Super tired

May 17, 2008 at 10:31 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , , ,

Super tired, all over with being wired, though a part of me still dreams of those furious fires, while resting in the rocking chair of the retired.

I always ask for explanations, as if someone has them, and I hope they do, even though my better reason points to the fact that they don’t. So tell me if in reason I am wont, maybe you can provide assistance where the others failed, its as if fools trapped themselves in a contest with an asteroid belt with horrendous forces pointed in their direction, ain’t no chance for a deflection from the impact that these rocks pack.

I am well aware that wisdom cannot be gained from a book, though the glosses are plentiful and even enlightening, such things are for light weight thinkers, the type that think that mere words can capture the essence of all being, the type that believe the reflections from their own mirror are something other than themselves, seeing in it all a bigger fool than “myself”, and don’t call it I, fuck em all.

I’m not an atheist, though I’m fully convinced that I don’t know anything in the way that I want to, and I am never satisfied even though most my material means are sufficient for my material needs, ya hear, and these things have stayed that way since the day I was born, thank my father, my literal father, boy, and as far as my Father, may he bless himself for in His realm I must always be but a happy slave.

So I stay tired and am more than reticent to accept your explanations, been raped before in the spiritual sense, so don’t even bother making your sly advances because I could give less of a fuck for your salvation and your beliefs of what is my spiritual situation, all I know is that this is not the best _possible_ universe, Leibniz be damned, and that since that is the case I’m not sure if life is even worth living. Romantics aside, I’m probably still on point, for if the human being isn’t special then he’s just a speck of dust and nothing he does is that relevant as fuck, right…

Maybe you can’t believe it but I used to shed tears over this sort of thing, Beethoven and all. Now I just drink and reminisce and think, realizing nothing of importance per se, but connecting subject to predicate nonetheless, honey, and even making the occasional paper or coin of money, and you realize this shit is funny. Though for me it is nothing but a tragedy of large magnitude, a family thing which hurts to this day, G. So I reminisce and let it be, while making moves that run in the opposite trajectory, having things be directed properly with the proper velocity and the appropriate acceleration, fuck it, this is my life’s situation, so I’mma plan with the tactics and the fitting strategy, so that you can react to it and make synchrony happen, buddy.

–2355, PART II

More postings of the same variety, right…

So let me express
what I can’t caress
this girl she stays at her distance
always minding her own damn business
and what can I really say, except to penetrate this thing, OK
and so I make my attempts and conquer, but it is of no consequence so why bother
the trees they grow so high they remind me of the infinite, so tight in circumference and in consequence
I wonder where all of this is going, but if I am to follow my path through the forest such that it will come out in the needed direction and will avoid all negative deflections from this simple man’s predilections, then I’ll love life and its hapless rays of happiness, treading on the territory long banned for us little citizens, and I have to do it lest I forget my rights so sovereign, a white man in a white land just thinking about his white hand’s right to white work in this white turf. Yeah I know the double standard, so get me high enough so I can die for it, I don’t love it so much that I need to procreate for it, and for the Nazi fuckers, I’m ready to be turned into a coat for it, so let’s do it, let me get my broken cross for it.

Fuck a chilly chap that fakes the funk, fucking with a skunk when he really needed to rock like a punk does on a rugged record sounding like it was ripped from four different sources, each from the other until the final product sounds like a porcupine scratchin’ the record, djigga srkatch, djiga what? Exactly..

What do you want from me? Whatever it is I can’t really care about it since the reality is too real for me to bother even as thousands suffocate in the ruins under China. Ain’t that chilly but at least it’s honest, fuck a liar, since he makes most his profits as a product of his personal misfortune, and then proceeds to exploit that slight advantage to keep promoting an impossible visage, he rots in hell even during his temporal duration, so it’s not like I forced myself on him, right, so why bother with the pulpit preparation?

And so to quote some cats: “What’s America without greed and glamor?”

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cryptic posts

May 15, 2008 at 10:36 pm (Nonfiction)

Cryptic posts, they don’t stop, I have little time for that sort of slop but what little time I have I devote it thoroughly to this activity not quite so surly. Tell me how I’ve made a mistake if such things help me make the time pass when the time is so slow that things that normally would make me drop to my knees and pray have me now communicating my disarray to people as well as God in an international internet communication crypto-comm mission. Yeah, I said it, and believe me it’s not as fun as fishing and that shit is fucking boring isn’t it? Whether we agree is no issue to me, so let me go on to the next issue, buddy, a family issue. Aren’t those the funnest, and fuck your grammar, buddy, and aren’t those the ones that tear your heart, aren’t they funny?

Tell me why every day some new pressure must mount as if the totals were not building up as high as mount everest on this amount, and for that matter, on this account I’ve actually been free of a charge, so judge me not, my peoples, whoever you are these days, I don’t even care– not to mention _know_. So fuck your presence intermittent and uncommitted, fuck a phantom that displays pixel passions, the type that has me gnashing my teeth in hell when life is somewhere on the level of purgatory, a constant slog story. Where is the gun, where are my balls, where is my(the) temple? Where is my shrink, right?

As far as I remember, I retired the bitch and made her go chill on some APA retreat where they talk about the endless minotaur maze that is the mind, making no progress because those with the degrees are just a degree less lost than the rest of us as far as these issues are concerned. And yes, I know the statistics and I know what comes with it, and I’ve read what is supposed to be proper these days, and I still feel like I’m lost in the maze, so what the hell?

No one is expected to explain, though the ones with the alpha status are allowed to make some noise but up until a point because even the lowest on the pecking order know how to raise their nose up towards the sky, blue blood and all, sitting on a cracked, stiff wooden chair, thinking it’s a throne, looking out for their human rights on the screen of their mobile phone, calling the politeness police, thinking this shit is cease and decease but it isn’t and it never will be when passions are raised towards Hades or Olympus since the time is drawing nearer towards that date when things will be coated in sugar and plums, pie and baklava’s, when there will be little time left for that last gasp of those who make a pass, assuming such exist, which at this point is not an issue except a for that always ready cocked fist.

So how about chillin’ out?
How about it?
Well, this is a cryptic post so I take my liberties with and for it.
So uckFay ouYay, itchBay, uvenileJay eelingsFay ANDay ALLay.

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Online a’gin

May 3, 2008 at 12:09 pm (Nonfiction)
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Got tangled up in this web again. A world wide conspiracy to connect computers. Octupus-like with it’s tenticles of corruption, spreading “information.” Rats everywhere. Everywhere! A man cannot even run a decent scribble-shop without interruption from the information generation. And to think I had just managed to overcome the symptoms of web-separation anxiety. I could have been free. But since I am a slave, you get the latest post.

The sea-coast was humid, as it should be, and the relatives were fuming, as they will be, and I was studying which surprised me. I must now interrupt this broadcast and return to “real life,” harboring the assumption that this is somehow a parallel life outside of life. I’ll be back though.

-Y.K.

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Don’t you know?

April 24, 2008 at 10:42 pm (Drafts, Freestylings, Nonfiction)

“Know what?,” you might ask. I’d prefer that you didn’t though because then it shows that I don’t know if you know what I know you should know, you know? Exactly my point, assuming a point was to be had, or made. And I’d much rather make one than have it, and after that give it up freely like some uncaged bird, wrapped up in sea-weed, for all to observe (ya heard!)… Why not.

Simply silly is my mind state of today, a most meteorologically pleasing day, spring came before the first of may, and managed to wipe away a good portion of those gloomy thoughts of yonder years that plagued this silly mind to the point of tears on not one but maybe 10 occasions plus or minus a smidgen and a heavy head placedon some train tracks, just waiting… But enough of that, the sunlight breaks through the raindrops and the trees have come to full bloom, the youth are actively preparing for the coming months’ many celebrations, and my soul is vibrating with the pangs of passion and elation.Maybe I am describing mania? Maybe not. If this is what they call being high on life, It’s enjoyable even if trite. So, lets get high tonight.

Upon reading something strange I realized that 4/20 passed and was not even noticed, hell I wasn’t even vaguely reminded of the supposed significance of the day up until right now. And this despite the calendars, cellphones and computers to prompt me along the way. I guess the reason is that it’s about as significant as St. Patric’s day and for the same basic reason(ok).

More bullshit I pile.

–2207
“Stunning, a stunning specimen. The finest of its class, where’d you get it at?”
“Nowhere special. But why do you say that? What are the distinguishing features?”
“Well, you see this here engraving?”
“Mmhuh.”
“Well, upon closer observation through this looking glass, you can see that there is actually an engraving within the engraving. You have to see it at an angle. Go ahead.”
[Fumbling, unsure what he's looking at.]
“Well, I think make out something, but really I can’t see what you are seeing. Are you sure about this?”
“Yes, of course, completely. Just turn the pen a little bit and you should see the reflection come off from within the grooves, but keep in mind that these are very small, and scattered.”
“I see something. I think it’s the letter A. Em, no, its an electrical tower, or oil rig, or something like that.”
“Maybe you should see an optometrist, you might be having a hard time getting that thing in focus, here try this one. You know, I do have a good one’s number that I can give you…”
[Gives it some thought. Looks at the shape again.]
“Ah. It’s a Tee Pee. How bizarre.”
“Yes, truly odd. They used to call ‘em the Indian special. Only 12 ever made. Capone had one. I think so did Nixon.” Terrible president…” [he mumbled] “And unless its a really good fake, then so do you.”
“Truly amazing. This is a strain on the eyes, but I think I make out another one. A buffalo.”
“Yes, not incredibly imaginative, but quite intricate, not to mention expensive.”
[rubs on eyes]
“Oh, really, here you go.” [hands him the optometrist's business card] “this guy can really help you out. A real professional.”
[puts card in shirt pocket]
“What kind of money are we talking about?” [looks back into the glass intently]
“You could probably find buyers who would dish out 5 figures for this sort of thing, but of course you’d have to know how to advertise it. Otherwise the worthless becomes simply priceless.”
“Yes, well what sort of five figures. 20, 50, 90?”
“It really depends. There won’t be immediate demand, and it would have to be vouched for, and ultimately it is the buyer’s market but if I was you I wouldn’t settle for less than 30.”
“Thanks a lot. I gotta go, I guess.”
“Yeah, no problem. Let me get you my business card. If you ever need someone to vouch for it, or if you want me to talk to some people with taste, we can have something arranged.”
[reaches for the card before the man pulls it back]
“Oh, I forgot and here’s my cell phone on the back.” [passes the card back. takes it, puts it in his shirt pocket]
“Thanks again for everything but I really have to get going. Pressing matters.”
“Of course, good bye.”
[The bell on the door chimes. The door closes.]
2242–

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Clear Head.

April 20, 2008 at 7:01 pm (Drafts, Nonfiction)

Healthy as can be again, ain’t it swell. Well, it ain’t swollen, and that’s for sure. My head, you silly mammal, my head is clear again. These three days of half-conscious recuperation have been refreshing, if strange. Naturally nothing productive has been done save the reading of a book and some new music downloaded off those tempting torrents, if we accept consumption as negative production and wink mathematically, that is. Other than that, sleep and medication has been the vibration in this here nation. Looking back I must laugh.

Scene 7

Andre is crossing the intersectons with increased speed as the traffic seems to dwindle at each intersection. In fact, it seems as though the population density is dwindling in terms of both pedestrians and motor vehicles. The change in horseback traffic is zero, but then again what horse-riding occured in —–, probably died out around 1967 in some bizarre incident involving large amounts of blotter acid, a flower-pot, a motorcycle and two unaquianted midgets where, of course, that combination is just highly probable and not certain. That said, the population present, in whatever mode of transport, seems to be headed _away_ from Andre’s current direction. All the better, he thinks, as he does a rolling stop through O street and jets off towards the N street intersection.

The wind sweeps away what small portion of the grime it can, and in enough time it will all vanish. Nature keeps working in its cosmic frame of mind, wiping us away one at a time, a molecule at a time if it deems it necessary, but never giving up, never sedentary in its habits ingrained all throughout its mighty frame, Nature takes care of all that we call fame. No street washing machine could compete with that, but on this morning, and at this time, on this our L street, one is attempting to do just that. Surrounded by four police cars, two in the front, and two in the rear, this vehicle brings the power of many street sweepers to the fore. What Andre would have noticed, had he read the news, was Mayor Verrazzano’s new campaign against crime. The noble Mayor’s late night flash of genius was the idea that should the inner city be scrubbed more often it would not be so awful, and that the correlated increase of police presense, firepower and vigilance and not to mention soap might result in a correlated increase in office presense for the mayor, possibly spilling into a new term or two. Verrazzano was hardly clear of suspicion when it came to connections with various criminal outfits, but other than those rumors he had a clean media image, and his policies were certainly cleanly.

Despite the fact that Andre didn’t read the papers, most of his age-peers living in —– were by now well aware of the situation and would vanish from the apropriate street when they heard the roaring sound of the machine, or else face the swift arm of the law, or water hose as it were. Occasionally a highly delusional or intoxicated indivdual, always the the sickest and the weakest of the tribe, would stay on the street and get promptly booked and bagged off to the county jail for the appropriately imaginative charge that awaits such derelicts. Soon after the noise vanishes, the wiser, fitter ones reapear, and the grime in all it’s street splendor follows quickly. A minor and expensive nuisance it may be for the population living grimily but that’s democracy, baby.

The N-street intersection features a stoplight and four empty crosswalks with shining little green and red men who clearly intend to do their signaling duty even when no one could possibly notice. It is in moments like these that the law is at it’s most just. The intersection is also empty and Andre waits, looking through his rearview mirror, only to see his last neighbor from the back vanish into the last intersection. Andre is all alone and waits for the change of lights. He looks at his watch and his heart sinks deeper as each second winds by. The wind blows throught the empty streets with that special whine and whistle that only wind can make. Had there been anyone out there, they surely would have been chilly. Inside the vehicle, its hard for Andre to keep his cool and soon the cigarettes, foot tapping and lip-biting resume at their now automatic pace. Andre plays with the radio some more, and finds that he can no longer stand any of his minimal choices and starts rumaging through the glove compartment to find a CD. He locates one only to realize it’s an empty case and turns the radio off again. Surrounded by a cloud of smoke, shielded from the elements, he awaits the light, in silence.

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stressed style

April 12, 2008 at 6:39 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , , ,

Hello, dear reader.

Read dearly, for I welcomed you to do so sincerely. I’m under stress, but quite above the weather if such a thing makes metaphorical sense to you. Its that time when things just keep adding up and despite the lack of time you let it touch you not. Some people call it every day, but for my lucky self its just this and the next couple of months, assuming I prevail. I’ve given the short story some passing thoughts and decided to continue it after all, but it’ll have to be done some time during/after next weekend. This weekend I’ll attempt to lay down anything on the page before returning to my work. Muses, kick it to me.

–1732
Walking in a stilted pose, my thoughts are in repose, and though I’m tired I suppose that if pressed I’ll have to oppose your flowing prose with the heftiest of dose of lines ripped off from poe’s
anthology of verse, or worse I’ll make some comments on your tone so terse and your humor–cursed like a man comatose sleeping in a hearse, waiting to wake up–six feet under, wishing he never woke–illusions torn asunder.

You still think you have it all together, and though my thoughts are compacting under pressure, in comparison your style is still lacking in that precious measure, and that is a theft of the highest treasure known as trust between yourself and those you lust, a lack of honesty was the first and will be the final touch; of Death if you will, or as have you, or as you DON”T, I’ve had enough of hate, and I admit that in that I’m wont, it’s my undoing, my spate of reason, a hypocrisy, and hypocrisy is bloody treason.
–1752

1754–
So many years, and so few in comparison to a equal infinite of things temporal, it seems as though my and all ages are equally reared in ignorance, though unequally endowed with intelligence and though this seeming paradox at times smarts it also reassures an equal infinity of times. I hold no proof of the matters here so quaintly laid out, but I just as haughtily sing to you that such a proof would be meaningless to all but a few lost logicians. And for much the same reason I’d much rather hang with musicians even if their trade is more difficult and straining it produces more joyous mental (d)effects though its training, and can be appreciated by all save the deaf.

To say something positive of both, the deaf and the dumb are still better than blind, for one should not perceive the light only through the mind’s eye, its vision so easily disturbed by the slightest perturbations of emotions or so restricted in its ability for comprehension by excessive concentration. So what can I say about the blind except that they are in a sense dead to the world-at-large, lacking both preconceptions and the capacity for circumlocution they simply change their presuppositions and posit their positions through oh so many pokes and prods as to receive all our respectful nods. May she rest in peace, our lady of Justice, the same one who somehow rests on principles invisible, though quite sensible and arbitrary.

-1836

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Buggin’ Out

April 8, 2008 at 7:47 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)

Currently Listening
The Low End Theory
By A Tribe Called Quest
Buggin Out
Currently Reading
Don Juan
By Lord George Gordon Byron

The above suggests a hefty combination of the highest amorous intentions of the romantics with the funkiest intentions of the Tribe. Of course it could all be a lie, but then again, why bother, I assume its a typical enough combination among bloggers my age, or at least not atypical enough to merit attention. But what about the character who lies about that which merits no attention? Well, I guess that’s a fairly strange fellow. I won’t lie, I’ve been that type of strange before but I’m a different type of strange right now. A constant of course remains. Some might even say “Yo shorty back here buggin’ out” to quote the tribe. And constantly at that.

So maybe puberty comes late for a cultie. I hope so, I hope this shit ends one of these days. I can’t take hormones fucking with me, I’m too linear a dude.

As far as scene 7 goes, I’m guessing it just wont come right now. I’m not feeling it, and though I could pull some shit out my ass right now, it just doesn’t align with my original intention (the same one I’m not feeling) and so it would be messing with me which, I guess, is another way of saying I’m being slothful about this story. Then again I suspect I’m going to hell. The classic catholic fears worry me not and I will pay what I need to pay to afford this lifestyle of laziness.

And so…

Greetings, people.

My mind is blank and yet I feel the pressure building in my chest, which normally means I need to vent in one way or another on this forum, so pay no mind to my lack of mind, and keep on reading, assuming you exist and all, dear reader.
If you are just some Russian/Chinese Casino/Viagra/Valium/Real Estate bot trying to spam the comment sections of this website, keep on spamming, for that literal one in a million might just be the one in a couple of billion reader on this little piece of internet farmland. This blog _is_ the American Dream. Imagine us plugged in, tubes tightly tucked in, and blissful. Currently my position is horizontal, my state-slightly inebriated, my intentions- good enough to write with, and my patience–dwindling.

Stick to what you trust, and you will trust what you stick to.

The opener:

–2147
Can’t vibe to the rhythm, feel strange sitting, spitting on the floor, blasting blood on the marble surface with my head wrapped up in a worry– what a circus, and the time is running out and the animals are coming out their cages, and are hungry. Tell me what can I do to soothe their nerves? Save for music, maybe so, but who will save me? Who will make the effort to reach out for his brother and if not help then at least not hurt me, and accept that this brother will probably remain thankless doing nothing of value, except if he somehow becomes moved by the whole thing, which I not only highly doubt, I doubt, collecting doubt from multiple sources and trading my better angels for it, with doubt I gloat, and hang that medal on my god damned coat.
–2152
–2008
And so I’m standing high, as in stoned, and am staring into a friend’s eyes and in between us is a scene straight out of some soap opera, a guy yelling at a gal over some thing not worth our time, and we don’t hear it anyway, though the scene is real–we are abstracted from it. She’s yelling back and I give my buddy a nod and he seems to be in the same space and all of this is amusing to us and I don’t know what to say or do except to plug in my headphones and nod to the beat while witnessing this melodrama. The funny part about it is that the actors really seem to enjoy having an audience, even one as messed up as us and so the show must go on. And what can you say to that, really? I say nothing and keep on nodding as the actors start overdoing it a bit, not even sure themselves if they are pissed at each other or want their drama exported to the greater audience now available. Me and my buddy are joined by some onlookers, seemingly sober, even though we are at some sort of afterparty, in observing this bathetic scene. The additional audience also register some level of dissatisfaction within themselves with the scene, but have not the gall to ignore it altogether. This being their inner state, they exchange glances among themselves and take the time to acclimate themselves to the hectic climate, one so at odds with the dance floor where they came from. Me and my comrade in smoke decide the scene is conventional enough to depart and enter the darker room where the bass rules and make our voices heard, within our heads at least, yelling at the top of our lungs in our separate spaces, drawing ever farther as the crowd swallows us. I nod and he responds, and then there is nothing more. A scene from our time and nothing more, youthes in our daily situations, a little puzzle and a little more.

–2241

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post++

March 29, 2008 at 6:39 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , ,

And why not, I’ll write another. Hey, so say hi to your boy. Do it, and do it more often than you prefer to, and do it even if the Nile shortens by a mile or two and do it even if the mountains collapse and the seas overflow and the sky rains rocks hitting us all in our respective blocks. Imagine the damage, and overcome it, and if you _are_ the damage, collateral or not, still say hi to your boy, and share the joy.

So my alcoholic antics are under control, either than or I’m in heavy denial. God knows, but it’d be nice if I could be certain about any damn thing some of the damn time. The time and thing being damned aside, certainty is not something I’m good at. Precision I’m getting better at, but oh oh oh pipes the piper.

That knotty bundle of nerves, that tension unremitting, that thing they called heart, what a thing to own. Mine aches from time to time, and the heart fibrillating amounts of caffeine only help to speed past the thing quicker. I dunno, I’ve never known what the point is, but work is a nice island, and a pleasant mirage. Motivation boils down to treating the mirage as something Real more often than not.

–2023
The children run wild in the fields. They are discovering the essence of life, and don’t feel an ounce of guilt, though they might feel a gram of some. And so they smile and they hold hands and jump and scream with their shrill screams and they seek one another, eyes closed counting down to the end of the clock, they are bound to find one another, and even if they can’t they will still try and even if it all goes nowhere they will persevere, so much for the uniqueness of the individual, it is as if in a moment they are all the same, a single team, a single motion, unified in that joy of emotion, that emotion of joy.

Fast forward some 15 years and they need help to get them to the same place. They need crutches, they need substances, they need bass, they need sex, they need attention, they need more than they can have, and they need it all the time, they need, they need, they need. And how much and by when, and with whom, they know. Why? God knows, I suspect. Fuck em all. I’m better, and I’ve been better, and I stay better. Even back when I was a bed wetter and couldn’t play in the fields because they beat me stiff and blue in school hallways and bathroom stalls, even back then I was better. So in my silent place, in my private chambers I forced my mind into decisions that I refuse to regret, and today I stand tall and proud in no need of need, in low spirits indeed but looking down on those poor fools, those silly mammals those high brow camels, those pathetic shambles that as children chimed so sweetly.

I’m your pusher man, I have what you need, so pay your bill.

– 2036

– 2048-
I need to speak and if I cannot then you will do it for me. I’ll handle your jaw with my hand, little puppet, speak and don’t forget to make those words leap out your throat as if they were meant, and make sure my time is not misspent, for suckers like you are cheap and time is money.

Aren’t you tired of the same things happening on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday and then pretending that something new will occur on Thursday? Self delusion, sweeter than sweet lies, because even if they are meant it’s more expensive. What can I say? If anything it would probably have to be something that you couldn’t handle on a good day, and today is a horrible one, the type that occurs when you forget what you are attempting to achieve. And the necessary desire has been forgotten and stashed in some dark closet, locked and reopened by British excavators, newly visiting the lands north of the equator, stolen and resold, and by some odd means returning to their master after their massive untold struggles unfold, and even then you are unsure, so embrace this trust and talk as I thrust.

The history of this thing, my message, is long and needs no forgetting and even less regretting. If I could explain, then I would but since you re doing it for me, then you shall unfold it for me, and you will do just fine, you’ve been preparing for it for quite a while, since I’ve been your friend since before you knew my name I’ve been there since the beginning and I’ll make it to the end, you have nothing to fear you have no reason to bleed you can chime in as you need…

–2105

2125–
I’m making no sense and even if I made more sense on the average I would still have to make it dense, and would still have to prepare the fence for the shooting of the guards and the fence cannot face the slaughters And I cannot stand the tears and I cannot bear the years and maybe you shall share your expertise?
Bitch I make chump change out of fools like yourself and you are nothing but a tub of salt in an ocean of guilt, so where’s the boat? I sent out the SOS hours ago, and just a guess, its not here yet? Right, well, tell me please what am I to do? Even if it was up to me, which it never has been, the angels refuse to descend and help me transcend, and don’t act like I didn’t try, because I did and don’t call me bitter because I’m downright acidic, fuck a pH scale, I’ll make you choke on the inhale or on the exhale, quixotic tonic, got you thinking of turnstiles and styles erotic, like chocolate cake and that temptress topic, silly mammals listen to slivering snakes, like they don’t know no better…

So I want to arrive in the park in full gear prepared for the new year like Santa Claus, with the latest words from my lawyer, paying attention to the payment clause. I need the understanding that I’ve been demanding, It’s a contract and my head’s been expanding, don’t call it an ego, because that shit’s forbidden, and only sometimes forgiven, assuming you are clever and keep it hidden. So prepare your defense and make sure you are ready for the run and the jump above and across the fence, because if you can’t hack it, it’ll hack you, the devil’s in the detail and sometime now it’ll get you.
–2135

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Scene 6

March 29, 2008 at 4:03 pm (Drafts, Nonfiction)
Tags:

Back to the scene of the crime. Eh, who am I kidding, _crimes_ is more like it. Crimes against literacy in the free world, wherever that is. Everywhere, right? The young criminologist in us all wonders why? And more to the point, why now? Looking back is what kills you in these sorts of enterprises, I guess. I looked back. Bang. Dead. It happens just like that. Just like that… Peace, love and harmony to all those hippies in the hills of Humboldt. Trees and grass, the only industries out there. Lumber and marijuana, major building supply and major cash crop… 20 year old arts supply stores with decaying paper-machete walls still operating despite completely insufficient clientèle… And what clientèle there is, drives new black Mercedeses and rocks torn jeans and Def Leppard Tshirts with puke-stains– all at the same time… Peace, love and harmony keep on lowering IQ’s and making money. God bless the revolution, Marx would be oh so proud. The following is not exactly what I wanted to deliver but more will follow. Life goes on until it doesn’t.

–Scene 6.

He walks out of Sing Sing’s–worried. It’s probably 941 for all we know and Andre is in the deepest shit he’s been since that one time that he got arrested for protesting the war. Yes, deep is the river his horse must trot through. Andre is glad that his car is still where he left it. This city makes him extra suspicious. He presses the button on his car key, and *shoom* the thing is ready for forward or rear operations. Andre jumps right in and fires up the engine. Stutter, cough and we are off. Radio, cigarettes and window, check, safety belt, check, doors locked, check. Andre is also ready for operations. The current operation has him driving down the same road that he turned right on for about two miles, then getting on the I 673E and then getting back on the the way to work reentering, shamefaced if need be, the freeway he so carelessly abandoned.

Andre is looking back, his right hand resting on the back side of the passenger headrest going through that back-up motion. Having gone through this motion, Andre dodges some passers-by that he barely even notices and re-enters the raging river in a hurry, leaving some of yester-year’s papers and street trash airborne as he jets out. His unconscious mind, whatever that thing is, is about to push him into agreeing with some sweeping statements vis a vis Dom’s Soap when Andre’s better judgment tunes the radio to that station that’s all about killing people.

“Boom, boom, boom.”- goes the rowdy boy Bass, and Andre quickly lowers the volume.

Maybe now is the time for me to reveal something that I’ve been holding back up until this point. If my conscience would permit me, I’ll share with you the developments on L street. Perpendicular distance to L street is two miles north along our present bearing. The street Andre is on will lead him right on it, unless he does something stupid like turn left and take that shortcut he doesn’t yet know about. But then again, why would I tell you about L street if he did some thing like that? Maybe I should just talk about major economic developments in Poland 1910-1914 instead. Maybe the pope gets his kicks wearing a yarmulke at official functions. Don’t ask me, I don’t know. What I do know is that L street is hotter than usual. L street is usually hot enough to vaporize steel on a lunar night, but today, something has happened and hell itself is absolute zero in comparison. OK, so maybe I lie sometimes. But for this here second maybe you should believe take my word for it and accept that its not just the regulars out there this morning. In fact the regular cats have fled the corners and a strange quiet sweeps across the land. Something smells crooked. Water that is about to boil also shows signs of the impending change, bubbles start to rise as if from nowhere, the steam starts to rise and everything is getting primed for the change, but when it occurs it occurs all at once. The rats are hiding in their holes, the birds are flying low, the stray dogs are whimpering and looking for shelter, even the dope fiends have chosen other streets in search of product.

–

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Windy days.

March 16, 2008 at 11:04 am (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , ,

Currently Listening
Reachin’ (A New Refutation of Time and Space)
By Digable Planets

Scene 6 has not been worked on, since life has been intervening on my little fantasy world. Meanwhile, this intervention has not been enough to shake this little post’s persistence. Should I self-censor? I do. So I’m walking back from school the other day, am homeward bound and am getting drunk at various pitstops. A recently purchased and replaced mp3 player is pumping highly familiar and nonuniformly depressing songs into my hearing cavities. I’m feeling sick, lovesick I guess, assuming it wasn’t the liquor or the music, and decide to skip my house till I sober up. So I keep walking, passing by some buildings that are vaguely familiar to me by virtue of my irregular stumbling upon them in various states of drunken duress, one set particularly familiar due to a recent memory of a shooting around there.

A shooting, yes. Since you can’t just bring this sort of thing up without elaborating, I’ll mention that the pistol was (hopefully) a gas pistol (all bark no bite) and that I got out of there quickly either way. I made eye contact with the shooter, but was rather far either way so I didn’t bother following up with the police or anything. Plus, with police around here its more rather than less useless to follow up.

But back to me, myself and I. I’m walking, trying to keep from staggering, and the hours are starting to pass, and my whole body starts to get heavy, but the music is still pumping strong and there is still some of that energetic feeling to the liquor and so I just keep walking. I walk for a good four hours on fumes and mp3s. The scenes seen in that light were priceless. The invention of portable music devices has made it possible to live your life with a soundtrack and I respect that, deeply. Thank you to the ones who throughout the years have worked/profited from work in the field of portable music devices, encoding formats, etc. Since I still download music for free I guess my thanks to the artists in/out of the music industry should be directed as worked/didn’t profit. Most of you profited anyways so I’ll just thank you and you take it as you like it.
The scenes in that light were basically a kind of landscape portrait of erosion and attrition of the urban landscape. That and way too many white power slogans all over the place. What did those god damn fabled jew-masons do to you that you now have to break windows and act like a hooligan in the name of Beethoven and all that is good and German. I guess the national socialists are accepting slavs these days, white enough to be Aryan. I hear good things about the Asians, but they are still to be distrusted. Even black people are starting to be ok in certain more cultured nazi corners, but jews are rank evil. That’s Europe for you, eh. a freestyling for the good old days:

–1232 How can I unleash this torrent so that it pours out the way a lioness roars for her cubs, like the pipes burst on the street, like heads burst with my lips. It must be patience and perseverence, the passion of an army of spirits, souls and saviours, the simple people and their pastor’s sleeper cell. I suggest we conspire to bring about that time when there will be no more earth wind or fire. As for the water, let her flow, let her wash all that is around, for all years old. Let there be a new begininning, a new contract and a new upbringing, let it be free from sinning, and better than the last, the time is ripe for a fast, but not so fast, terror man, the time is not ready for your slight of hand, and it sure as hell is not the law of the land.
this isn’t real and you know it
love, my heart on the stove, sizzling like a shish-kebab
while you smile and you nod
to my words so innocently suggested
my thoughts so wickedly inflected
explain to me why should I bother
when this thing will go no farther
than where it started, in me myself and I
you surely know, for the barbecue smells good
and your senses sure cannot deceive you
mine don’t and yet I cannot see you
distortions elevate you to some place close to god
a living being, my place is somewhere else
out my chest comes out a childish sob
while I mask that so I come off tense
on this bed where I lie, cheat and rob
on this bed of earth I act a snob much like surely do you
if I could only see you too.
so much salt and grain, gets is precious rain
–1302

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