Tuesday, December 7, 2010

prophetic lethargy

ending before starting. scenario doesn't seem possible logically but logically those are the words that describe such gut feeling. potential a realm. a possibility but so is the moon. reaching without movement. mind is itching, involuntary spasms of leap lets. please
stretch. and instead morissey is the skip the repeat singing inside  me hang the dj hang the dj hang the dj hang the meaning any motives left limp at the door shed them a claw hook of shame 
show you won't dance along make no sounds of your own. worth can't assemble
noise before thought.
is just that: coherence to crash. creativity bore such placid snap. i dig that
urge. the pursuit of just enough ego to force words clear among chatter.

Monday, November 22, 2010

& I Remember You & Me Used To Spend The Whole Goddamn Day In Bed

Hey Baby,

I spent this last week working the shit out of myself. I saw your reflection in my reflection and I passed out on the floor with blood boiling in my brain. I don't think my body is in its best shape. I'm feeling pains in parts of my body: my back, my feet. I fucked your sister last week. It was her idea. I don't know why I just said that. I probably just made that up. Anyway I've been working on these things, these publishing things, and feeling like I have a purpose in life again. You know that might be the thing the war takes out of you, your purpose, your direction. That might be what the war won't let you bring back. Who knows?

Just before you come back around, I'm sure that I'll be all set up and fancy with some decent bird. I'm sure that everything will be great just then, and then you'll call or show up on the doorstep, and I'll just know that it's over again, that I'm about to lose my mind again. Or maybe this time things will go differently.

After a few months, I can have Third Eye Blind back.

Anyway, I was thinking about you a little tonight. I wanted to do a thing on the facebook or something but it always feels a bit less than real. As does this. As does everything. I wrote a story yesterday. No lie. Nope, I'm keeping this one under my name. Because fuck it and fuck them, yeah? Probably a lot of those people don't even know what love is or feel the need to demand the right to have something to stay up late talking about.

I'm still buying that house I showed you. Fuck your father and the banking system of America, but I'm going to buy that house I told you about. And then I'm going to buy a new car and then I'm going to marvel at what a fucking citizen I suddenly am. And then probably we'll find a way to throw it all away together. Little powder here, little stupid there; we're never any good until we've fallen off the chair.


Saturday, November 20, 2010

When I Was Punk I Was Way More Punk Than You

I don't feel so confident in myself these days, even after victory. I could go outside today and achieve exactly and everything I want to achieve and I would still not be confident in myself, not like I used to be. This is one of the things the army has taken from me. I would also love to blame public thrashings on various forums, but the truth is that I don't care all that much what people say about me.

Other things include the year 2009.

I don't want to talk about the army.

Whatever happened to our little tribe?

We better be careful, doll, or he's going to offer us a ride.

Thursday, November 18, 2010


it's been years since you were
close enough to push
i fell without
a muscle comparison

Non serviam

god might smile same as
mine if only i saw
mirror feel
i deify reflection

Wednesday, November 10, 2010


A true revolution of values will soon look uneasily on the glaring contrast of poverty and wealth. With righteous indignation, it will look across the seas and see individual capitalists of the West investing huge sums of money in Asia, Africa, and South America, only to take the profits out with no concern for the social betterment of the countries, and say, "This is not just." It will look at our alliance with the landed gentry of South America and say, "This is not just." The Western arrogance of feeling that it has everything to teach others and nothing to learn from them is not just.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

A girl told me that I am her soulmate. I told her truthfully that I get that (relatively) a lot. She was not okay with me telling her that. Guess I won't be seeing her anymore. I can see how it was a dick move, but I was trying to tell her to slow the fuck down what the fuck? Ah fuck it. Life goes on.

Sunday, October 10, 2010


A few days ago, I began a self-imposed sixty-day period of sobriety, in which I would keep a daily journal with numerous entries made to fight the urge to get drunk or whatever. Well, I fell off the wagon, but I am about to get back on, and I will just re-start the journal. I finally got my oil changed. I washed my sheets of you. Things don't matter. So forgive me all my anger, forgive me all my faults.

Friday, October 1, 2010

call me god.

in a dream an unknown told me glenn close had died. maybe a subliminal radio announcer or a cornered television. dreams with specifics: numbers, first and last names, times, should be noted. more than likely ominous.

i awake and onward i stop to get gas on the way to make money to buy more gas and as soon as i open the car door and stand upright i check the outlying areas for white work vans (conversion) or movement in bushes. still. vigilance and paranoia hold hands in my brain folds. i understand that it will be. the one quick run across the wal-mart parking lot without becoming familiar with terrain beforehand yes that would be the one time crime scene scrapes my brains up from pavement. my destiny filled, an evidence ziplock. remember 2002 and now it’s 2010. my boy was six months old in that october 02, when i took him out of his car seat to have his pictures taken at sears family photo. terrified to cross the lot to the mall and all i could think of was and all i could see was in my mind projected, his baby skull splattered by sniper shot and me the momma bear, holding his limp remains thinking why didn’t i keep him home. sears autumn backdrops are hardly worth such regret. but i made my legs move and let my eyes dart quickly and trusted their sights. and it was because i was so afraid and watching seen and unseen that we survived at all. remember what kurt said about being watched and knowing.

now safe at work contained in my cube. finally, the task at hand: glenn close is not the headline news or currently trending yahoo. therefore, she is still breathing and also not in jail or wearing a device to monitor her alcohol consumption. disheartening my dreams hold no power of premonition or elsehow wires were crossed. still. vigilance and paranoia hold hands in my brain folds. i understand it will be.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Submission to an Internet Asshole

(written at 1039 Harlem Avenue in 2007, published in Here Lies An American Dreamer, and now marking the first random sore to pop on this particular/new internet asshole)

Until it happens that I'm fluid and lucid, blank paper. Trying too hard. I've become lazy. A good sentence is a fillet in a sea of fat. This room should be clean. Colder days should not be forgotten because I'm always two steps from more of them. May the music fade to background. Everything should be as free as air and time's more valuable than any currency.

I dreamed in detail of a revolution this morning.

Consider this hand exercise. Masturbation. Guess that's both. I think I'll refine this and send it down a dark internet asshole. Haven't even got the internet at home—I currently operate on a war-torn laptop and at the library. I'm definitely refining this into one of those pieces whose only quality is the allure of the spastic mind, then submitting it to an internet asshole for publication. I maybe should delete that sentence but I won't. I don't think my newfound laziness is the result of things being too easy, I think after a period of continual frustrated failure I began to lower my standards of good until I wound up in this basement room. Pretty sure my jail cell was bigger, and that didn't cost anything. Someday I'll be famous or infamous. Jack Kerouac or David E. Winters or someone, anyone, who didn't fail forever. Motivation is a fleeting flighty whore when you live on the bottom—memories of rich guys who recognized our similarities but never our disparity in starting point sicken me. Had I been born with loot, it stands to reason that by now I'd have stolen more from this society of dedicated slaves. I'd have been successful. Since I was not, it makes sense that I have three two-dollar bills and three one-dollar coins and eight pennies and some food stamps. This song's rhythm always stimulates pen-to-paper. I wonder sometimes how many are actually alive. I write long-hand first, even unto stillborn novels. The current dimmer brilliance is about losing friends when losing psychological stability.

This town could be worse.

If Beth calls, I'm sure I'll leap back on track. Keeping promises and losing weight again. Fat rolls bother me.

Eighth draft of a very ridiculous piece of writing, but I have someone in mind for it and at least I'm doing something right now. Eight drafts, though.

There are days that I just smoke, get munchies, and stare out various windows. Marijuana should be more abundant or simply eradicated—there's never enough of it. Even though it's murder on the work ethic. My balls itch and my body aches. Money baffles me. I'd rather recycle it for loose-leaf paper—there are madmen who kill over the stuff. Also: dirt and oil.

This page is blackened with ink. With the ash of Winston Cigarettes. That was an earlier draft, actually, but here lies an American dreamer. Nonetheless. I've always had faith, even unto the days of squatting and eating from dumpsters: I always believed that war stories could somehow culminate in an end worth the struggle.

Earlier I considered the concept of an ampersand.

Bohemians and pseudo-intellectuals are neither attractive nor any better than real intellectuals. Language has its limits; a smack can sometimes do all of the talking.

A former room-mate was fond of pissing in bed unto the point that he was kicked out of the damn place. At least this roommate's got the dignity of making it to the steps before letting go. I'm too young for this.

Midnight is a full seventeen hour day.

Pricks like me need another person to succeed, an outside reason. Otherwise we just bumble along, doing nothing in particular, until someone or something injects person in us; we're good for military service or surviving potato famines, liberating populations or fighting revolutions, and not much else. Shamrocks might be beautiful, but we're retarded. We'll drink ourselves to death over people we never even thought of loving.

I hate bending my neck. People with stiff necks tend to bother me. I'm over two hundred pounds right now.

It's never been this hard to smile and I've been losing focus for months—the fucking bastard cops really nailed me to the cross this time. Twenty years I've been exposed to money. It still makes me laugh—people actually take this green paper more seriously than life itself even though one bill looks like the next and they all burn at roughly the same temperature. Society is such a beautiful museum when you're poor—a life spent munching table crumbs and window shopping for ways out.

Schedule: Today—fuck off and pretend I can write; Tuesday—work hard for disgusting-but-cash wages; Wednesday—crawl out of basement, go to regular job, step and repeat until Monday: my weekly dream of life in California.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

welcome to head for the coast

This is a blog for whatever. I'm going to invite everyone I know who blogs and see what they write. The purpose of this blog is to head for the coast in your head, or to head away from it, or something like that. It's a Saturday afternoon nearing the end of 2010, P. H. Madore is drunk on Seagram's cheap-ass gin.