man with the grey hair

man with the gray hair

observe the pick pocket at work

the hammer comes down

house broken into : awry

draw on your arm hard curves

blueprint for a new house

the maddening crawl

broke a lightbulb and cut himself while the movie ran

in the other room

a board game exceeds its limits

many surprises and life lessons await the arrogant

a country woke up starving

all was left was sugar junk sealed in bright wrappers

she said she was pregnant

he said he was angry

cigarettes put out on your progeny

the convenient store said they were christians

a two-sided coin turned into a six-sided dye

the coin turned into a deck of playing cards

turned into tarot

the cash register rang like the I-Ching

what did your parents do that led you to this?

coughed for a half hour

bathed in a swamp

jumped off into a garden

then a field

brought in the new year

in the dark

fighting with

the fight

he could still see faded tilak

foreheads were wiped clean

he didn’t talk about that

more things to come

to see

new suns



I’ve been incredibly sick with a cold over the past few days which has moved down into my chest. My lungs: feeling like old used car parts, sounding like an old engine that can barely get started. All this has made me virtually incapacitated over the past few days, and I should also note that the Wifi up here has been sketchy, thereby limiting my posts. Anyway, I think I’m getting better. This means I won’t have to make that trip to the doctor…

we should be Buddhas
or little brothers and sisters
we should be the most
gentle beings
we should repair our
lives and our relationships
we should help to lighten
the burden of strangers
we should forgive old friends
of their misdeeds
we should reach out
into the world through
the threat of violence and malice
we should walk over or around
we should pay no mind
we should let go
we should crawl through sewer systems
to get back to the freedom
we had when our senses took in
everything as new
before the laws of ignorant men and women
were sing sung into our eager memories
we should throw off the armor
that covers us silent and unknown and unloved

how would the world react
if we were to attack
in droves
like this

we are not asking for anything
at all

how will this refresh you?

you tell me

your life is your own

fight in these moments
you have
to be your real self

sketchy Wifi
lately here at
the coffee building
to explain my
LJ absence

if you are following my Dostoevsky notes
here is an interesting thread
discussing the author and his novel
Crime and Punishment

more writing soon…

Notes This Past Weekend

There are little things I’ve been paying attention to. One is, the idea of nothing. My own various definitions or associations of the word, like we “sat and talked about nothing.” What does this really mean to me? Our intention is simply in enjoying each other’s company. Let the chips fly where they may. Nothing soon changes its mind and becomes hyperactive.

I love the act of making associations.

My head was in a good place this morning. I was philosophizing. I’d saw the phrase Rest Assured in the bathroom and ran a word association in my head. I thought of its meaning and it’s antonym, which is to be uneasy, unatease, even to have insomnia, to stay up half the night worrying over something, to be so heartbroken over a girl you can hardly sleep. Rest Assured is to alleviate all that. Then I got to thinking about what conversations are, what they consist of. Asking questions, telling stories, sharing ideas, confiding secrets, seeking help, and so on. A good conversation engages more than one of these aspects, perhaps. If, for example, I only told you about Dostoevsky and nothing else, you’d probably tire of me very quickly. But if I mixed it up a bit with my own ideas, my own stories, etc., this might really enliven the subject matter. This is the way I presented him in my philosophy class. I started out with my own bloody nose experience as a way to set the mood for Dostoevsky’s stories, talking about how when reading, the reader starts to identify with the characters in such a way that he or she imagines themselves to be walking around as the author’s characters. Dostoevsky has that power.

It is later in the day now, the sun is on my monitor making it hard to see what I’m typing. I’m in love with the format of marking basic observations and will push on with it to the very end. It is a good day for a mellow bike ride.

I splurged for much needed sleep and now here I am, up here with minutes left to write and my hair all messed up like a cartoon character. My moods are pretty good these days. I haven’t felt any kind of major emotional plummet, which is good, even if it only lasts for a little while. All kinds of factors play into this, the Houston weather being one of them. Yesterday I drove to lunch and it was so hot I had to turn on the air conditioner. That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about. Life has changed a lot. I’ve left, I’m done with the east coast.

here a girl pulls
into the parking lot
with her front bumper
dragging across the ground
plastic in all its glory
side window taped up

I’m thinking about going to see Howard Zinn in Austin on the 17th. He is an incredible speaker and writer and in his talks has described himself as an anarchist, which I appreciate. Not every scholastic wants to put themselves on the line like that.

. . .

My day yesterday was solid. More of the same, you know, hard work. But I’m getting through it, and at times, with grace and a kind of inner calm. It’s been mentioned more than once there how calm I am. I joked back, “How exactly am I supposed to behave with this staple gun?” No no, in general, they say.

I think of ways in which I can be kind and loving to everyone, if only mentally, with my imagination.

I was never initiated by a Vaishnava. I see the path I’ve cut for myself now…

The sky has cleared up, it’s all in a bright blue, clear as it can possibly get, and I’m in pretty good spirits. Much of what goes on at work and life in general, I have to sort and process and make sense of (this is what all people do, I believe, consciously or not). At work, for instance, sometimes I find myself frustrated by having to keep going to others with questions. Someone said I probably wouldn’t be at home there for at least another five months. I evaluate myself and what I need to work on, so by the time they call me in, there’s very little to criticize. I’m a fanatical machine. This can backfire.

On most of the technical stuff I’m solid; it’s packaging that I hate. I hate printing something and when it’s all done, taking it over to the cutter to trim the edges, and somehow it gets scratched or dinged despite my best efforts. My hands feel clumsy. I might as well be folding them into paper airplanes and flying them around the department.

various moods

reading my friend’s site
letters to a friend in India
interesting to me even now

I’ve dropped my faith
in that area

I’m in
of feeling deeply
and spiritually
to an external or imagined influence
that in any way stimulates
guilt, suppression, etc.

it’s kinda like if you put THC in
your system it
stirs things up a bit
but when everything
is said and done
its your own mind and being
that you’re enjoying
(just from a different angle)

my post-theism is like that

I am a busy
man these days
getting little sleep
and working
long hard hours

a few chess games here
and there
few pages of Dostoevsky
(died a theist in the end)

a man gets back in his car
when I got in here this morning
they were playing the first Danzig album
not even xians protest
which is nice
anyway, the man
he was fired from the coffee shop
up the street and
is hired by the same chain
by accident
down here in my neighborhood
once they realized the mistake
they kept him anyway
and declared an official
“watch” over him

be good!

I hate it when people condescend
you know, and they’re serious
well, mostly they’re joking
but underneath they mean it
like yesterday
I left a swatch poster out on the table
and the assistant mgr. joked
that I should
put my toys away
I was busy
and didn’t appreciate it
even as a joke

. . .

ten minutes until time is cut off and the day for me changes drastically and I move from room to room with my mind in a work frame and other thoughts shift as clouds in the background. I become a technician first and a thought thinker second. two hours here go by in a flash.


Unceremonious to discover fleas in the bed at such a late hour. One on you. Oh, one on you, too. The source of bites from the weeks passed is discovered here. Now we twitch in paranoia. Scratch reddened inflammations.

It is good to sit and read and write. I’m glad to have this morning time in which I can make a session out of it for myself. I have big dreams of some kind of book or zine worth writing. The sessions are subject to the weather and the weather of people. Sitting here like this at a coffee shop, I expose myself to the elements. And it is good.

I am still practicing a different type of writing, one that flows for me in a way where I hardly glance with my eyes – I think of the words ahead of time and these are outsourced to my fingers at the highest rate possible.

. . .

A Fugazi song from the Red Medicine album is playing. A guy is getting loud on his cell phone. These are the worst kind of talkers in a public space.

I sat down with my chess book in Whole Foods the other day and this guy settled in next to me, saying hello, commenting on the weather. Later we broke into conversation and towards the end he asked me if I was interested in e-commerce for which I gullibly gave him my phone number, not realizing fast enough that he was talking me up the whole time simply to gain a new recruit. When he called later I said I was currently too busy in my life and could be interested somewhere down the line, but… “Okay, I’ll call you in two years or so…” That was strange, I thought. “Okay, well good luck to you…” I said, but he was already hanging up the phone. We had wasted each others time. What a bunch of bastards we are for not being of use to one another.

Two years from now we will unexpectedly reunite and e-trade empty salutations in the many tiers of a multi-marketing hell.

Fuck hellos and the weather. They mean nothing next to your desperation to get what you need from me and move on. Motherfucker.

. . .

Friends, check out this movie The Dreamers. Put close attention on the scene where he is talking about his lighter at the dinner table. Perhaps more on this later.

. . .

What is happening with Myshkin? He is moving into his new place, a hovel. Can he foresee the abusive onslaught? They are all ready to bring it to the table. Human train wrecks. Disaster areas. You want a news story, check out the domestic scene. There’s some news. Give these people a microphone and they’ll hold onto it for hours, talk past the commercials, everything. “And then there was that time when I put out my cigarette on the back of my daughter’s hand. I was messed up then and she has come to forgive me. She is all grown now, pregnant even, with her second child.” Things are not all in place. The perfect babies we once were… we’ve been flung from windows and what have you.