Grey Man

I didn’t get a good look at the fish tank next to me. Hell, I didn’t even notice it. This means I am going to hell. Reality, as exposed by scientists as they bite into it, does not reveal an actual hell realm, other than the seemingly limitless varieties of suffering humans and animals create. Hunt down the answer by peace keeping means. The animals, they don’t mean it. Twittering is for busy folk without enough time to be writers; they simply get little jabs in and are happy with it. This is how I started my JOT all along. Notes and open thought. What do you have to say? The servers are getting huger, and if you make friends, you can put it all up there for free. Born into a sweatshop environment is different from me being taken captive while on vacation and put in such conditions. I will jump out knowing there’s a different answer. I am a grey man. I am a new man by way of being grey.

In less than a week I shall return to my hometown of Washington, D.C. and all the surrounding areas to visit friends and family. I’ve butterflies in my stomach over it, many which are not negative. A city is constantly changing. Some things crawl along or fold, or I should say implode, and you shake your head mumbling, “I told ya so.” Last I visited the capitol, it had more of a NYC congestive busyness: more restaurants, lush sidewalks, smack, smack, everything popping… No wonder we don’t address this enough, our attention deficits. We cannot pay enough attention. The years have put on me added craziness and fragmented my verse, so how I say it out at my best, others trip out to it, going like, “he says it the way I’m thinkin’ it…”

my plain fear of
heights is my fear of
falling from one of them
falling to my death
fear of heart attack
fear of smashing to bits
fear of death itself—
climbing a ladder
is launching up
to the moon
we just
don’t say so
fear of flying is
the fear of take off
fear of mid-flight
fear of the land
fear of death itself
fear of death of ego
my children will
carry memory of me
on their backs
professing a
righteous love
like Russia carried Dostoevsky…
but if I have no children
where will
my ego go?
ego must be doomed
to flights of fancy
delusions of grandeur
certainly there
must be grander fates
in store for
the flowers that open up
for those who’ve
waited so patiently
the wettest fall indiscriminately
does not stop a
man from gritting his teeth
in his sleep and if he cannot sleep
then clenching clenching clenching
what we do is what we do
and letting go will always be
something new something new
to each and every one letting go
relaxing relaxing and really breathing
is always the freshest
and most in vogue

a gray mare, a grey hair
a grey man
from the grey area
while we experience techie difficulties
trekky properties
oh so forlorn we wash up like seaweed
so gross grody to the max
Max Headroom
tuned out
tuned in, twenty-four hour marathon
burnt kernels
I want to become…
a therapist, a social worker, a tree squatter,
a caretaker, an engineer, a baller, a manager, and more!
sign the line, mail it through the mail room
all lines are busy
all thoughts are consumed


25 Random Things About Me

For those of you who aren’t connected to me via Facebook, last night I posted the following:

1. I didn’t start smoking or drinking until about 33 years of age. How else, other than being under the influence right now, would I get the notion to fill out a silly list such as this?

2. I like argyle socks enough to even purchase them, though I am not against stealing, though even stealing is WRONG when corporations factor in theft and thereby dock the pay of their employees accordingly.

3. I consider myself to be of a mature anarchist variety, a belief and a way of life not dependent on punk rock status but not separate from punk rock ideals, lifestyles, and DIY culture, unity and brotherhood.

4. I consciously and deliberately focus on positive mindstyles and easily trip.

5. I can be a best friend to you but also am an only child and feel this could be a reason for why I often feel the need to go off seeking my own space.

6. When I was younger, I would fall in love with ten girls at a time. Now I fall in love with ten books at a time and write as much as possible, and I hardly write or think about those girls, though some of them are truly unforgettable.

7. Conscious of my proclivity for aggression, my family is steeped in violence and confrontation. My grandfather was a professional boxer and married for sixty years. My mother and father fought tooth and nail for years and years. I took up skateboarding.

8. My taste in movies is pretty good, but I don’t want to geek out with you to the point of a fieriness because it’s not all that important to me in the end. I think I want to make movies at some point. You can write a few reviews if you want. I know that sounds bitter, but I’m serious. There’s nothing wrong with writing reviews.

9. My favorite color changes so often I can’t even tell you what it is now.

10. I write a lot of poetry but do not read a lot of poetry and in fact hate most poetry or at least what people read on stage and try to make pass for poetry. There is a difference, I believe, between geeking out or being a geek and being an absolute nerd. And most people I see who try to pass themselves for poets or who are bent on calling themselves poets are nothing but nerds to me, absolutely. Square pegs.

11. The Super Bowl goes ignored by me. There was a time, however, when I played football across the street from my house, and one time I got smashed in the face so hard I had to go to the dentist immediately and the man pulled on my top row of teeth for hours while I screamed freaking out everyone else in the office.

12. There are about fifteen books under my belt. I have authored them, no shitting you. I guess it is a reason to be proud, a way to brag, but more a labor of love and there’s really a special feeling you get the day your publication comes out and it starts getting into the hands of others whether they pay for it or not.

13. I have traveled a bit and have not learned to really settle in one place. Even after two years of being in this apartment, I’m just getting around to setting up my living room with a couch, coffee table, and chairs to accommodate for guests. My apartment is lacking and I realize this. And it is one of my major projects, to really build a comfortable home for myself, a haven. I need all the help I can get in this area. Please don’t sit on my cats!

14. I have two amazing cats. Some think they are crazy. They are just grey. Some think I am crazy. I am just grey.

15. Or am I blue. I don’t play the blues or any other instrument, though I feel grey, sing the blues, smoke the green, and my favorite color is somewhere between grey and green. Or is it blue?

16. I am more than a people watcher. But while we’re on the topic, I will say I am a devoted people watcher. Saying more, it’d be that I love people, that I have hope for people, I wish the best for them, and I hope to forever be generous towards people on all sorts of levels. In Big Mind, I know I am not separate from anyone. We are in one big family. This is a mindset that enables true altruism to a degree where altruism itself vanishes and harmonization spreads its wings.

17. Cleaning is a meditation to me. Washing dishes can be such a tranquil activity, free from complication and drama. I admit I go through periods where I don’t wanna clean to the point where it seems like I don’t like to clean… It is simply not who I am on the whole. Trust me, I like to clean.

18. I grew up in the 70’s in a town just outside of DC, and when people ask me where I am from, generally I tell them I’m just from DC and they get the picture. If you’re from there, then I say Silver Spring, MD and you also get the picture. It’s all intertwined and connected and sometimes sick with homicide and gunfire.

19. There was a lot of TV to watch, especially during the 90s. I’m not too ashamed to admit I watched a lot of television though it’s not all I want to talk about with you. A little trivial pursuit can be fun, but there are many more charts and ideas to sketch up, and now, what seems to be very little time to do so. Dwindling time.

20. Sometime after eighteen, I became a monk and traveled the country, even went to India and studied Eastern philosophy (mainly Hinduism at the time). This is where I witnessed a king cobra at a gas station only a foot and a half in front of me, and leapers, and intense beggars (hoards of them). India’s air weighs heavy like America’s conscience during a war it should not be involved in.

21. I have worked 10+ years as a graphic designer and prepress specialist, self-taught. And… and it is a rotten industry, demeaning and not-worth-it-in-the-long-run. Ever want to develop your skill and become a corporate whore? Play naive for as long as you can and enjoy those little checks they give you for as long as they can. Nothing lasts forever and that time you’re dreading comes sooner than you think. Artists are reduced to “creatives.” “Get one of your creatives to do it? Don’t you have any creatives in-house?” Ugh.

22. I like popcorn and pool and women. I love women. I love pool okay and I love people okay, but of the people variety, women are my favorite, and I do mean some kinds. I am picky but will not divulge details. Women and food and recreation. I eat it all up.

23. With monkhood behind me I am forever changed and I have learned a lot along the way. It makes me part of who I am today. I have my mother and father to thank, too, but I am not sure at this point if there is a Heavenly Father. Only now can I resign myself to submitting to Mother Earth, Terra, though Terra is… it’s complicated.

24. If you hang out with me, generally right away I will subject you to some form of media that has deep impact on me. I am all about media, the people’s media, but I may simply sit down with you and read you five pages from a book and see what you think… and expect you to hang. I expect you to be that kind of friend to me. I expect you to do the same right back.

25. The way a city can black out and be subject to looting, this is what sometimes happens to me. Socially, I can go off the grid due to whatever reason and I know this damages friendships and creates unnecessary tension (which is something I’m working on), and I thought I’d mention it, just to show that I’m aware, and it saddens me, too— and I’m glad for your friendship. I care about you and listen to what you say and remember what you say.

26. One more, for the road. Please don’t mistake my being critical for hating you. I realize that some can criticize because they truly do just like to hear themselves talk, but I do not consider myself to be that jacked up. Know that I am also admiring you and can repeat back verbatim all to you and others, all the good—the intentions (as I perceive them), and the actions, and all the history we’ve shared so far. Often when you’re not around, I miss you.

KRS Notes In Real-time

Just minutes away from the legendary KRS-One. Needless to say, big excitement is in the air. And there is still time, so come up if ya got nothin’ to do this fine Friday night; even if ya do, cancel out those plans. This is a big night in hip hop for Houston. Why wouldn’t ya wanna be here?

already some b-boys throw down some
lay down some footwork

landscape ta portrait ta late late
five dollar beers some things
never fucking change

thank god or the avenue
this is what you’re born into
death us what’s ahead of you

stop this violence squash
squawking beets
wrap up beefs
stop the drama
each one teach one
present the teacher

daft at draft Shiner
fuck motherfucking Budweiser
the crowd builds
up and up let’s see ya pop and lock
to the break of baldheaded pawn

sun scorched front lawns
yes yes y’all and ya don’t stop pot
leeeegalize it smoke it and eat it
why cry all night to savior Jeezus?

cry cry why cry
ya better save yoself before ya
wreck yoself
check check one
b-g-k-a-r-m-a dot ROM
baaaay-bayyyy on board
tick tock electo shock
fun tymes with pop rocks
small fry to cyclops

can ya hear me sound?
hear me now?

sitting here very carefully poised in the birth of a new writing session, Kalika then jumps down to look at my arm and sniff my arm—I sneeze—and then wonder if my sneezing at this moment is congruent to immediate triggered allergies, or just a coincidence. sitting here in the sleepy calm quiet of Sunday night and all knowing, and also so well meaning… it is not to say I am not too sensitive but a cure for that is hardly on its way. to know well and mean well are powerfully combined for positive impact on others. today I thought while going through the mall to the apple store, just what were these men doing setting up this display for this suburban vehicle that stood ten feet in the air, equipped with pamphlets, literature, videotapes… are your ready to start with the questions, ‘cuz immediately I feel like such a decision to buy a car as this one would certainly attract all the wrong type of people into my life, and I’ve come too far for that now.

today has been weird. all the days have been weird. strange. there is hardly any time to be bored any more. boredom at its worst is still replaced by depression, one deep enough it’s still cinema. otherwise, big moves are being made. and also big imaginations are rolling, some not always the best, some in realizing horrors and horrific fictional scenarios such as as if say… you were raped… you blacked out, you were raped, left for dead, and you never knew who it was… and you are traumatized… only little bits of memory come back but it’s not enough… time passes and you live with the new scars… you finally get out of the house again and friends invite you to a party… you decide it’s worth it and you owe it to yourself… you’re having a good time… it’s alright… you start talking with someone… soon enough an hour has past and you realize you’re really enjoying the conversation… but there is something… the bits of memory are starting to blip up on the screen of your consciousness… you’re not sure what they are… huh? something… something…. oh…. um…. what? what is this? no, no. no, of course…. ___________________________________dead silence______________________________ is it… is it him? no. no. is it? holy shit… wait wait, no. wait… oh god. oh godd. oh my god-ddddddd. no, noooooo. it is he.

the reader fills in the rest

today is a result of yesterday. that shit was crazy. was so overwhelmed by the times and emotions I’ve felt as if a downed tree, unable to really put down any writing, only this was relieved by the list technique or my ever popular coinage: grocery listing. it is the disjunct and union of shards at odds. I came to important discoveries. the sun is often on my mind, as well as Terra’s water, and the birds freaking out on the line over sunset, sunset. today. today the bananas feel peeled and plundered of their thunder. today is a land of dreams you enter more quickly. fuzzy, fuzzed, fuzzied. imaginations that are kids saying the damnedest things. I leave myself out of the new york notsuoh festivities due to being short funded and therefore needing to spend that time at work. that is, I leave myself behind. I wanted to go and have that fun, but was short and late on a few days rent. the lady is the type to care about that kinda thing. we are playing their games and jumping through hoops.

Translation / Transaction

the joy of writing, of sex, of bread, of earth – joy in different measures. in pursuit of joy. the effortless acceptance of joy falling through the skylight. these thoughts barely making it to the page versus the desire to grandly translate. write something about the overall struggle-of-life. trying to articulate the heart of the struggle is a lifelong pang and growing pain. simply try harder and be honest. both honesty and dishonesty seep even into the most unassuming article of clothing about you, so why not be different, absolutely yourself? the joy of writing is punching the pattering sounds pitching the ball mauling the long haul tampering flattening ironing out the finest inklings into potentialities. haiku, senryu. scratching at the word pad, peering at the dictionary, the gate is open for the rain to inundate. that is, the joy of creativity is inviting. writing about writing. the mind is a creator god. so have faith.

remember the middle of night blues with asthma jam sessions, the word pads? getting up with the nagging wheeze and smack at the keys? that was me. how could I forget? I’d discuss the baggage of life. I’d offer advice. like I knew better. or not better, but finally got it. I get it. do you get it? get it yet? does it fall through the skylight? does it translate right, tangibly? “IT” – the needle believed to be at the haystack center when actually taped along the side.

the joy comes when the struggling subsides.

before, life was stalling, as it tends to do. fingernail snags along the way. others just don’t know get it, what it is, so they joke and sling terms to pass the time like “tree hugger” and “hippy” while we say squares at water coolers and car-salesmen-like folk are damned to cubicles to think in boxes and represent the dullest ideas known to man. they talk a game but ignorance puts them in their place and are denied a richness of experience. smugness is the disqualifier.

no shame for the damage caused, they’re more concerned with fashion crimes… their crime is that they’re fucking dull and without joy. lacking the potential for anything meaningful forever or for far too long and remaining the same as they are without salt and grit, seeking entertainment blandly as a way to purchase opinions so to have something to talk about, filling empty time – they fill the roads up, fill the malls, slowly start to realize they shouldn’t’ve supported these wars based on lies, after it’s too late.

everything got all fucked up. everything smoothed out. I think I’m happier. I’ve been rebuilding. I wanna be brutally honest, the kind not to pull punches, letting it fly, struggling less against the immovable, then moving the immovable. take it or leave it. translation/transaction. satisfaction from anger is of the most fleeting, bleeding out.

it is about my joy and your joy and the planet which sustains joy and delivers joy in new formats. the syntax, the craft, the pad, is not passing fad. this is it. you get it? abstract.

so I come here and write every day. my teachers are far and wide. me and mine, we are people watchers and rememberers, sponges, philanthropists, activists, humanitarians, vegetarians, vegans, anarchists, artists, great cooks, skeptics, agnostics, atheists, gardeners, bikers, prose/poem crafters, bird watchers, spiritual people. we live in a giant blender.

Beyond Death

Tonight begins three days of rain that scare the cats into the background and I keep drinking really tall glasses of water from the jug not the sky. I told them no it’s okay you’re safe with me and I’m not gonna let nothing happen to you. Tonight is its own night quiet and done with, not like Friday or the next. I can forgive Sunday its following Monday because I’m in the moment or aspire to be. When Monday arrives I’ll face the little office moments as little office moments and nothing more, nothing all that significant in the world of things outside of being pushed really hard (dead lines).

Thing is, sometimes you just have to slow down and kill one bug at a time, chop one tree at a time, and go tell your minister the guilt. Dance it out, he’ll say. Write it out. Blindfold your girl, he’ll say. Good advice flying all around – all in so many formats and goodbyes in the pan flipped up over and sizzling. Can you believe it? Rain as music? Yeah, rain is lovely and I don’t mind getting wet so much. I can get started and tell the tiniest stories to just a few friends who put their ears in close enough.

Death is all around us, damn. Each moment is a slow or fast death of our relationship with something. But our kind and loving thoughts and deeds go for miles and speak volumes reach beyond death which hates books and cinema. Kerouac had it right that writing is jazz how it flows like a horn player like a drummer doing his thing – when you do it right. With writing it’s just you and all the other players are offstage out in the world depending on you to flow your best.

You Say Your Thing

Houston hands me a bottle and it’s just one and I say thank you World and it laughs, because I laugh, because laughing… is contagious. When you get drunk the spirits come and break the doors down. There are splinters all over this apartment. Getting messed up is congruous. Messed up parallel with being truthful and loose and open and… barriers tumble down. It is the era of the easily written paragraph. This evening we say: “2012 – Buy Nothing Year.” Sunday, fuck shit up day. Go to the symphony, live life up. Do what ya gotta do, right? Sunday as good as any other. I feel good about multiple scenarios being acted out right now. Let me tell you.

Paragraphs. I’ll have one owl please. Sneeze. Sneeze. Let me tell you about some city some time, what it is like to be there, my own little perspective, what it was like to open and shut a window in that neighborhood, the next door neighbor friendly for awhile, then after 911 and the anniversary of the death of his mother, fallen into the world of depression. I can understand it. Me and depression are like this. Me and depression are like THIS. I’m trying to show you but I can’t. My fingers cross. I’m trying to give you a picture of what it’s like to live practically anywhere, but specifically a city or suburb. You say your thing now. We’re trying to talk to one another, not be afraid of one another. Are our motives pure any more? I bet they are. I bet they are.

TV will do something to you, so be selective. Beer will shake you upside down, change will be falling out of your pockets and you won’t remember where you put your book of Bukowski poems. Select your consumption wisely. Select, choose, gamble, take a chance.

An old friend says, “I don’t hate you.” We look up down and about and hard feelings are done the way done things are just, you know, done. Time passes. Say it out real. Be as real as you can be. Fuck the Army, the Navy, whatever. You don’t have to be ALL you can be. Just be you. You yourself. And save what you write, read it later. You can learn from yourself. The “nonsense” shit you write, you find it’s not so terrible upon a reread, or you see into the heart of it, its essence, and you learn to love yourself, slowly, gradually, and it’s something.

2006 was a shake up for me and I’m still figuring it out, if it’s pushed me to the point of insanity, and really, I think it has not, but maybe something close. Then I wonder if that is such a bad thing, because perspective is lacking and perspective is needed. How broad can you make that perspective? If you see the patterns and they are scary, think on it some more. What you see when you close your eyes could be healing. When you kiss someone, it could be healing. Why does it take so long for you to be good to yourself and to allow someone that passage to treat you well? What is it? What is there? Who’s knocking?

If we give up hope, it’s self destruction. But you come to my house, it becomes your house. You wanna grow organic, I’ll point you in the right direction. You wanna talk about some interesting shit, I’ll dig something up. If we love each other, we have to buy very little. We can cancel our cable and watch less TV. If we love, then the bigger answers are on their way. I wanna say it just like that.

Saturday notes:

writing plans
are coming together
(news comes later)
it’s not
I tell you
I should
emphasize that

I’m in a spot
where if you
bless you
“bless you”

it’s true that
if you really
write for
a long period
the words

and you
open up
a franchise

a little history of
my writing:

it began in
zines and
picked up
through spoken
word coffee shops

and I’d scrawl
my pieces into
a notebook
on the bus

the big thing
was to grab
that next
available seat
really take
that for granted
(many trips spent
entirely standing)

I learned to write
in truncated language
and abbreviation
’cause the bus
would shake
all to hell

not that NPR
has asked

. . .

a cold
c. has explained
the science
of how
the common cold
but I forgot it
know it
in caveman essence

this makes me feel…

rested a lot
late broke
outta the house

to hear a woman
talk about how she’s
in a chicken leg phase
but if she works out
they can really
look cool again

don’t get me wrong
I’m not complaining

the oddness of
the various sound bites
around me is intriguing
and why I come
down here
in the first place

the place is
mostly cleared out dead
and quiet
good good
barking dog
new album by boards of canada
friends swing by for
a second
these are good people

“transition between hot and cold
no matter how
you do it
it’s always hard”

By the way, this year’s Halloween was a wash out. Oh well. Seems so often that this time of year, we’re broke as hell, or unstable in some other kind of way. Forces me to think in terms of seasons, for sure. National Novel Writing Month, for example, falls around this time of year, and many complain that this is the time when they’re most busy and could you please switch it up, move it to another month? Seasons, ebb and flow, busyness, down-time, making time. Making time, forcing time, and exhaustion, pushing yourself too far.

I carved a pumpkin up good. Took a lot of patience. Poked holes through the stencil provided from the kit. I didn’t take the time to research any kick ass faces this year, or crank out one of my own. And oh boy did it take a lot of carving up. Be patient, she kept saying. A lot of self doubt. I can’t keep on with this. I’m failing with the bat. That doesn’t fucking look like a bat. No one’s gonna know that’s a bat…

Finished the thing up pretty good, though. Looks awesome in the dark lit up flickering.

. . .

Sunday, I’ve run into friends up here at the coffee shop, and so we’ve been sitting around talking about whatever and it’s just been the most beautiful way to spend this kind of time. You know, early morning. By now, it’s 1 PM, though, and they’ve cleared out, and I’m writing, reading, writing some more, brainstorming thoughts for the book, switching back to writing in my journal, doing the whole ballooning thing. Such ‘n such thought relates to this, to that, to coffee, and back, then on, forward, gleeming, so obvious it’s right in your face. Yes, so obvious that I’ll include in the book a chapter dealing with the piggies at war. You know, they are so random and that randomness is so refreshing. After all, they cease battle as the sun goes down and mostly differences are set aside, ‘cept they can be awfully bitchy still. Such is life. Hard to put every single little thing behind you, unless you’re a buddhist, and then, well… Do buddhists not struggle? Anyway, the piggies will get their safe space to vent on some issues before sun up.

. . .

Is it okay that I like Stevie Wonder? Very superstitious!

I’m only superstitious when I’m listening to this song. Otherwise, I’ve set the guilt asail and everything else from the ashramas that have plagued my heart over the years. So I say. The book will surely deal with that, too. I must admit, while I speak of it, that it’ll mostly contain free writing sessions and flow on very playfully, the way I like it.

Very superstitious

I ran through
a goddamn
window when
I was a kid
and bled a big puddle
on the kitchen floor
while my mother
frantically called 911
I wonder what
day that was

what the hell
is up
with numerology?

I don’t know
if it is
off putting
that I say aloud
that I am
an atheist
or am fascinated by atheism
by its possibilities of freeing people
(or anyway will people still
find a way of trapping themselves, even without theology?
but of course!)
and yet
be fascinated by
hauntings, visitations

the buddhist thing
as I see it
is to reopen
your awareness
things around you
and in and about you
things you
and to regain this
is to feel like
you’ve gained
and should therefore
a masked identity
but it’s
not like that

you’re being

is all

saying I like
a few Stevie Wonder songs
is not
like saying
I own
Sheryl Crow albums

because that
would be
I tell you

flat out

don’t go that route

Saturday evening entry

Hey friends,

I have freshly returned from the land of an afternoon nap. Now I am all waked up and walked up to coffee shop, and ignoring the baseball scores, out of sheer spite, also disinterest, and writing this.

Today, while thinking thoughts, I thought about family some, you know, growing up with them, and how I will now, as an adult, put this next book together and not really include them in the various topics enclosed like some bitter son of a bitch who never got over all that. I’m half way there, I guess. I’d rather move on, move further on. And be done with it. Write what others just might be moved by or not expect. We could all use more pleasant surprises in life. But for now, for tonight, for this journal, I’ll ramble on solitaire style, message in a bottle style. Words just fumbling out, football spiraling out of the hand, a beautiful pass. We will provide the football image to replace the world series image. The package arrives to its destination. More experiments with words and reverberations.

It is good to be with friends. Hung out with a bunch last night, playing chess, talking about movies, whatever came to mind. 

Misfits, Danzig, Samhain – on the overhead, here at the coffee shop. Imagine, if in India, you’d go by some little shops, one of which was kicking out “Moribund” or “Halloween.” Well, it was strange enough, when I was there, to hear Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.”

The way things are going these days, writing just sort of happens for me on the weekends, at least more so than on weekdays. Work continues to spiral out of fucking control. Dealing with that production manager has turned into a tremendous task, shall we say. My mind has become somewhat traumatized by it all, and I worry that it’s suffering in ways I’m not sharp enough to pinpoint. Is my body also affected? I waver between Buddhist and Samurai perspectives in these dealings. It is very much a battlefield of head games there.

Maybe I’ve been infected with attention deficit. Would meditation repair my focus and loyalty to reality? Perhaps it would, but this would not help the fact that I don’t really like what I do. And that is, basically, put together stationary packages and answer phones. And that’s exactly what they treat me like…

A customer called and asked for a PDF proof while the manager was out, so I sent it right away. I am chastised for this upon her return, for some stupid reason.

I have to remind myself, Hey man, this is stationary…

. . .

Texas is the reason the president’s dead…

Anyway, back to chess. The King, supposably, is the guy who runs the whole show. Once your opponent gets to him, though, the game’s over.

What’s this mean for anarchism in the sense that there is in that family not a king to be found, yet everything is running anyway? Each player has become a king for themselves. They’ve come into their own power.

On the board, you must make your decisions and move ahead, or move backward. Yes, there can be set backs.

In capitalism, so many of us are mere pawns. The pawns are split in two in the spirit of progression.

I keep playing game after game. Something tells me one of these days I’ll win a game. Something tells me some chess experts out there would tell me to keep it up and not worry about theory so much right now. That’s pretty hard for a guy like me, you know, an eccentric genius. Something tells me my analytical mind is gonna start answering questions and developing its own theories for what is what. Which, really, is quite fun and quite natural.

alone time

I don’t
have any
fashion statements
to make

any other
is coincidental

time is
filled up
with big city

which is
why we
to Houston

finally things
into place
for us
to a degree

this is all

these are
sunday statements
the fashion statements
autumn leaves
breezed in
onto the first floor tiles
the holes in these clothes
are natural

really really
over time
and I think
anyone from
the past who
knew me
would be surprised
the “damage” that
has been done to
my belief system

I’ve drastically
I think
for the better

these have
all been
changes for
the better

I’ve moved back
into some old
rooms of isolation

that horrify
rooms that I’m
a stranger

back in the day
one would
to another
I am
a nice guy
or whatever
the other devotee
would reply
yes, but he
spends too
much time
by himself

a warning

if you spend
too much
time alone
just where
will it lead?

this same devotee
must have spent
some of that alone time himself
time in which
he realized
he was divinely gay

as a two dollar piece

I’ve come into my own
those of disbelief

if you can be alone
all alone
for awhile
what you find
might really scare you
…at first

the cats
are fighting
like wild beasts
blood of murder

much on
my mind these days
the idea that
we are without a god
that is all powerful
one that even gives
a damn
what proof is
there otherwise
that we are
looked out after
when you consider
the devastation
wrought by
the tsunamis and hurricanes
and bird flu
from bird to person
to person
and don’t forget war

which side
is god rooting for?

whatever your book
it’s just another book

until it starts
glowing bright red
and shooting incinerating beams
into dense crowds
and floating
from off the table
got nothing
to say to me
that would
any longer
sway me
phase me

you’re exactly right
I don’t have faith

I no
have any

there’s just
no proof
and we’ve
each other
all this time

this is what
alone time
has brought

the gift
of a good

we’re alone
in this mess
to survive
be good peeps
without aid
without any fantastical device
and make due
with what we have

all on our own

no mommy
or daddy’s

kind of
a relief

the rattling pebble of afterthoughts after dinner

there are not enough hours in a day for me, for me. this is ten minutes or an acorn shot through a front door storm window while the crew is sleeping. I feel like a coal miner. in the morning I will have to explain that you cannot properly crank out a buscard run on any kind of photocopier due to the unsteady shifts of registration, especially double-sided. she will snap her fingers anyway, make it happen, and don’t return until! the rich, not for their money, but for the way they treat people, how they feel so entitled to everything, spin me about.

a lozenge just before bed helps me sleep at night. methol opens the air passages.

reading The Double by Jose Saramago. my goodness can this man write. a good book so far, though very long winded for tired and worn down eyes at the end of a heavy day that’s kicked your ass from courtyard to the other end of the breadbasket. one third of the story is dedicated to detective work that I could have accomplished in five minutes with an internet connection. I kept prodding the main character with URLs but he would not listen. so I am glad now he has made his discovery and is moving forward. like him, I cannot see what is ahead, what the future holds in store.

we make our flimsy plans. or outlines of plans. outlines of outlines.

and in bed, radio through earbuds, drifting off, dreams accompanied with this soundtrack, mussels, topics, events, gossip. sit and think, it’s true, you tire out certain words. it’s time to put further effort into branching out.

a purge. anything you want. the houstonians come back into town and speak of the blackbirds. what are you, an alien abductee or something? you smell different. you smell like an ABC television station. oh, there is a lot of crap on television, and a lot of good things, too.

the small birds have flown the whirley tailed squirrels back in from a long trip. everyone is exhausted from running, flying away from the tropical storm so quickly turned gigantic hurricane. albeit, belongings are in disarray, life is glad to still be alive. life is glad to be that pebble rattling around in a tin can, you know, when you really shake it.

Your krsna consciousness is showing / confusing atheism

• so well meaning

• notes on open casket viewerships and ships that leave peopled up once the earth has all been used up and mass suicides and plagues have taken place. these things, by 2123, happen. shit. happens. all kinds of shit happens.

• old school. shaking hands with shaky hands. sweaty palms. the nervousness shows in your voice, also.

• a character study. low self esteem issues. this man, all men, have issues and staring problems, and are addicted to solving problems (so to create more and stay really busy?).

• a lot of good things are presented, presented to help, but are ignored and the usual drags on and on. any new comer is floored by this “third world.” my god, how you treat, neglect your people. how you make a big show of caring at just the right time but in truth do not listen to their needs. how you let them die. premature.

• help me to help you.

• I must remember… all kinds of things. there’s plenty to take care of.

• I must remember to write because it is much like meditation, it’s a way of processing what is in you and just what exactly is going wrong and should be resolved or healed.

• we are human beings that are hindered, feel guilt, and cause pain. we do things thoughtlessly and make mistakes. one such mistake was to join a goddamn cult in my early years, of course being naive and not realizing at the time exactly what was happening, the damage it was doing to my psyche. later, a new meditation was, yes, individuality, my own, which led me to drop it all.

• you became an atheist?

• I may as well have become an atheist. I fumbled the ball. I dropped what I believed for years. I analyzed it agonizingly on the bus and on the train and in walking in the rain with my umbrella, crossing the bridge with the snow falling, the sleet pelting, and in Roanoke, all those apartments I lived in that were barely renovated. in my mind, it all came together when I was living on the outside, outside of that society, when I had breathing room (though with asthma, it wasn’t easy). by the time we adopted our second cat, she still got the name Kalika. still these remnants from the old school.

• bio: I am allergic to cats. someone said, Get rid of the cats. I told her that’s like saying, get rid of your baby. there was her sixteen month-old, and I said, Can you part with her? well then, be sensitive to my affections just the same. it’s practically just the same… for my little bio in small scale, should say I grew up in the Silver Spring suburbs (Montgomery County) outside of DC and became influenced by many underground cultures, and moved around a bit in some sort of search for truth or peace and have been searching ever since. I write with the idea (fear) that I may never become the kind of writer I hope to be: accomplished, published, etc. I hate the police, but my own lacking a whole lot more. I am a cat martyr. they sleep comfortable; I wake up in the night short of breath to drink tea, to kick out writing sessions. I repetitively have taken on jobs at print shops that in my mind resemble sweat shops. certainly employers consider the typesetting and design to be grunt work and treat their employees accordingly. I continue to search out and find another way for myself. I’m aware I’m in a rut or have fallen into a ditch.

• if I become a “writer,” just what will I write?

• perhaps american buddhism is a really good thing. it takes the best things from another ideology to improve on it’s own way and there is no tyrant hovering over saying it has to be done any different. women truly have the same shot as men. is this true? is this true in anarchism?

• the eight ball says, I see a *haircut* in your future. the eight ball now has a nine-hundred number, charges by the minute and raises kids onto ponies squealing with joy. kids really like ponies. ponies and living rooms do not mix. kids must settle for the lincoln logs. I see lincoln logs in your future. oh, shut up.

• this monday the eight ball was bought out by walmart. when eight balls go wrong.

• all employees must wash their hands and this is final. this is good for the self esteem issue you’ve been talking about. um…

• cell phones are really loud. and go off in very echoey places. mine is set to vibrate and when a call comes in I get up to answer it outside for some reason I guess because I tend to talk louder on the phone than a person sitting directly across from me. can you hear me? can you hear me now? goddamn it, can you hear me now? can you fucking hear me now? apple has put out an new iPod and a phone that runs iTunes so that you can listen to Dido some more.

• I am studying/observing and thinking about how I can change. one day we will all turn into robots and live forever. right now we are all vampires but somehow still dying.