make the best of every generation

coltrane and this breeze, perfect breeze. attempting.
words are stolen from the mouth
stolen from the pen
john coltrane and the piano
radiohead and idioteque
walking down the street home from work
he sees I let it get to me
crash in the doorway, the bastards
something new and horrible
every day
to the world I’m quiet
and who knows else what
I play my walkman loud
and disturb the newspaper concentration
maybe if I get back
into this writing thing
I can take off with it
do you know how long it’s been
a resume tries to reflect the side that is
marketable the side that can be
sold
nothing of the side I have to sell to myself
I could fire myself
give up hope
check out as they say
throw back and watch TV for
the rest of my life
vulnerability – free write this
watched a Hitchcock episode: this guy
had a snake fall asleep on his stomach
his “friend” was casually trying to help him
hoping it would be ineffective and
he’d get bitten
makes me think of my job
there was a capsule on the floor behind
my chair – the witch picked it up and looked
at me
at any moment they could cut me loose
just find a reason
there’s another one, I watched
the Hitchcock documentary of Rope
about two homosexual murderers
very good movie
all my time is thin in the evening
very delicate as if a snake got in
and had fallen asleep on me
any sudden move would
prove fatal
fascinations: time, memory, temporality, samurai disciplines and philosophies, the way someone can just be fired and swept under the rug
it is a rough life
at least in D.C. – which makes me
want to get the hell out of here, especially
these days
just a little more of this will . . .
I don’t see it getting any better
as you read this please wish me well
I’ve always loved the comforting sound of the air conditioner
a few dogs bark in the distance
I think of Halloween months ahead
but it is cold then
August is like a hot October
all leading up to my favorite 31st of the year
those glass floors you walk across
to get the full 17 bucks back
they try to peel your skin back
make your skin crawl
the crickets at night
mist breeze
wishing everything would
just stay this quiet

he prays for his soul
hopes he has a soul left
worries the soul is gone
hates the work force life
like struggling hours
in the military

goodnight to all snowmen

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atrophies

the breeze coming in the window next to me, I keep writing and erasing, over and over. was in the habit of writing a word, a sentence, erasing it – nothing to record, just the process.

I almost broke my knuckle. past worrying if it would heal right, I’m taking it easy bending it just a little at a time. I don’t have much else to say. hello to anyone out there.

small universe

web of your fingers. what nature gave you. much change. tune in later and you will see. I say it is degradation of self the world the friends around you, it is time to make a new judgment. waking up different, not exactly the same. because I can’t sleep, I say it is for lightweights. because they call, say nothing and hang up, I say they are lightweights. yes I’m home. I’m about to stalk you. you set foot in here, say goodbye to your spine. in the morning it is cold, holding arms across chest crossing Jefferson Davis. don’t panic. old journals and no fighting. these days I come home stinging, and love it. punches soak in and become chi. someone invisible hit me in the eye, invisible bruise. King St. is for long awesome walks, and the Potomac at the end. I admire just a handful of people, all the rest horrify me. enough for now. show yourself out, feel free. I’ll see you later.