Evil Empire

Already Wednesday. People are happy when it’s Friday, happy when it’s Thursday because it makes them think of Friday, happy when it’s Wednesday because it makes them think of Thursday. Monday is hell on earth, the exact opposite of Friday, and Tuesday will simply just not do.

I’m thinking more about
CAPITALISM
the evil empire

we are all fucked up on it
most of us are not
introspective enough
perspective is lacking
I feel the overall essence
and it is ugly
we are not valued outside
of our ability to
serve business interests

they take our time
and shit it out the exhausts
hours and hours and hours
and hours
wasted away
thrown
out the window
down the drain

monster.com (headhunters) will just
set you up in someone else’s
office
where you’ll be
staring out the window

pick a window

at least get an office
with a picture frame on the wall
you can pretend
an imagination is good
they can use a guy like you

maybe one day a week
on your lunch break
you’ll venture outside
the building

students, you’re all working
hard to get up in that place

where the planes fly by
fly
in
to

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something wrong with
the internet back
at my house and
besides I wanted
to hit the coffee shop anyway
come here and write
read
discover the misfortune of
a badly torn page
as it turns out has been there
since the purchase over
a year ago
in the days before
my wife left for Spain
I was making decent money
at that job before
they let me go
and so when I spotted these
special prints
I splurged for them
proudly putting them on my shelf
thinking, “I will really take care of them
and see that they wear and tear
very little over the years”
but then you move and
you see that everything you
bring along with you
in the truck
is subject to being knocked over
scuffed shattered bent
what was in storage in my
mother’s garage
became rotted out
filled with spider eggs
etc.
this tells the tale
of the ravages of time

anyway
a magnificent
story is kicked out here
by Dostoevsky as usual
there is the big story
and the many little stories
that give further insight
into the pure hearted nature
of Myshkin
the only one in the whole lot
to step in
and break the cruel streak
in which people were showering down
upon this one poor girl in the village

. . .

Roanoke days were lonely as hell. I did not expect too much more of Houston once I got here, that such an abundance of good people would befriend me, and there would be things to do, things to talk about, which would make me feel alive again. Soon enough I had friends to talk to that were very accepting of me and incredibly generous. This has all been a stage of healing, and I say this as I continue to heal. That last job, after all, was god awful; felt like my eyes were being stabbed out. I have never met such rude motherfuckers in all my life.

See, when you get treated like shit long enough by enough people, you start to believe it. This is why I left JetSetters in such a blaze of glory. Existing there was just not possible. In essence, I had slid my car off a bridge during an ice storm; I was down below, holding my breath, waiting. Waiting.

. . .

The White Stripes are playing and a guy is banging his fist at the far end of this table. I do not disapprove.

Music is blood, I’ve concluded. People cannot do without it.

Oh, a woman orders her coffee at the register just barely, because she is talking on the phone, and when she is called back over to sign her receipt she doesn’t hear. “Ma’am, ma’am, ma’am,” they call out. She comes over in mid-conversation, signs, not even acknowledging the employees, walks out. This generates a little stir before the whole thing is mostly forgotten and the day goes on.

There is talk about the next few days being dry and the temperature going back up, if only just a bit. It all sounds good to me.

. . .

In the overall sense I don’t exist much. That there is an experimental sentence. Not sure what it means. I am here in the immediate moment just like we were talking about last night that cats don’t really think as much as they feel. I could be saying it from a satellite that the houses what to speak of the people in them are all just spots, ants to step on, ants which the weather can step on at any time, in which the CIA tortures, spies on, discards when they are no longer any use. “Give up your information!”

It is an information age. Automated in travel and made in who’s image? God damn. My spare time ends here.

blood flows through
the body
there is life
in every spec
alcohol in Spec’s
there’s
ability that
connects
then completes
the mundane
the so-called mundane
the mundane
machine of
the work place

Friday morning notes

it is nice coming here to the coffee shop mornings and finding that other people write not as students but as writers with journals.

so Friday is here!

still, I’ve been in a good mood all week. I’ve pretty much been this way ever since I left my old job and started the new one. one side of me is saying I have to come down to reality. the other keeps thinking back to that hell I just went through, and through experiencing it, what strength it gives me now. the trials before me now are lightweight.

this lady walks by
drops her notebook
me and one other guy
start to reach down
to grab it for her
but she gets it

a dog bounces past
a little boy in the parking lot
screams out the window Hello!

Myshkin is talking to the generals wife
and three daughters about
calligraphy and Switzerland
he went there to be treated
for his Epilepsy
and now mostly recovered
has returned to Petersburg
this book will lead
further into
how everyone
in one form or another
will attempt to wipe this guy out
and by his good nature
this is all combated
almost unconsciously

but of course it doesn’t
happen so simply
and everything
takes its toll

and so now I am
returning from “Switzerland”
to Dostoevsky’s
storytelling
layered
elaborate
hyper-detailed
hyper sensitive
dramatic
philosophical

. . .

these notes are somewhat scattered. pressed for time kind of notes. still fun. I love to write even when my mind is blank. it’s something I want to get better and better at. there’s that sense of mastery, but what really can you ever master if its depths are limitless. at least I can say I’m not a beginner to this. I seriously started writing when I was a teenager, just a bit before I moved into the temple and they said I should put a hold on it. they stifled it. when I was in India I began to plan out a magazine “notes and open thought” which turned into “journal of thought.” years later, JOT died in Baltimore. I had moved in with devotees and one, once again, discouraged the act of writing (even those his own spiritual master was a prolific writer). this did not stop me, mind you, but threw a wrench into machinery, nevertheless.

I am in a place of notes. that is, I write notes, and that’s it. I’m in no other mode as far as novel writing, zine creating, whatever. it’s just the sort of pace I’m going in. there is a poetry book cooking in the background, but very slowly. I’m monitoring it. I want to keep an eye on the material over time and see if it’s worth putting into print at some point.

more notes later…

Openings

these are lunch notes
notes rhyme with
throat
like notes
that go
for the throat
but these
are not
made up
like that
they pat
you
on the
shoulder
and say
are you tired
let me in
my own small
way
offer you
a place to rest
here are
the keys to
my car
go out and
bask in
the sun
I’ll meet
you out soon
we can enjoy
the day together

these days are
much kinder to me
so I am
kinder back
I’d
like to think

word tappings
are not trappings
not trappists
but are humble
in the city
they don’t watch
sex in
the city
these words cross
the humble line:
“’cause that’s
some fucked up shit…
who in their right mind
wants to watch that
crunked up yuppie shit?”

anyway, I have
screws in my head
the screws I thought
were there
for a purpose
but one day
I woke up
and realized
this world is full
of no reasons
for
no good

we have
got
to
take care
of ourselves
or the
world will
see an
opening…

I hate watching the minutes wind down to work and there is that obligation to go in or else! And while I try to wake up within myself for a new day, I notice that impatience. I become highly aware of the time. Ask me and I’ll give an approximation that it is 5:07, 3:43, and so on, and usually I’m not that far off.

I love every minute of time I have for myself. I love pacing myself throughout the day when my time is with them. There are some days, of course, when things are not all at peace, are out of sync, problematic, buggy. Label these in your head and keep going.

. . .

What I like least in reading Dostoevsky is his “society” ladies. How utterly boring they are, and yet a novelty in their own right, how their bizzar natures fascinate.

We don’t run. We are the species
that photographs trains wrecking

slid from the tracks

a spotted past

a reader

read a book and read into your head (people mag. is not the same)

the smirk on her beautiful face
where there is understanding
recognition connection
and it is all
none of
my business
none of yours

but now it is

these are ernest notes
through time
where – it is true –
everything
is
temporary
usually short-lasting

the amount of time
we pry into each other
is short

concentrate on all that life has to offer without being smothered by your mother (or old gran). cons and pros. contemplating the pros. glass half full and filling further. the more you pedal, the less petrol. the Russia of Dostoevsky’s time, the characters, are getting to me, with precision, like wood screws digging into skin. twist slow steady. and chess chess chess. this is where it all begins: morning, then night. your mood changes and you wanna associate peanut butter with anything that’s remotely edible. hey lets go over to full size and be larger than life. surreal visions open the laughter and cause you to share with your friends. some days you wake up short. others are built for sliding boards at the park. at seven I had a scattered concentration aside from fighting back the bullies and establishing potential death blows that were ready to mature into something so much more given I’d live on to tell the tale. now I’m at the table and telling the tale. every bit of it is scattered up magnetic on someone’s fridge, from a less than magnetic personality from afar. but you judge and when you judge your stuck back in that land. goodbye!

we envy others who are good looking without seeing what is good looking in ourselves and forget in the moments when we need it most that music is orgasmic and sends large hammers through plexaglass depression on command.

you cannot jump into my body nor I yours and take on responsibilities assigned by an invisible personage. the audience agrees with this, every word, nodding approvingly, and is therefore stylin’.

I work a mid-shift now, 11 in the morning till 8 in the evening, lunch around 2pm or so; fairly normal and this allows me to miss both rush hours of traffic. Mornings, I wake early and drive my wife to work, then back home and decide what to do with my time before heading in. Today, I’ve decided to break the monotony a bit and come up to the coffee shop for breakfast. There are very little things I’m noticing about myself and others, and this goes on throughout life, especially as one enters a new area of experience and location and must adapt and become at home with it as best as possible. That’s what binds me to Dostoevsky is that he constantly toiled to understand every aspect of human nature, especially the downtrodden and tweaked. His character M. in The Idiot enjoys breaking open conversations with strangers; whenever he gets the chance he introduces himself, to “make acquaintance,” to delve into important issues of the period such as capital punishment, and so on.

It is Thursday and I am alone here with the minutes and the swish swash of traffic and tall white ladies grabbing tall drinks and getting back into their tall cars. Some of these ladies are quite attractive, the redheads. The minutes subtract back and force movements on me: wind the purchased drink down, surrender your table to someone new, gather belongings, jump into car and put in eight or more hours of time into something completely different.

Last night I was trained in the dark room how to load and unload various types of media. For those of you who don’t know, I’ve switched jobs and have returned to poster plotting, the art of making posters, prepping digital files to inkjet destinations. I’ve done this in the past, but it’s been awhile and so there are some things I have to regain, some which are brand new, because of newer or different technology. In some areas I’m an apprentice, in others I am teaching, bringing in what I already know in order to help speed up or improve upon their established process.

My big challenge always is in situating myself in a new environment, making myself at home. Same goes with my cat Kalika; every time we move, it takes her days before she makes herself known again. We hide because we fear our bodies, minds, egos, will be harmed.

And that is all for now.

an update

fugazi is playing to
accompany words
written here
to which I
will further elaborate
on my
daytime hours
what work now
consists of
and I
shall mention
my move
from the last job
to the present
has been
a smashing success

I’ve gone from
being surrounded
by complete assholes
to very easy going
hard working
capable individuals

and this obviously
makes all the difference
in the world

the work
however is nothing
to bat an eyelash at
I come home aching
all over
with a pounding head
some serious papercuts
and have to think
from there
how the hell I’m
going to effectively
manage my time
aka not
collapse into
a deep sleep
and then
my chess game
is out the window
writing is abandoned
brittle
ruined broke off

but this has always
been the case with
working for anyone

you make your
adjustments
adapt
and use your brain
to best figure out
how to move around
with the greatest ease
and then move
on to become
a motherfucking ninja
of that department

you reach a point where
you’re beyond efficient
you’re magnificent
the amount of
mistakes you’re making
is down to
nothing at all

and this fills you
with great pride

this fuels you

. . .

I found a bike, a Cannondale H400 – bought it from someone in my neighborhood right away. I’ve had a few chances to ride it so far, and I must say it’s a thing of beauty. A Ferrari of bicycles. I really look forward to riding it this weekend.

. . .

this cup of coffee
this second issue, 2 of 4 – Grant Morrison’s Frankenstein sitting next to me
I will dig into it
dig into experience of life
that surrounds me

art to me
is taking in life experience
still as something wonderful
something fun
something mind blowing
and also creating something
to throw into the pool
into the ether
where it is
recorded(?)

. . .

make sense of something
be confused

become enlightened

write in a fury
flurry

travel slowly

cry for people
you don’t know

believe in people
even though
you don’t believe in a godhead

fall in love without
becoming attached

become attachment
and detachment

punch the military in the face

walk
run
bike

put vegetable oil in and go

go and see Syriana

introduce yourself
to more people
at the risk of…

NOTHING

contact old friends

“hold onto your friends” -MOZ

write for
miles and miles
generate writing sessions
diary/journal/blog entries

learn chess, revel in it!

visit/move to Houston
you might like it
the winters are wonderful here
66 degrees as I write this
at night!
70-80 degree days

. . .

and so this
postscript ends
weary eyes
a pail for the leak
and old newspapers
the conversations
give essence to the wind to the leaves
and other scraps
to the denial
to the lights
to everything that is
evening on a Thursday

going easy