Au Lac (Fountain Valley)

It was extraordinary....a vegetarian restaurant with outdated menus, coy and calculating waitresses with their professional facial expressions...it is "Au Lac". A woman with a strawberry head piece...over the top and under the spell. Raw food, raw personality.

There were monks, one by one. Vows of silence, yet, the stillness is deafening.

Beady-eyed black olives

I both feel and reek the aroma of a quarter arcade deep in Nevada or some other...it's strange...and i don't even believe in the word. Fluke? No no sir.

So many articles have come to publish, ones of adventure and exploration. But whatever...yesterday's news is today's tumble weed, kicked up by nostalgic pedestrians like autumn leaves.

It's repulsive, it's demanding to step backwards on the staircase. You see, people milling about, you see confusion, humans one foot to the next, sitting and slouching, magnets pulling them everywhere and nowhere on the same second and I begin to wonder if someone has written about this this this and me and you.

Strangers chasing their shadows under the harvest moon.

Streetlamps and rooftops. Hello nice to meet you!

Today, the hours of perceived consciousness...uhh...an imagination that me's been wondering where it's taken it's vacation...contractions amuck! The imagination...how grand, when in fact here before his eyes it's been with him, because he is a faint pigment and pixelated into 8 bit abstractions? His imagination is still here and there. He pretends to be something every day and that prints the receipt of imagination.

Alas, a stench from the litter box! Jostle my senses.

Drawing Restraint

Out the chicken coop, rocket pack abreast,
Petroleum Jelly fixtures for the interest I invest.
Poison Berry bush man, the roots he will caress,
A shell-covered ghost, now it shall undress.

We have kept the northern bridge

It is still,
and the daylight reincarnates.
They have been overthrown,
a restless virus,
The smoke fall listless and timber,
Not a peep from any fucking fleas.
Gotcha you bastards.!

Reincarnation and the smell of noses

The silence is the brass section of a fanfare for this solitude and I will revel in it, then take it for granted momentarily. I haven't been here so long and I've barely remembered my account name, let alone my password...drippy faucet...drip drip drip. I still feel like a out-of-work plumber/tourist. The irony is that I've been testing the equation, avid of some literary compass. How do you slice it? Writer, Record Producer, Webmaster? It's not ambivalence, no, no, not that. It's the spiritual stitches. What will these yield?

Writer:
Fulfillment in words and their fashion trends...covers conversations in small arenas...slight sensation of the elite and attention is payed due (remotely and imaginary)...self expression guaranteed therefore miscellaneous outlets aren't mandatory...you become a professional observer or a clever bullshitter...among other things

Record Producer:
You are in a cocoon of sounds...pony tails (man ones) and 40 pounds...Marlboro 100's...Passion like Italians...maaaad soul

Webmaster:
Manufactured robot...a flight higher in ruling the world...

Fuck it lets do all three. Good luck me.

in the dark it implodes

a thorned hand creeps down to consume
and pierce the flesh of its inner being
with might and passion, a wretched cradle
forms and in slow fading frames emerges
a potent lava, chunks of thunder emptied
and lungs empty, the anticipation of it erupting
eight seconds apart with vocal chords tearing to
strands of pleasantry and broken resistance,
obtuse angles in twelve times gravity and in the
end a statisfied grin

a waltz of four eyes in E minor

the residue of a raindrop
is a window stained kiss
that glows in the sunlight

the journey of a raindrop
is to the company of another,
a nonjudegemental osmosis

we are beads sliding together
to form a necklace for the painful
and a constellation for the curious

tight-rope walking

ashing my cherry cigarette gives birth to fireflies at night...i smoke out of the same window...doing everything in my capacity to avoid the wall next door...i think about my life, wish i had love, and hope for the next solution to surface...to save me from nihilism and negativity...if i had more time to contemplate my current displacement...i'm sure that the tears will fall with great fluidity...but for now...i lay still with the sadness that is my prison...the cells that restrain my childish curiosity of alternate realities...the prison that disallows me to have time to think for myself...my mind belongs not to my sincerity but my obligation to my ignorance of freedom, to my prescribed notion of survival, and to the shitty paycheck that i cash so that i can repeat this ugly process...where is the hope?

Coooo Cooooo

If a nightmare is a spatchula then my ass is whipped cream...shit was vivid---{It's darker than the inside of eyelids, then the moon unzipps the sky to molest us with it's eyes while luminating the rooftop as if questioning the whereabouts on a monday night. My old man is looking at almost 35 attenas, the kind that feeds food to our television set. He says "what channels should we order". Then i see myself negotiating a treaty to my sister on the bench, on the rooftop. In harmony, we say "the animal channel, the music channel, and the food channel" like we were a Nat and Natalie Cole duet. My old man's brows extend their wingspans in what-the-fuck speed. Me and my sister point to three attenas that were blinking like "look over here, we are blinking, fuck" so we say those attenas are what we need. Then the old man starts to malfunction and sparks are fireworking out of his dome and then the most dissonant sonic boom of "goddamnit!" spews out of that hole in his face and i get pissed off all over the place and yell this exact phrase---> "aahhhhh" except I play my vocals too meistro and wake myself up from the dream....this was the first time that the waking life was juked out by the R.E.M. life...no escaping the blush face...i'm sure that scream scissor kicked my roomate awake some...so i couldn't sleep afterwards...i was too embarassed of myself from my own perspective witness...a few hours later some lady knocks on my door and i peek through the cheat hole...she's carrying a bible and i saw it necessary to earn my come uppins from being mind raped by those cacaphonic evangelists at school last week...so i strip to my nature suit except i put on my chef's hat and answer the door...then i do a drive by seduction stare and and say "ooooohhhh" like the way kids do when they catch someone fucking up...she goes "eyeee" and does this whiplash flinch number, retaliates with the sign of the cross runs off...i was the devil i guess...fuck valentines day

Crimson

This bar is a place of worship, stilted on runaway souls, loose change and day-to-day pain. We congregate amongst liquid idols, awaiting promise of distraction from mediocrity. Our sores are new and old, some bandaged by a mask we enlist for hours but masquerade like permanence. We expertly perform the muse, the concubine and the hero, chancing at best a microscopic thrill of belonging in this script and at this habitat. We meet at a glimpse. It repeats and we never trade secrets. The pupil returns to the pew and anticipates communion, praying the next sip of wine will grant peace and clarity. This place is a big fat bore, but we still continue to fuck around. "This place is a prison" by Postal Service says it all.