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.

aged grapefruits

haven't been here in a while...the calm of winter has blanketed my mind and i like this temporary nap. The laundromat ate a pouch of quarters that i found in my car, sunnyside up serendips i guess. I chose a magazine over a book, one that i should have started at the starting line of my break. But some John Browns polluted my lobes with talk of business plans and property equity so i chose to read in amongst the drowning hum of dryers in mechanic harmony. It was amusing to see the aristocrats vulturing around as i was taking my pants out...so i passionately scratched and sniffed the scent of fabric softner on my favorite johns and indulged...thus underestimating the muscles of fabric softner. My pants are beat down...boo...but i have a friend that'll patchem up in no time...excited..but scared it might turn into an art project and have pink all over...whatever. I developed a fondness for long trips to nowhere with no intention and no time to perry with. I also found that distance from the internet is what people like me need, i'm turning into a fucking robot...like binary blood. But given this, i appreciate technology and it's capability

another one

where are you?

are you amongst the twighlight
hiding under flower petal
watching raindrops walking in the leaves?

are you resting amongst a sigh
perched upon the breath
of a lonely widow?

are you sleeping in a cocoon
with closed eyelash and warm threads
comforting your awakening today?

are you sparkling again
in a blanketed tear
inspiring love and tenderness?

are you chaperoning the pandas
awaiting their fall with open arms,
clean water and stories?

are you in the company of orphans
in search of a home, with an open ear
and sympathy?

are you in a box of crayons
or a brush, suggesting the colors,
bending strokes, easing confusion?

are you alone on the rooftop
pretending to converse with moon
so that it has a companion tonight?

I suck at life

Wubble Wubble…there's nothing like the tire swing in your gut when your ears pick up the succession of stilettos increasing by decibel, like a possibly maybe time capsule sent overnight delivery. But the gut is an asshole in disguise by factory design, a one word extinguisher that sends out way too many commands in morse code. I guess the best way is to change the i/o setup so the signal flows clean. I just wanna lock pupils sometimes with a human with a funhouse mirror in hand. Everyone's so concerned with distortion and now now now type validation existence in the eyeballs that it hurts my feelings and my style. If there was some unemployed Kung Fu master of some beatnik school on earth that was down to share the info, I would graciously join the team. Then he or she could format my hard drive with some ill ass programs like walk on water 2.0 or disarm an assassin robot version 7 or something worth taking up brain span. But even better, if I could track down a flutist with mad estrogen who can keep up with my chaotic jazz style that would be pretty. I came up on a geek ass band today who killed it in 3 of my senses, almost 4 because I almost tasted it. They brought the hottest sauce, I was about to fall apart and shed some…soul they had…powerful goodness. When they snuck in Thelonious I fucking stated to myself "no competition" and turned by entire body almost 180 degrees…that felt I had. I saw the sad faced girl again. It's like she's automatically sad, not depressed, but sad an extra mile. I almost understand, like 70 percent with an 8 percent error. Just seeing that makes me think I'm not alone almost, like I wasn't the only alien left behind. I just wanna wake up after a time that I fall asleep and find that my outer shell has finally let up. Then I'll be legit and start looking for gravity so that I can kick it in the chest because it will be that time. For now I'll just keep the peace and continue to work on my distress signal. It'll happen. I just need to grow some patience and read more of Einstein's poetry. Fuck I'm on fumes…i need a soft landing

all over again

can't eat
can't sleep