those days when death examines us, face forward.
memories gathered and lost piecemeal, like tumbleweed. visions in pill bottles. throttled dreams from this generation of abandoned fire crackers.
we live out our imagination for what it.s worth and gather, collect and burn more projects than they have amassed at the louvre. i was a teen idol. i was a famous cock. i was a dread poet. a fantastic almost.
i was a god. truth be told, you probably were too.
history, our pattern of accepted statements. tales of faeries for children. news, magazines & tabloids, public secrets, government misinformation and retold memories.
i.ve been thinking about arson. replacing faith with fire. i no longer believe in anything. what is this world we love in?
the false speaking of fallen idols to friendship.
drugged & diseased, we loot the centuries for material and knit ourselves a fabric of wisdom to keep warm.
perhaps, we are too late.
maybe humans never stood a chance against ourselves. who does a man turn to when he.s lost himself?
i.m not sure if this is fact or fiction, living among dreams.
my mother raised me within myths she couldn.t fathom for herself. i used to fear death; perhaps, i.m free.
i have a few words, a few thoughts. paragraphs i could have traded for some woman.s body.
consequence – a truth, in lies. not all wars are won.
the miniskirt and thong. your manchild thug next door. vagrant itinerant cannabis farmer. muscle bound thief. closet artist.
where have you been heading your entire life and didn.t know it?
idealism has long been known as a false notion, but what of ethics & empathy? how long will we live in this world & not leave an imprint? can we bear our own impact?
this life, i.ve found, can be excruciating to precisely identify; except, in retrospect.
hindsight lies as well; difficult to look backward and move ahead.
at a certain point, very little will surprise.
– winter morning
i.ve found – champagne & orange juice clear much from off the tongue. i love my wife, who – i sometimes fear – lives in sexual servitude. perhaps, this is not uncommon.
a common question might be: is this fiction, or prose – a novel, a short? in short, what is it?
though i.ve never considered myself a fetishist – my desire may seem unusual, from your position. certainly my choices have been, even from my own.
i currently reside in a rather secluded area of central california – not so much, as it once was.
though infinitesimally, i look after my wife. i do not think i mean “ever-diminishingly” – only, imperceptibly: abandoning an unforgotten past, brutal as the murder i did not commit.
i sit on a ranch somewhere, putting words down – out of order. and, what of it?
over the last year, my life broke down like a block of sugar in the rain. i recall telling my wife i wanted to rip the skin from our world and strip it down to skeleton. this is what occurred.
the year i broke my leg. year of the bedbugs. year we lost our house & our company was taken from us. year i lost my friends, when our house was robbed by the people we took in. the year i tried to make a movie.
what a fucking year it was.
i dreamt about a train. it smelled like piss on other types of piss. kerosene and yoga. my mind numb like white powder against my lips and gums. two girls discuss rabies, anal sex & shooting up. a man says ‘miss, i.m gonna to have to ask you to move and it.s gonna hurt.’ i get on and off the same train car and it somehow brings me backwards, constantly straining against my destiny. i write line after gorgeous line and wake to find i.d dreamed all that as well.
the skies are gorgeous – pinks trailed with blue, clouds tossed in a mixer. a girl names forty eight people she.d bring with her to a new town, leaving one more for her list.
we grew to believe that dingy was romantic and anything awful could become bohemian, after a certain spin. fragments of forever, strung together with luck and determination. i have these memories i.d like to leave behind; objects i.d carried for years and abandoned to violence.
pieces of falsehood that might string together into truth. writing out thoughts and concepts on a busted laptop, copying them over again; and typing, transferred to a hard drive, another laptop and the internet. printing them out, rewriting and copying it all down again. living on the edges of my own consciousness.
a cat purrs itself around my legs, i dream of waking; finding space – another town, a different city. smoke curls itself from nowhere into the scene to add a little color. maybe there.s a band. the facts can be far too real and why did we leave if not to escape? details: lost with every waking moment. a feeling that helped me find some sort of truth.
the negro stands for something lost. taunting the dragon, never satisfied. how many thousand picketers are marching? anarchists, organized. we left the city of murderers and thieves, wandered through a desert of human desolation.
it is i. prodigal oracle, fallen spirit. the lovers and dreamers ennui. civilization was a massacre. a temple to the betrayal of ourself. what could we have been, if we had sought beyond?
people of the street, no longer mine.
late night becomes early morning. i.ve spent my life with books and among the literate. i figure, one day they.ll pay me for something regular. sobriety is a cold pool, an empty cabinet. we perceive what we can. i wonder where the days have gone.
shirt and underwear i.ve been wearing for days. the pants just came from a thrift shop. i almost feel like myself again, whoever that was. fashions shift quicker than perception and never last, though they return. the world may never truly change.
often, we decay before we die. language rots and rusts. trust fades. creatures of habit, worn into ruts of inaction – old tradition, unexamined thought. the nature of society.
our physical world – atoms and molecules, bound by choice and electricity. the human mind, capable of vertiginous extremes. your body – potential almost exclusively unexplored. a brain, this remarkable feat of cells and neurosis. unending possibility.
reality is limited by our decision to make it so. my wife recently purchased the skinniest pair of jeans i.ve ever worn. hip huggers are hip again.
the muse, asleep upon abandoned railroad tracks. what does it mean to be alone?
waking from sleep, plagued by forgotten images. i write a story of a lonely girl.
que sara sara.
the bar was dimly lit. heavy lidded lamps decorated the walls. everything cost too much.
she was gorgeous. maybe not your type.
i.d seen her at the bar before & one of us knew the other must be trouble. my head was hurting that first night.
tired of working, as i.d been tired of not working. seems life becomes a pendulum before long, one unbearable outcome to another.
sara hit me like a tab of acid.
she was coy, the way a feline preaches on the nature of seduction; and dragged me out of fantasy, into her thrall. they say, one thing leads to another – and, i guess it does.
but, where to go from here … cliche? accepted tropes. the man walks into a bar. a priest, a rabbi, an anglican minister. an imam.
stories receding into shadow. some boy meets a girl, who – with a mystical property – multiplies through lust. angels born without genitals, overseeing from above. love.s magical guardianship.
two cats prowl outside around the ranch, spreading venom from a local plant. neighbors or strangers – known, unknown. myriad tales.
last summer, i walked along a pier and asked uniformed police how they felt about their own hypocrisy. not long after, i debated whether i could kill a man.
i spent my life exploring dead art forms. we live, and then live on in memory until forgotten. we breathe, we break down & return to earth. certain facts prove inescapable.
all else becomes conjecture. hunger is all. what do you desire? when night falls and clouds hang low, wandering with your thoughts. where do we leave off?
i spent my life waiting on a call that didn.t come, lost under my own influence. awake among the stars.
slumping towards catastrophe.
i don.t want to raise my kids to believe that, even if you try your hardest, you still have to settle. that no one can be trusted, friends will betray you, and the kids with the advantages are going to win already. that.s how i was raised.
i was born into an america where anything was possible and grew up in a house of killed dreams. unsatisfying compromise, where getting what you want had never been an option to remember.
my parents traded their desires for children. i never wanted to be like that. so, i didn.t learn to compromise. i believed in nothing else, except my self. how can that be enough?
oh yeah, keep whining. sell your song, your sad story. go on. someone.s out there listening, waiting to hear you.
i.ve read things about myself i once believed. heard proclamations of a satisfied audience. lived as the traveling passionate.
i.ve invented self fulfilling machines, encouraged artists toward their best work and watched them prosper.
profit is the margins on a six inch mini skirt. comfort stifles like a blanket in the heat. love murders itself, unsatisfied.
i magnified myself within a lens of nuance and deception. a song cycle of manipulated energy. i would rather die than quit and lose myself. prodigy, child genius.
you are what you invented – or stole – that made you a fortune, and nothing else. a collection of borrowed genes, thrown forward – toward the abyss of tomorrow.
gravity.s the only thing they teach anymore – jump up, to get pulled down. life is not society. there is nothing natural about disappointment. survival has a finite memory.
all creation ends up in an elephant.s graveyard.
we, children of irony, salute nothing. gladiators of the written word, ever preparing for death. video is our modern marvel. we live on in digital.
days spent in the dismantling of a human spirit. palates dulled by alcohol and insomnia, drugs and boredom.
i wandered arizona on summer nights, exulting to harvey danger in the desert. i imagined large enough for schools of artists, thousands of monikers – drowning the miniature masses in a bathing light of hope. i prophesized a way out of the wilderness.
my darling wants a baby. this portable device shuts off and continues searching for something, wearing down. as do i.
a deceased italian actor saunters along his driveway from the safety of a flatscreen television. i find my name online, unplanted – on the websites of famous corporations – captioned, without information.
our president, soldier of vision, prepares for martial law. we are bit parts, extras in the wallet of a billionaire.
paradox of wealthy humanitarians, black americans. of profitable art. contradictions inherent in civilization. we are what we owe.
this momentary invitation to a new everything. enough of yesterday. the not so secret agents of an ancient belief, with great regard for wonder.
bohemia became prague – beauty in an empty theater. we traveled along interstates through out the nation on the business of performance, collecting words in paragraphs and stanzas; exploring the imaginary. remaking the landscape of an architectural wilderness.
but, you.ve heard that shit before – haven.t you? you.ve been around the block, walked on the moon. you were created equal. you hold these truths.
the forgotten facts. ungrateful heart. a melting pot – loss of self. i traded in one system of beliefs for another, and – finally – for nothing at all.