up get out get something but it don't seem worth it. i like drugs until they're over, then i don't like anything. i try to touch nothing, change nothing, but my bedsheets notice every movement.

a quiver full of obtuse methods shooting at stars one-by-one. a slaughter. muahahahaha.

lust measured by the pound.

depravity: moral corruption.

all machines should be gold plated.

bivouac found restless and easy to move. left the anchors behind. we moved hillside to hillside indifferently.

an overall lack of purity. so far from and don't know if it exists no more. ever did. like saltwater. like air of urban valleys. will i ever make it out. will death leave time for me to stretch out and resolve myself and kick every habit and live inside the full contour of life? and what does it take to make that move into the shade of sweet submission? haven't lost it. have no soul. it's all in my head. and once that's gone: dead, dusty, and quick. no soul. no god. as far as i know. and so my mind is left. our minds. and unhealthy there like everywhere.

kittencat too hot on the summer floor. lounging about, desiring nothing more, nothing more, nothing more.

back to delusion.
delusion in the mirror.
some small amount of space conquered.
still drinking too much.
need to clean my room.
streetlamp to window to mirror to me.
self-indulgence in a sentence.
humanism in a handball.
spinning with a feverish grin.
and nice little grey lines blurred across the bathroom stall.

in the evening a big bed. on the bed two lovers, so close and getting closerfarthercloserfartherclosercloser. and between them a verb. to fuck. or. to love. traces of the orgasm. traces of a healthy body. a quaking muscle. the dead limp hair living. and fingers through it. sweat of the skull. fingers through everything. shivers through everything. through the soft, thick thigh. the smallest small of the back. the traces of the spine. fleshy breast. bony collar. fingers reaching. moving through hair. touching. taking stock. wet, warm stock. and opposite, the smoothness of a healthy palm with extended fingers. sliding over the warmth of the body opposite. harder. and skin against skin all the way down to. hand closes. pulls. squeezes. takes stock in the dense mass. hand in hand are perfect opposites. perfect fit. the coming together of that wordless space of desire. the repeated coming together. harder. and lips. tongues and tastes. taste of skin. that beauty of tasting skin.
but, now, instead,
neglected toothbrush. an overabundance of sexual desire: (lust). but still here alone. or. in the company of a dream of the past. still here with empty bottles and one last cigarette several days ago. a bed too big beneath the beating sunlight. and before the sun, not one moment. a conspiracy with the moon, the stars, the clouds. a conspiracy with every sip, every step. with every movement in the corner of my eye. with every cigarette. every pretty girl and lusty thought. a conspiracy with the wind and with the lack of wind; every word and every lack. (silence).

kate moss's teeth come to mind. i like them. she's 38 this year and she was born on the same day as me. i like to bite off more than i can chew, and i wonder if i'll be the same way when i'm 38. i hope so.

pretty girls with scars on their faces and the desire to kiss them on the lips.

he's a head case. gonna be taken out back with a rifle in the face.

mysterious origins of euphoric apathy.
no trace or trail.
no hints.
i fall into patterns
with no taste.
and i haven't told anybody
just yet, haven't thought to,
haven't cared.
tragedy's there, at the door,
but only to witness
your reaction.
i straighten my back
to dystopia
and tilt my glass
to you.
i don't care.
i don't care.
i don't carry any baggage.
what a lie.

i hear noises and i think of you. hear noises and my hair stands on end. momentarily. so far gone.

the painter thinks about the warmest colors coming together, that run together, melt away, break, that are sublime, sienna applied in waves with green and gray and next to that a cold-blue star, white, blue-white. footnote egon schiele.

gratitude when there's nothing to do but laugh. haha. ha. ha.

dead things galore. and breathing straight from the spraypaint can.

a change of scenery. a wonderful pit of energy and flow. we dive recklessly in. followfollowfollow. it's okay now.

contradictions. do you mind?


manifesto of future pursuits. beginning now. a turning point at which we start creating history again.

cinema: what is here.
self indulgence. final weighing of a body. the sparkling noise of butter in a pan.
guitar fingers. dexterity & focus. skinny, sexy fingers & legs.
i don't play music, i just play games.
cinematic separation.
following the eye behind the eye.
in between spectacles.
know no languages.
kiss kiss noir.
and in the cemetery we see what life really is.
animal heads, human bodies, vice versa.
brain aneurisms. surprise surprise.
light bulbs in the alleyways.
overabundance of poisons.
the effects on the brain.
elevation of the senses.
cropping everything but the shot.
shot glasses.
extraordinary value.
exhibiting the strength of the body.
"how is it that i extract strength…"
blahblahblah. par for the course.
relational memory.
am i losing anything?

body against body. the populace grinds it's bones together. so sexy. or something to watch in disgust. a party for the dead. and the finite indifference of the crowd until the mood changes.

i try not to lie. i'm not trying to push my beliefs on anyone because i don't have any beliefs. i'm trying to create them through process. trying to create aesthetic fictions that establish arbitrary belief systems just for the sake of doing so. some sick form of prayer or just a weakened spirit. trying to convince myself of certain things. certain truths dependent on. um. [distracted by] kittencat stalks a fly around his apartment. natural hunter. his mouth twitches as he watches it land and we laugh loudly at him. we don't garner his attention yet he misses opportunities for the kill. i place myself above all the animal kingdom because of my intellect (or ego!), and i leave them out of sight for now. more interested in studying my own kind. assessing where i stand in relation to those significant people. the creators, proliferators of the world. god didn't create shit, so i suppose we created him as a spectator or as the judge. god via mankind. a stripped down version of our power trip. an excuse to let our hate out, to fight wars. i think of warfare. of tactical advantages. of waiting out the enemy. of aiming at the head. to end life. perhaps not such a bad thing. population control and making history one gunshot at a time. where would we be without war? there is no such world. that is unfortunate. but perhaps it gives us something to work towards. one war after the next. and, in between, trying to figure out what else we can fight over. lets watch as the rest of the world blows itself away. bodies scattered in the streets. lets watch as our nation goes out hunting in our name. killkillkill. and i have no say one way or the other.

i get distracted. or bored and leave war behind.

the heat has run me down. someplace far from this stale state bullets fly. oh there i go again.

listening to jim morrison lament his cock and pass down obscene truths long outdated. i would cry for his loss if i cared. instead, freedom, and letting the soul run wild. at this point i'm just transcribing what i hear. and it's enough. days to come and the sensation of barely waiting to start. wanting to start anew before the present has passed. this is okay. it is good. i'm still finishing what i started. anxious for what else i can get out there.

élan: energy, style, and enthusiasm. fuck yeah.

PALM TREES. how the fuck have i not gotten to these things yet? that straightish line shooting and big bundles at the top. phallic. yes. but only in words. and to see it at the pinnacle of a sunset over low los angeles skyline and knowing the ocean is right over there. when i lie in bed, a futon on the floor beneath my one window, i can stare straight up into the bottom side of one. and even in the dead of night i can see it against the glowing sky. sweet way to fall asleep. but doing so alone so far.

allowing vices to prevail despite my false resistance. truth is i only hold off in order to indulge all the more.

appreciation of the brickwork. imagining watching this old building being built.


ye!the godless are the dull and the dull are the damned [e.e.]

guess i'm damned in this summer in this city.

don't say i'm the creative type. i am the god i don't believe in, but i swear on him, use his name in vain. fight and throw caution to the wind. i hear someone screaming preaching on a peak so high.

following lines. lines. lines. around bends of road and up the neck bone. and imagining lives. lives. lives. that live alone somehow.

moving on dancefloor nearly empty, dodgers fans at the bar. lights spinning dizzy as we spin. some slight pain when i dance with her, though not love. she's so sweet, and i'm sure she has no idea.

rhythm lost so let's find some.
art is hell and math has subtracted our lovers. and brother in mountain, sister in river, never has a night been so warm. bumble bees work in the morning sun in a different city. hard to find the honey here.

anyone gives us trouble, yeah we just brush it off.

burnt out. like toast. toss it out. start fresh.

oh yeah, that feeling. lips against lips. new skin. my hand on the back of her neck, up into her hair.

strangely my nerves settle in. flesh feels like flesh again. i'm warm, talkative. and at home i feel bodily.

a process ongoing: the development of adhesion between individual truths. being honest for and to oneself.

or my mood swings. a whole lot of nothing. look how long it's been. oh, you can't tell.

oh fuck. {sic}. why didn't i think of that. apply it to the whole. i am in complete control.

(the economics of) the ego. inflation and deflation. a freefloating and collapsing structure.

ghosts of dead languages are restless and mischievous.

poet sits at corner window waiting for bird to fly by leaving streak in air. bird flies by.

watching life through a plastic bag. distorted. collaging what we find and see and hear.

falling off and imagining how one reduces marble into beauty. the delicacy of smoothed out knuckles and taut flesh. what wonder.

the perfection emblem. PERFECTION EMBLEM. where this is. my seal of approval. ultimatum. a terrible surveying set on ending progress. my seal says there is no perfection. when i say move on just move on. satisfaction of what answers? the meticulous construction of questions.

old west. or a slightly newer one, slight changes over time. but errybody's still got guns. lost some of their luster. glaring sunlight and hot summer night, i want to get away.

i think of all the meaningless bullshit i've said, and all that is to come in the future. scratch the kittencat on its chin. think of exgirlfriends and why. think of how one moves on. i think of color. of josef albers and of anish kapoor. imagine full submersion into a light glowing turquoise or into black. and all around is one color.

these things imprinted. stamped. pressed into skin or hide or paper.

antithesis of.
quite spectacular. brilliant.
far fetched and loving it.
no sex for so long. celibate.
celibacy is so in right now.
fuck it.
devastation of the norm,
or the norm itself.
the flow of sincerity.
we put the sin in sincerity.
death and taxes.
ball and chain.
all purged.
vomited out and left behind.
quick! one year run by,
and still running.


baby lion and little lamb. some kind of chase. a courtyard. a petting zoo. a graveyard. a strip mall. muses and walls built in mind. little territories, little places locked away. teeth. white or gold. hands. aggression of animal kingdom. evidence of… hierarchies. simple expression of complex thought, like dogs in the farmland. fallow: (of farmland) plowed and harrowed but left unsown for a period in order to restore its fertility as part of a crop rotation or to avoid surplus production. i think of a ballerina in a leather jacket, that is what i want. desires, desirability. strictly theoretical love. innocent situations vs. corrupt ones. slow mutation of definitions. --> etymology. alignment of the intellect with the surrounding world, but only when activity pervades. the contradiction of a gold chain. the details that the devil's in. flowers in vase on table been dead for weeks. in the mood for love. and los angeles slips away. gold in black and white. no downtown around. clock hain't struck midnight. this is me relating otherwise unrelated things. like, the days are noticeably shorter.

astute: having or showing an ability to accurately assess situations or people and turn this to one's advantage.

white shirt minus model. turning point.
and more importantly, naturalization of the figure.

working, digging. feeling things out. feeding on ambition. monstrous travelers.
an evil that grows deep in the earth, turns its finder into a bird and spreads out from under wings in flight.

calling a spade a spade. never have been able to pretend to be anything else. aiming at full disclosure.
you are what you eat.

alighiero e boetti.

maps and immediacy: crystallizing time or lying about it. loving the demons and nurturing them. flesh and dancing. a slow sway in the kitchen. bird song. moon where gone?

time peace.
drugs & love. two things missing.

baby lion and little lamb.
baby lion and little lamb.
baby lion and little lamb.

i make it, then throw cash into the wind.
cash into the wind.
and then i'm broke again.

insecurities that i allow to decompose and filter back into my system. it's a natural cycle right? tell me, please, what you think. i need to know if i should keep going or if i should stop.

action drags its feet. stumbling, struggling step-by-step. qualifying for disability. "i need to lie down." and so lies down on sidewalk. face down. mumbling to oneself. clothes slowly deteriorate. eyes close deliberately. stories of fame and youth come to mind. pervasive. stories of those who aim at the top and get pretty damn close. this is not the top.

how perverse. feigned love. how narcissistic and ultimately unattainable.

i feel myself elevate. feel the desire to execute impossible tasks. put on and take off a wide variety of masks. continue elevating. mumble to oneself. eyes blur and i feel myself go to a happy or an empty place. what luck. i've made it there and it's that easy. who would've thought.

all the same miseries and wishes stored away. save them for a rainy day.
dying inside and out.

folklore and loose stories inherited.

vaguest memories of days so long ago in Sebastopol. like some strange creeping home sickness or numb nostalgia. i barely remember drinking tea, barely remember the times before i needed the taste of coffee. but lingering are those trees rolling over each other, or such high eucalyptus in strong winds, or the red ones of the north standing in their stoic crowd with fog and trails and silence. it's sad how little i can pull up out of my depths, those years before love & apathy & booze & cities and before art & brushes & razor blades & hammers & saws & ideas too big too build. is that something to mourn or ignore? that age of gaining experience at such minuscule rates and having so little interest in so little subject matter, and still thought i was thinking. i do not mourn it. i ignore it.

where i stand. where i sit. where i lay.
set a deadline for change and will drive to it that day.
getting out of this city. away from this job.
and easy enough to make change instead of money.
wilderness soon enough. with a different kind of dirt and dust.
some fresher air and fresher outlook.
because i been suffocating. not death yet.
and death used to interest me, but now i've moved on to life.
still life or moving, doesn't matter.
at my age death is far too far away.
labor will come to an end soon. new labor will begin.
still moving things, but in a different vein.
still building things, but in a different way.
and soon doing both in a wholly difference place.
sick of sun and ready for weather.
wish cigarettes tasted as good as they look.

an overall lack or minim(al)ization of irony.
in other words, sincerity. and self-referentiality.
or our generation ignoring all the legacies left for us to pick up.
and instead sitting around smoking.
no risk or experimentation or evolution desired.
o rise and lift ye pens!
art echoing through canyon and out into open of some new place.
something to take seriously. a way to say or find something. us as us.

love so easy.
hand or foot in mouth.
woman looking at reflection of herself in rearview mirror, 1937.
sequoia n.p.: one night. cold. sleet in morning.

language and the self:
slightly distanced and reflective.

wish i had a well to draw some water from. wish i had a river to bathe in.