my mind is all my worth and i follow where it goes
the strangest places come and go just like my hopes
i'm the same fading being that you knew before
i felt a rope slip loose, it was holding us but torn

you may have happier friends that make you feel alright
and always find a way to hold someone at night
but i want those deeper meanings to shed light on life
just a lost brain in a people factory
satisfied for the longest time on little memories


December has descended into the center of my existence.  I once felt like I might understand people and things.  I once worried no one would understand me, now I feel like I'm stuck on repeat.  I bore the crowd with all too familiar things.  jsl;ajdflskdjfowiejfsdknkgdsjhdfaskdlfjsdl;kfjas;difjk

i can't write because i haven't lived

jesus i am\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\a loser
go back to your iphone or previously recorded program
go back to your distractions

no i definitely don't understand people
well i understand some too well sometimes
and others not enough

life is a bore try to make it interesting

if nothing is handed to you
and you can try too hard for something
do we have to wait on chance

what if you just lose interest
nothing anyone can say will help it

too much emotion killed the cat

too many five hour energy and red bull
perception of time screwed up for everyone

too much grime on the street and we are all getting dirty
too many advertisements in magazines

all the dress patterns in the world won't save you from yourself
even horses wear shoes

a deep conversation comes along once and a while
listen to the other person
give real smiles

sit up and tell someone all the associations to them in your mind
make those neural connections stronger
you have to nurture love

sleep is the friend and enemy
makes one third of our lives so dull

forget/////////////everything i said
even though it wasn't much


i know my words fall to deaf ears
like candlelight or background noise
we're poised to lose attention
i know my heart is strong enough to take you on
don't slide away in a moment we'll be gone
i've shown my cards only hoping no one keeps a score
and this slice of life is'nt so frosted anymore
these cold streets make me remember love
i gained trust and broke up so many times before
all my hopes were angry knots of energy
to get back at the feeling that no one can want me
i see connection their walking hip to hip
latched arms with an understanding kiss
we should know that life should be this way
and through the glass i look back into my face
i can't help resenting you today

all my feelings never really
grow on anything that i care for
i've already lost the way that you smell

i've got so many regrets that i should forget while
i'm so sad and busted this seems like the first real thing that i
can't fix with my hands or words and its so sickening
it's so unbearable to believe that she can just go on like anything
it doesn't matter whose soul she steals when she doesn't even know
how to use it
it gets better when you are going to die the deeper the grave the faster you live your life


she must leave hearts of boys at doorsteps across the world
she must smile inside with tongue curled
while saturated suns rise in sore red eyes
plain flights seen sights all gone goodbye tomorrow
life will slow and melt away
as all those we cherish do, as we do ourselves
and the boys stop answering late calls
people distaste the fleeting nature of your withering claws
the future her will regret
like the me of now
and in time and space somehow we will feel the same
breathe heavy and sadly in the same ways
some gorilla will charm and love will get stale
as things do
as i do

we are all carrier pigeons with no message
feel important anyway
feel like another might realize so we scare each other away
lets drink to companionship and taking away in the season of giving and thanks

what is wrong with me

i can't argue I'm too nice, i debate and state points
not too quick to give advice, nice teeth warm eyes
i sing songs and play alright, I draw paint and try to write a good line
i'm damaged by experience but I don't dwell, i gather insight
i don't speak ill, or fill with ill will
i don't get drunk and blather or beat
i don't cheat
my mind is strange and unique
i kiss like softness and your name stays warm when i speak
my heart sips u like warm tea
and tastes only sweetness honey
in your eyes on the phone
it's not you anymore
was she there to begin with
was she anything at all

and that's all i get
relief is breaking
this time
no fixing broken line
no changing spiteful eyes
hello night
we are alone together again


forging dreams

I saw her before.  It was in a dream I turned into a story. I saw gentle eyes and a persistent smile, warmth in my soul reflected from hers.  I saw salvation not in a person but in connection.  I knew that life would be a long struggle, and the biggest ones were to come, I even got part of the name right.  I don't care whether it's coincidence or not.  I dream sporadically and it's often lost in my spacey mind.  A tangle of all I know, some I don't, and some I never will.  Deja vu could happen to you it's true.  Somewhere in reality those dreams form and it's no cause or fault of the brain, it is the possibility of existence.  I've learned that being alone is sometimes comforting, regardless of my situation.  There were times I sat in a little room or in a bunker picking my mind and found no answers to desperation, desolation and loneliness.  What I did find was a drive.  A drive to never be in those situations again if there were anything I could do about it.  I would shed my skin and become what I know I must to live, and live a life not devoted to others but devoted to what is good and helpful.  Happiness is a warm gun, as the steam rises off in the cold, I faced fears I didn't know I would ever have, and I lived.  Most of my friends did and I am thankful to the winds for that.  I only lost a few years, and faith in a relationship I foolishly went into very young.  I am cautious, but now my heart is bigger.  I don't know if I can love, I don't know if my mind will let me make those attachments, those bindings of potential loss.  I still trust someone who takes time to know me.  I don't know how much they gain from it, she gains from it, but I know I have that patience for her as well.  It's not my dream that I rely on to find love, it's a sign to myself long before trauma and pain, that even though I feel alone there will be a time that I will comforted in the light of connection. 


rasterized life forms

broken city with broken lyric
lines of lines dwelling in decay
machiavelli's voice drown burning urban remains
so scathed the wrong and deathly gallows humor
so spread the fear and white lie to self parody
and cast lines sticky with unholy stink
to catch the lost and swimming cadavers
ground to shape from twisting violence
the nature, the destructive motions of the abyss
a bullet can miss, a lover can kiss,
but no one can save you
if you won't save yourself

Target aqcuired
element expired
one rolling day into the next, another hump up a mountain
another window shatter, boom boom kind of town
my city of endless sleep,
my distant rocky core,
my dried up to the center stream
slipping down wall boulder holding incoming cling

Protect and serve the hearts and minds
never leave a friend behind
never shoot to maim
protect investments
ingest anti-depressants
pretend it's worth it
should you die for something you don't fully know or understand
should you sign up to fight man
would i die happy or sad
what if this chance is the best chance the only chance for what I have, should I be buried with heavy bloody hands, that this protective nature demands, that which seems to be out of gods commands,
that which is the mirror of a universe in which change is king
survival of the meanest, the cleanest, well fed, protected head, ready to die, and scared to death to lose an inch
the army's on ambien so they say
zanex, zoloft lets go hey hey!
red bull standing guard for days!
Thanks to all my fighting, terrorism will just go away
broken city broken lyric
broke and I can't play


I read the news today oh boy.
What must he have meant to do with all those words
what do you intend to do with all of yours
oh my o-mighty-o 
oh my i i i 
can't forget being forgotten lost and soft and
weight shifting earth split and 
am/fm satellite radio
 get lost spit cough turn off the stereo
the conservation will be televised
devastation of the system right before your eyes
born cold grown old and forgot the ride
oh my-i-iii

Things have been different lately.  The cold gets to me.  It's a miserable state to be cold in Chicago.  
People are strange.  SOmetimeS I think I am stranger.  I don't like horse abuse, but I like having horses downtown this time of year.  
Vapor is cool.  Seeing heat rise off of people in the cold, the way street lights look swirling with puffs of snow, it's beautiful.  Really, and snow angels, ice skating, christmas, THANKSGIVING@@@!!!, the cold breaks me down though.
the old breaks me down though
the old breas me dow tough
he ld   as  me d ough
h  as  me dough
has me ogh
 a  me o

like being
thirsty and
not being able
to find anything
to drink and you sweat
looking frantically desperate
for just a bit of moisture something
to wet your roasty throat gulping with the 
last saliva that you have left tasting every
molecule in the air as they turn bitter and fleeting



5 minute prose

i love and I don't
i know and i shouldn't
i fear the sameness in feeling
from kiss to kiss to lips and ears
i miss lazy days huddled beneath blankets
stretching and reaching into the other
into warmth watching forgetting to think
too contained to speak
will gets weak

and no stronger is the storm that beats down in my head
only distant thunders from past violences
volatile i berate
i lose faith
i step slow and confident that this ground won't shake
that I will wake before i die
like a diamond in the sky


out of the ashes

death it is a burnin' thing
and it makes an empty ring
i fought hard but it fought harder
now it squirms through me
oh my mighty god oh my mighty god
in my eyes are my eyes dotted in line or should I change
rearrange my mind
does it matter...
it's my soul darling, soul sweet soul, darling
the shallow ground
leaps and bounds
  sights and sounds
that twist
 holy ghost
no toast
 no jam
except in traffic

can be fat on ham
pass the lamb

last man stands
with grief and waves of grain
sometimes it's good to look at the things we say
stay fresh new products oh they can shine
make playgrounds for idle minds
watch so much
just might go blind
sat so much I am all behind
implied gratifiti gradually naturally
dark shades on bitter face
grown old and browned out
born again but beat down
street clown miming insignificance
handing out air animals that float
strain light like carnival glass
pass the crayon

Oh lord I've got healing to do
the same function, reduction, discretion

expression at the microphone session
side steps of tension


exhausted envy, the invasion of illusion

i cracked the glass and only saw things in two parts
 first, last
no in between
i fast forward and the inevitable cast grown old, blind
as the stumble for the only exit is inevitable

shine on til you fall down forever
maybe that light will blaze someone else's arrows
so some other lonely soul has a better chance of finding their way in the dark
speak well of the start
for the initial feelings are often the strongest,
and the longest lasting dreams for us while living


Wilt Act II part II


Act II

Scene 3


A dark blur like ocean waves grows on the black screen.  Data moshed waves with a strange motion. 
Ellen and Ramon on the beach, he is always in night and she is always in day, lying there on the beach.
 break to Ellen being grabbed by the dark figure, she turns quickly and rushes at him, preparing to use all of her energy fighting this figure, and as she rushes he turns to ash.  She falls against the wall and holds her arms up ready to fight, or cry, or die, or all three. 
  She runs through a hall and finds an elevator.  she looks back and sees a glimmer of sparking red.  she jumps in the elevator and pushes buttons frantically.  It closes and she pushes the emergency stop button.  she sobs in the bright lit box.  the lights flicker.
That flicker transitions to the eye of the old man at the door.  He is holding a small pitchfork caked with blood. 
The fire axe is heavy but Jacob prepares it to swing at the man.  The man smiles and continues forward slowly.  A couple walks by outside and Sarah starts to scream to them for help. 
The man and woman stop to look through the windows.
The old man grimaces.
flash, black, flash, black

Ellen is in the elevator.  She is leaning against the wall.  She pushes the button and smacks the wall.  The elevator moves, flashes of the dark figure there with her appear. as she closes her eyes and sobs.  The doors open to a balcony in a huge theater.  She sees an exit door in the distance and runs for it, she skips past the dark seats with people flashing in and out of them.  static noise rises.  She sees the light and in a triumphant push forward(slow motion) runs into the dark man as he appears suddenly and grabs her.  Static and distortion fade the screen out. 

couple looking in doors

man-    Did you hear that?
woman-   sounded like someone screaming.

Music rises suddenly from the theater.  A woman singing.  An opera piece. 
Jacob swings the axe as the old man advances with pitchfork at chest level.  The axe knocks the pitchfork out of his hands, but Jacob hits the wall and drops the axe.  The man comes forward swinging the broken handle and Jacob kicks him in the stomach and the man staggers back, they look up and the couple is gone he and Sarah run toward the music. 


you will never be loved in your castle
and I will never be loved in my bunker
the weather vain will thrash
but no lasting romance
the walls of loss are too strong
built up in the night
because too many lonely violent souls collided
taking what they could, and burning what they could not carry away
fear lamplight and warning sirens
weep to synaptic responses
shut down the memory banks
and sharpen the blades


Wilt Act II


Act II   The hurt of every day dreams...

Scene I
Interior_Royal George Theater
Old man
police officer

low shot of them shuffling through hallways and storage areas to a ticket counter with a telephone.  Ramon uses it to call the police and the three sit in a security camera view, possibly through a round mirror.  The old man is standing back rocking on his feet while rubbing his hands.  Ellen is trying not to look up at him but does slowly.  He smiles at her, she immediately feels uncomfortable,

Ellen-     "Thank you for helping us, I thought we were going to die! It was awful."

Man-      "It's no trouble miss, I'm glad he didn't get you"

He says this and grins terribly.  She smiles with hesitance and looks to Ramon as he hangs up the phone.

Ramon-  "They are sending a patrolman to get a description, can you take us to the front to meet them?"

Man-    "Sure can."

The man leads them to the door, where they sit and wait for the officer to come.  Low far shot of them sitting, the shadows being cast on the back walls add visual stimulation.  Ellen looks at Ramon's cut leg, and dresses the would with a piece of beach towel.  The blood is crusted on to Ramon's leg, he is in mild pain, they are both experiencing slight shock, dilated pupils, adrenaline still affecting them. 

External ground level shot of the back door. Shadows move close and two feet walk by, followed by a length of rope and two people tied up being drug behind along the ground, toward the door. 

The man is in a back room with water running, he is bent over a sink, and he starts to shake, his arm jerking back, and spitting up foam in the sink.
cue intense music.

Police car pulls up in front of building.  The lights shine past, lighting up the couple's eyes.  They get up and meet the officer at the door. 

Shot of a creaked open door in a dark room with a closeup of an object dripping, with the creaked door and a flashlight jerkily shining into the room.  The dripping makes a noise but is only a precursor to build-up of mechanical heartbeat sound.  Door bursts and light fills screen. 

high shot of couple talking to police in doorway.  Officer writing down and Ramon with his arm around Ellen.  Then to shot of taillight moving forward/Ellen and Ramon returning to the theater. 

Ellen-    I have to use the bathroom

Ramon-   where did that man go?

They walk back from the doors toward a restroom sign. 

Shot of eye in burlap sack, covering head. The opening eye of one of the bodies drug into the theater earlier.  Shot of a body shaking around in the dark, next to another body. 

Back to Ellen and Ramon near the bathrooms.

Ramon-   You use the bathroom and I will go call us a cab

Ellen-    don't leave me here alone this place is creepy

Ramon-  it will take two seconds, don't worry you are safe

Ellen walks quickly to the restroom while Ramon goes to the telephone.

Burlap sack slides across floor pushing the rope out.  Struggling until she frees her hand finally, and reaching for the sack and ripping it off, taking deep breaths after removing the gag from her mouth.  She is hysterical as she frees her other hand and lunges for the other body. 

Scene 2

Interior Royal George
Time-very early morning
Rat trap man
Dark Figure Man

Photo booth pictures of the Dark figure flip past the screen creating a warping, moving face. 
Immediate transition to bathroom floor.  black drips creep down from the ceiling slowly.  The door opens and it shrinks back as Ellen enters. 
Ramon walks back to find the telephone and hears something from a distance.  He walks out into an open area

Ramon-    Hello?

He walks forward, and looks down.  He sees two thin wet trails on the ground, and hears a girls voice from the room they come out from.  He walks toward the room slowly.  Close up shot of feet walking.  He puts his hand on the handle.  He twists slowly, he begins to push, and it slams open, and a man screams as he jumps out with a fire ax and drives it into Ramon's skull. Ramon falls backwards, Jacob pukes on top of the body.
 Chimes ring, and long creaking sounds rise.  Ellen hears a noise and walks quickly from the bathroom, evading the unseen black drips. 

Ellen-     "Ramon"

She walks to where she had thought the phone was, in the darkness she sees a figure, as she gets closer her heart drops, Ramon has been killed with an axe.  She runs to him and looks away from the disfigured head, she sobs

The old man appears half in the light, with blazing red eyes.  Ellen screams as she sees him and turns to run.  He is too fast and touches her arm, as he makes contact, that half of her body starts to rip away, the screen is blurring with static and corrupt data. 

The dark figure walks the theater.  with blazing eyes.

Sarah and Jacob are working their way to the door, Jacob is carrying the axe, Sarah is hiding behind a candle holder.  They hear a scream from behind them, while their heads are turned a man walks between them and the doors in the distance, it immediately starts walking forward. 


Wilt Act 1

Dust and light shine on cement walls. flashes of projector showing old film of woman dancing(16mm-videotape).  Close ups of woman's face, warp with black swirl, like rot and wet ink.  When the woman turns in the projection, dust in the room swirls.  Flash, she is bowing,  flowers are being thrown to her.  Flash, shaky camera and dead womans face, corrodes and flies cover projection. Zoom out from black insects to reveal them as a huge pattern covering the white of an eye. 
"Wilt" fades in and out shades of gray.

Scene 1
Exterior- beach
Time- sunset
Ellen - Female Early 20's
Roman- Male Early 20's

Couple plays tic tac toe in the sand.  Sky is underexposed and dark, people overexposed.  Between long pauses of silence and projector noise coming in slowly to build mood.  A close up of each reveals the following dialogue:

Ellen  " well would you believe he is wearing that out here" (points finger in distance)

wide shot showing Roman look away, cut shot to Ellen writing in another X and looking up quickly

Roman  (looking at Ellen) "what are you talking about"

Ellen " I don't know, he looked like an Amish guy on a Segway"

Roman " He must feel like Marty Mcfly"

Move to couple laughing together after Ellen puts a line through her diagonal X's.  film stretches and melts into new footage, in night vision mode, fire lighting the couple laying together, sped up footage of background of day, night, sun and moon passing overhead, coupled with stop motion foreground of the barely moving couple.  Taped over 3 days at least.

Scene 2

Time-still dark early morning
Dark Figure

Out of the night comes a dark figure with a pale mouth and  grimy clothes.  Waves splash behind him in the darkness.  Key low instrumentals that sound faintly of projectors and humming appliances, factory machinery, only bring to a dull hum, as the dark man approaches the sleeping couple.  His knife glimmers, speckled with rust or residue.  He creeps in the sand, waiting for the fall of the waves to mask his sound.  He gets close to the couple, close enough to strike, he smiles

straight to black

backward playing footage of snake skin pattern looping/painted numbers and symbols/ faces from magazine illustrations morphing into real people/scary head

straight to black

camera pulls back from Ellen's mouth as she wakes up and sees the dark figure above them.

straight to white

drop camera down from beaming over saturated sun, shoot entirely in first person small child's point of view, looking at his father, intersperse with dark woods at night, as the child looks at the father the father sticks his tongue out, where every 15 seconds or so the flashes of dark forest are intense and show a dark scarecrow figure advancing.

Zoom out from Ramon's eye and keep camera steadily in front of his face as he goes through motions of fighting and disarming the creature as he had woken up scared out of his mind. Ramon kicks the man and notices his leg is cut, he grabs Ellen and they run away.

Out on the street Ramon tries his phone as it flickers on and off.  He looks around and sees the trail end of something go in a door,

Ramon - "Hey! can you help us out, we need the police!"

Ramon starts to run down an alley way, Ellen hesitantly grabs his arms and then follows after he gives her an irritated glance.  Ramon leads her down the alleyway.  As they get to the end they see a tall man in coveralls.  He is hunched as he walks and tall, a close-up shows his hand sliding something dark and matted into his pocket, he turns as he is being waved down by the couple, Ellen loses steps and slows as they approach,

Ramon - Sir may we use your phone to call the police

Man- oh well uh what for

Ramon- my girlfriend and I were just attacked by a man with a knife, please we must call them now!

Man- oh well ok

The man raises his rubber gloved hand to the door, and as they go in, the man trails, pulling off his gloves and laying down a bloody rat trap in the alleyway.


I asked them if we were growing cold and stale

No one stares down the barrel of death's gun quite like you.  No sir.
Remember when we thought we might have died already.  The night in the black van with tinted windows and stolen plates, as we sat and waited to rob Fat Teddy's crew in Barcelona?  The driver worked for them and almost executed us right there, but u remembered him at the last minute.  You remembered him from the shoot out in Monte Carlo.  I still eat at that outdoor bistro.  I have images of shattered glass and spilled wine that glide past my mind when I am sitting there waiting, enjoying the cool breeze.  Hope you rest in peace.


lame duck

I'm tired of glazing over old ideas.  I don't know where to start, or where it ends.  I'm sad like someone who has lost something very dear to the heart and irreplaceable, and I don't know why.  I have held few things dearly.  I think I may hold my self or my life dearly, but not covet.  Never forever is over for me.

the repression that results in obsession

gold coin lay flat shadow slide slowly
money sign sign your check endorse here say
open sesame work work slave shallow
split coal load shovel to insanity

I see the glimmer of the green light on the pictures I make, and take from life's strange destinations and situations.  I inhale and sometimes forget that I have to breathe, but I always know I can bleed.  Maybe I shouldn't live like this, I think, in squalor and sorrow.  maybe I'm making up for what I lost before, lost or gave away.  Sometimes I wish god was rooting for me, sometimes maybe he is or was.  Maybe he exists but it's hard to differentiate between a pure thought and bullshit. I think my coping medicine is to run.  Not from a fight in the parks or roads and fields of screams, but in the mind.
I fall in love around 3 times a day, love at first sight.  Imagination quickly creates anticipation as i wait.
old it steady
don't get ready
pace set to cause pain and panting
heavy moans come from lit up homes
and in the darkness people are still happy, content, falling apart trying to be
or just not worrying
I think therefore I am depressed
I think therefore I am alone
I think therefore I amend my morals all the time
I want to be a fighting shadow a little black figure in the blind mans sight
I want it to be tomorrow, it seems today never comes out right


oh my my feeling
sensations soul
provoking through unseen depravity play the part
be one, many one any one but me
ok ok now settle down its all fine when we can see a little , a critical separation from my seam seems to be that
nothing can satisfy statistically
open hand open soul foul mouthed and willing to scroll to droll along
sinister mister long
for better or worseeeeee
not feeling so hot
gray light blue
and dull, the quickest sickness to take it's fiery toll,   fuck you, i won u
i oen little or nothing, liggle or nothing , little or shallow style simplistic thought provoke distant such sought shot alone disgraced my oh how i am feeling alone
oh how i break the ozone, oh how I cry this is so alone, so outgrown, so sunstroked and windblown
a goldfish slips into your water filthy slaves, fuck you we own you


last night

i don't think twice when I fall for all those tricky little scams
blond, brown, black and blues as I shuffle to the noose I won't ever be free
from the bottom of the bottle to the sick shift cold coma satisfaction find me
no fees no interest inside of me a cold still grin and eyes that just won't fade
beyond the little spaces the places in between, lost and found traveling build bridge gotta get away


a recipe for dying alone

mix one part human
one part jesus
one part rock and roll music
one part scratch and scrape
one part limited vision
one part pushing away from the shore

knead until hard as rock

bake at 98.5 degrees until golden black

wake up feeling lost

wake up without anything

no friends, and even fewer lovers

drink something strong

drink alone

sleep with fingers crossed

sleep fully clothed in hot summer air

unconditioned, disparity

linger hope longer, i misunderstand everyone
i feel like I am not what anyone wants
I feel like my stab into history is too dark

brutally we are in control
uselessly jaw drop kiss sweet sun


too often behind

when in the gears
i love her dearly
first sight best sight
lost sight grabbed but didn't hold on
then he came along
i was still there hidden
kiss you on the merry-go-round
reminds me of the time as well, as did the earthy smell
the carnival, and we drank and we had drank before
and everything felt the same, same lovesickstruck anxiety calm comfort

same slithery blithery bullshit between feelings, deep and nostalgic
too nostalgic in fact, i get time travel sick,
relish and regret
smooth exhausted hands, and eyes, oh they have been dazed for days by the backlit nightline screen

how do you describe a smile
a glance and away
how do you tell the sensation that i bring and you bring fizzling with chemical relief
the shiver spine that my song brings


on the confusion of conformity

liquor, music, saturated discrepancies lying dying pitiful serenity in simplicity madness and impossibilities roam, faded trains change line gone with the windows and snow bank blind
she lifted me up and damaged me inside, my kite will one day fly I'll say
traced in fine ink on fine paper crouched in corners bad behavior
going through the motions like a drunken fighter
like a trained systematic violent instigator, the traitor to the heart and the mind
the plus minus plus minus pin chest, pin head state of mind
though you succeed and man can not be defined by the line of work to determine his worth
we have spilt forth on violent earth with no verse to be checked or manual to rely on
faith is a fateful notion, while I live susceptible to the actions of the people
while i live grounded, down, earthen disguise demise deep fried enjoyment
blitz, bombardment, building up and ripping down
fall, ceiling.  And as the dust settles I see the shade of war, it is ash...


soft light air sofa dream

oh straight streets and sidewalks flat an even for a soul
beach walk sift through thoughts mumble and lull with the tide
imbibe, breath heat solid cornered-in-sight
shake from the rot, sift through the whole
choke and slobber time grows slow
whiz past vroom engine roars with cherry paint jobs
elite light the heights of lake crest bore
white triangles like puppets in a creature show
what needs cost and the seeds bleed forevermore
an old soul, always knows the score
gemin-eyes split-shift-drift, ignore
sip sip, pull from the bellies, pull from the sheep
just what you need
a long day drifts awkwardly through the gleaming nothing of space
tiny islands in the air drift like me and hold on to existence helplessly
never knowing what the end is
or why it is changing

chewed to the quick

shuffle and scuff platforms in hide rubber shoes
awkward and anxious headphone cell phone crying calling texting watching
the businesspeople the shoppers the spenders the beggars the spendthrifts the sellers
caught in the cellar, bizarre and lost hopes
they can never know themselves because they are never alone
mirror tricks and decide choose instantly please me please be
but can't find success if all I look for is love
sick puppy, disgust, it's normal to dye with the rust
it's normal to cry when things seem so unjust
it's easy to lean over rails when you know you won't jump
because someone with less than you inside, but more in the world
is living the life you think you should, could if you would
just button up, settle down, don't regret, don't look so closely at each gem you have found

our bellies are getting rounder, fat from the crude, from the food, and the blood
you can't mix beauty with grime, but soon it all turns to worn leftovers of another time
the gods have all known people, but how many of us know the gods
lightning strikes us down, as do so many forces


i am wrong or I am right

sometimes it starts like a grease fire/ little pools of pain/ sliding down and eating
other times it's creeping fear of disbelief/ the festering feeling of sober anxiety
old hums and strums coincide with tragedy and comedy
 //the only fool a man can claim is himself//
under the glow of the high-definition fire /time movin' slow (I)
don't know when it'll expire...mixing
thin tinges of not uncommon desire
into the waste = into the gyere
through the genes/drank up in rivers and streams
toleration rips at seams/all because of these abstract beings
 system is not complete without travesty


The Presidential Address Tonight! Sold Out! classic

Now that the days are long// what is the best way to destroy the world
Now that the shades are drawn everyone must start playing god//who deserves to know why
action in regulation industry oversight
shower gifts safety inspections
salazar corruption deep
slaughter the patrons
new people top shelf
watch dog not his partner
the better regulations consume less
drilling miles and smiles land and shallow water
urgency requires lobby
candid reserve consequences job
up our well, oh well, lets gulf or golf i mean
painful embrace, energy generation
unleash control//destiny transition
jump start clean speak old wind
smaller efficient family soul
entirement industreaps
only rally one
principal independence comprehensive refinement
cost some//afford right now
addiction approaches either
standards sure power
fractions research boosting
planes and tanks
harness sci tech
refuse wisdom
definition of destiny determination we want our world children
neighbors fate
beginning tradition long ago
bless safety sea success
in good bad weeks seasons
spill pray former promise lost
with thy
last crisis, hard times before


mindless infinities

neglect what you want, give what you will
granted and enchanted isn't happening still
old telephone answer hung up
guilt and a quill tip now i shut up
oh me, I can not see
that mindless infinity beyond me

you would like it better in a song I suppose.  A movement a rhyme, with lovely little harpsicordian sounds that drift bye bye happiness

you're california and I am northern maine, and still
water bends, around, around through the frame, I'm solid but feather down is much warmer than my heart
oh god let me down

the shadows are all conspirators
gangsters with bullets of lead
I've lost all leftover self conscious and I just can't stay aware
fool, you , oh you fool
enough picking battles -you're my frankenstein
enough galloping hills climbing from shelf to shelf, on me
I cannot breathe
my whole life span
depends on theeeee
shallow graves, which cast about,
you lost another, now time runs out
god damned alone, bewildered
shot through the soul=
and all the waking blood inside you dies,
a satisfaction smile grows
tears to stay alive
one nice shot in. to. infinity.

got base on the main defense
as so many wander and lie
sell the ticket after the ride
gone goes done say goodbye
I'm not asking for a
way to strange it, self defiance staking claim at
ooo wee oooo wee
ooooh wii ooooh weee
almost one two three satisfy  curiosity
dishonesty wrongin' me too mad to get by
inspect the check made to magnify
bass boom beat tap tap the rolling flow
the match effect forcing me to let go and get on with the show
satisfy me, as well as I could be don't let me down
I'm too proud to tap out, slip sliding up the downspout

we are transient,
how can we own the earth
commonly mistaken
commonly forgotten
ignored truth of reality

step one: keep the public useless
ascertain needs and issues
gain control of authoritative figures
split fingers make useless splinters in the face of a dying race
sun spots sun burns toil toil toil away we say
old chants singing feeling right
not knowing initiation fucking fight or flight
godspeed you fucking soldier
spent ammo mud hut concrete bunker
steel plate extra wait while we hum
ooooo my cold dead soul
my gunshot wound
my final payment coming true
oooweee oooweee
the shrinking brain fell on me
the holy ghost incredibly
I heard sunshine
and soul was lifted
hollow bones been re gifted

step 2: procreate
My you are lovely.  Lets perform the mating ritual, although we do not want children.  Sounds fun.
First we must let things ferment. First we must ferment.  First amendment.  first amen.  Firmament. Firmant.  man(squared).

step III:
self destruct
I've got a ticket to ride, and I don't care.  Life as temporary, life as temperamental, life as an intermediary between butt and hair.  Supposing eye, su-su-supposin' I would do what I most like.  Do what wraps up with black bow and ashes and dust.  Supposin' I follow the sun til it sits on my weary shores, invigorating this lonesome soul, as you, I am, as we, I are gold light far from sight far from any little broken sacred place where we hide, and discover, shiny ugly minds.  Like mines.  Like mine.  I me.  Emitting frequency, through silly slathered speech and under some, some distant feeling knowing growing building up, into nothing, into wilting little roses in an abandoned overcrowded cemetery, this plot of land, in which I'd been thrown, this plot of dirt, these buried stones.  All I have to do is think a little thing of you and time goes dry, and I close my eyes, because this is forever.  Yeah this is forever.


we are all monsters

nipping at the breath expelled as if life were real for a moment, but by the time I notice our moment is passed. 
The only stranger I know is myself.

old worn - wind down


we-us-are impatient, impotent straggle through live loops
long-time hustle
struggle to shoot in the morning hours, while grabbing paper, coffee, smoke
engulfed in enough 
and inside the head

what happened to the man's man the gentleman and what happened to the rotten stink of within
what happened to the animals, light beam, tree sap thought shadows slipped bark fell green wood
what happened to the life stem steel grate fence in 
the pave way progress sensation
what happened to day dream not shaking
not control unfinished simmer of the forgotten mourning soul

from the lip
from the food service fool
from the shoe vendor and the summer stool
from cramp limb don't want to wake up morning blues
from cascade black 
from effortless endeavors burning proof

drip from the eye
here little twins looking so satisfied

here is to heroicism
      it may                             
be our only 
Here is to persistence,                 which no one understands
         oh my goodness sweaty distance
here is to
our enemies saving graces

phrase that another way


Motion Sensitive part 1

The refrigerator's out.  It's not running.  So any wise-ass who want's to call me should just do it now.   The mist rising from the rotten fruit is driving me crazy, but I can't touch it.  It's black and hangs in the air.  I can feel it inside my lungs, eating me like it ate the fruit.  I can't move, I can't even close my eyes, and they are starting to come around my face.  I can feel the few loner particles, the beasts, on the soft curve of my eye.  The jump in and out of my vision.  They are biting at my fingernails, in the cracks.  They look for any open pore with which they could benefit from my inability to react.  They are digging cleaning and chewing on my scalp, and I can still smell the rot of the meat on them, as they bounce around overfeeding themselves, gulping down my sweat and slobber  
My brother Tom is lying on the floor, and I've never seen him so still.  I think he had a heart attack.  The black specks are peppering the foam circle around his mouth.  His body has grown a pale blue, the black pollution makes it seem gray in the mid-day haze.  I haven't eaten, I don't want to.  They might get totally inside.   I think they want to my brain.  I think something in them knows that that is all I have.  That's all I ever had. 
I could feel the flowing caress of the carrion, the stench stewed with mold spore and disease.  Tom shouldn't have done what he did. He shouldn't have had that man come.  Just 'cause I can talk through a box.  Tom only took me for the caregiver money.  I didn't mind, it's better to be with him than in the home.  We were drinking and tired when I started rambling on about holistic medicine.  Somehow in the night Tom got the idea to go find some kind of spiritual healer. 
Tom grew tired and irritated when dealing with my daily needs.  I don't know where he met the man in the gray suit.  He came in drunk, had said he found a shaman.  I looked at the man, he looked at me with a rich fake smile.  I thought it may have just been a pleasantry to mask his initial pity for me and my disability.  The carcass and the talking box, like a magic show, and the lead role is given to this graying slick dude who knows a bit about voodoo.  Or some dark art, pulled out rustled rusted sheets of paper.  Incantations and sacred elements.  Strong magnets and transistors in a case he carried by his side.  The case was deep, dark, red and black leather with gold straps. 
He talked to me carefully and slowly, "Hello David, I'm Dr. Solomon and I'm going to try to help you today, your brother told me that you would like to walk again, is it ok with you if I go ahead and try to repair your still body?".  He was sweaty and 
"Yes, but how does it work?" My carefully preened digital voice echoed out through computer speakers.
"Well David it's complicated and the best way for me to do it is just to show you."
He said this while dropping his case and opening it in the middle of the floor.  There were electronics exposed and smooth steel parts that pointed to the center like cranes drinking from a pool.  Red and black stitching were exposed, creating a border of twisted red and black ivy for the papers which he placed over smooth foreign symbols resembling the alphabet. 
"Tom, please close the windows and unplug any televisions or radios you have in the home."  Thomas was pale and drunk, he unplugged the nearest television and walked out of the room.
"David, this is going to work.  You can trust me and relax, you may feel some discomfort, but it's going to be worth it."
"Hope is loss Dr."
"Bah, your attitude shall soon change my friend."  He looked at me and at the cable as he plugged the machine into the wall.
   The machine started humming at a low speed, the crane heads spinning smoothly in the center.  Tiny tubes slid a light green liquid between gears and into quiet machined metal.  Circuit boards were twisted and melded with wires, going to a tiny display screen the man quickly began to inspect.  Thomas came in with a sandwich and a glass of milk, he sat on the couch staring at the machine, and sitting down his milk. 
I felt strange, and had nothing to say.  I sat, eyes blinking on regular timing, wondering more than wishing.  The man looked at me as if to ask if I were ready.  I said nothing.
He pulled a thin black microphone up from the base of the case and adjusted it in front of his mouth.  Looked to my brother and me, then down to the paper with a sharp grin.
" Kgheim slas jeseuan.."
The machine whirred faster and light started coming out of the smooth reflective base. 
"aa arudisav a iiii-ooo satasmana oh ao..."
Another reflective disk grew out of the air above the blurred crane heads, and a spark threw out from the circuit board. 
I felt the air grow thick, like I was choking on pasty gas.  Time slowed down and I only saw flashes.  I couldn't hear anything besides the whirring and crackling of the machine. I saw Thomas slipping forward on the couch, spilling his milk slowly, between fan blades of time.  It was like looking through slivered glass, but everything inside was fighting with the solidity of being.  It closed us all in, encapsulated us in hardening matter, the machine still worked.  A light hit and my mind went blank.  I was in the middle of a twisted dream, but I only held on to a few strings of story before I woke up.
The food was already stinking, not as bad as now.  Tom's not saying a word, no matter how much I calmly state that we need help, because I CAN"T FUCKING YELL IT through god damned Micro Sam's speech fucking generator.
I hope the gnats choke on my flesh.  I can feel them burrowing, burrying eggs inside of my skull. In my ears tickling, and digging into my clothes.  Black covers my eyes and only flicks of distant light appear in my vision.  I let go of the tension.  I bury myself in the darkness, i detach myself from all the exterior feelings.  The insects writhe throughout my being, I hear their buzzing and slurping, I imagine their little mouths and shiny eyes, cleaning their wings and faces after gorging on a gooey chunk of eye tissue. 
Oh, the dream. 


Infinitely Guilty In The Eyes Of The Universe

weakened senses of the shadow masses
time slowing down in time to watch
all scared moments like rocks and hearts
like splash sticky red stuff
<= puff smoke whistle blow%%%
ants march...
tomorrow starts with secret dust
cloud scream light show
shading lines through blind window
rising slightly to find comfort
lose evil
sweat stained and sunburnt
sun washed fade way
kind regardless
regarded in someway
the puppet people pull
past you in little turns
wrists like bamboo and crooked spine
fake to the world


vision of the masses

I see our world and the people of our country strung out on the drug of commerce, commute, control, and fame, worse than cocaine, just as destructive on our brains.  I see scattered masses, ignorance in classes, but who is to blame, the sheep or the shepherds, businesses or buyers.  Fill the graves and tombs of tomorrow, beg steal and borrow your way to the top to a place where you can cast all your trace under a rug.  I see the army of truth, the fighters of free, the dogs of war done wrong, done up, fighting with sickness shell shock fears of the dark, they rise, and they fall, angry tides like packs of wolves burning in the dawn.  The rest of us stink and squalor in our funerary dreams, because before they come you are dead, but the people who were born into anything would like you to believe they are tangible things.  They've commandeered our resources, hijacked our gov't and are growing bored as they charge force into foreign land.  The poor stand like puppets, shot at inaccurately by other poor and weak. I'm sick as fuck and it's so hard to speak, it's so hard to reach, so hard not to let my soul rot another day in the businessman's paradise, corporate diatribe, fabulous and famous carnival ride, where we all drink and get high on life cuz it works out even though it's not always nice, mostly not nice, hardly ever nice.......... you are too fucking strong to cry, too attached to inks and dyes, to wounded souls that hide behind melodramatic eyes, strong runners thighs, but it's a fucking meat shop of lies, we are the lord of the fucking flies, one where the weak all die, piggy survives, markets his eyes, and buys everyone's home and calls it his own........fuck


command line prompt
command line pro
command line
command  in
cool like fall and spring hanging out brown grass dream
cooperative junction into absence and history hindering belief
constant reminders of every little thing
coordination while flushing
commenting on disbelief
complicating grief
no place for old men, young men
navigating through shadows
negating ferocity with battles
nightly standing watch when you can not see
no one knows but those stained by living belief
numbers, tags, calculating
nymphs ride in broken minds meflaquin edging suicide


and Jesus drowned the puppies to save them from life

Oh I thought that was you
but I couldn't see past the rain drizzled shield
wind pushed out in ripples stretching
straining out lines making thin rivers that caught the light just right// you were just a lamp post ghost pacing the streets with bleeding warped face//
and I thought that was me
chasing fear around but it's never
as clear as hearing the sound/ see;
the slam of the ground which whistles precede
I'm lucky I'm writing and not just dictating still have limbs and jars of pennies, I can spread things, grip the world with hands and stand up against ground turning 
still have a voice box to sing building apathy empathy, becoming...
I can design something from nothing, I can change matter by breathing and eating, I can cause vicious waves of alteration from my actions with no tricks up my sleeves, and then I can't do anything, i can't change the fact that we're losing time to think, and in between lost sleep the longer the blinks/ see; caffine drinks, cigarettes I'm slow to think, sad to write
mental y-axis negative, perpetually fueling the analytics that founded this system of crude self-distance, association, complications of the mind, hurry doctor get the paddles, it's all just wasting time, wasting hope, wasting reason to get out if you can, but you won't get out alive/ see; funerary march, dust, second line, second life, trust, will, definite 


The Desolate Generation

Influence of the Beat Generation:
The Desolate Generation

    The Beat Generation was a short-lived, but all encompassing generation.  Their vision and voice have spread throughout history, opening up in pockets of progressive culture, and inspiring movements that’s effects are as relevant to the culture as the Beats themselves were.  They were a frayed youth settled in America during a turbulent era.  Human rights were changing in leaps and bounds; we had passed through two World Wars, and were also involved in the Korean War when their writing and experiences with life were developing.  They were also active through more war later on in their careers.  Because of their sentiment and questioning of authority they have been a valuable source of inspiration, and a guide to changing the way people think for modern day veterans.  The veterans I speak of are modern Afghanistan and Iraq veterans, mainly those who oppose the war, speak their minds, and incite change in American policy.  I will call this group the Desolate Generation.  It started in America with the Lost Generation and writers like Ernest Hemingway, on to the Beats, and now settling in veterans of modern combat. As the world changes, and wars shift, as the enemy is unknown, and the ideals of a nation are blurred, those who have fought and seen the disgusting reality of war, and the inner workings of government, hold onto the same ideas and influences of the Beats.

    des·o·late \ˈde-sə-lət, ˈde-zə-\, adj.
    1: devoid of inhabitants and visitors: deserted
    2: joyless, disconsolate, and sorrowful through or as if through separation from a     loved one
    3 a: showing the effects of abandonment and neglect: dilapidated
b: barren, lifeless c: devoid of warmth, comfort,     or hope: gloomy
    synonyms; see alone, dismal (Merriam Webster Online)

    This generation is riding on the currents of GenX and GenY.  Two generations that are preoccupied with pop culture.  These generations also saw the steepest declines in voter turnout since the 1920’s.  (http://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/data/turnout.php)  I chose the word desolate because to me it defines what this generation consists of.  Upon returning the modern soldier is sent back to a normal life and finds it very difficult to cope with the reality of modern capitalist society.  Much like the beats, they burn off their frustrations through writing, talking, and more often through self-medication and drinking. “Anything in any way beautiful derives its beauty from itself, and asks nothing beyond itself.  Praise is no part of it, for nothing is made worse or better by praise.” (Marcus Aurelius, Mediations (2nd C.), 4.20, TR. Maxwell Staniforth)  Now juxtapose the word beautiful with ugly, and beauty with ugliness.  War is ugly.  The “Support Our Troops” mentality of suburban America is a factor that is good for the returning troops in some ways, but in others it emphasizes the importance of this quote.  These bumper stickers and ribbons grow stale, and for troops returning from multiple tours it only shows the shiny outside and hollow interiors of American society.  As we see low voter turn-out rates, it’s a rational thing to be upset at how little people know of the war, yet how much they think they know.  The war is in movies and on television, giving the public a sense of control, and this makes coming back from the experience a difficult one.  It gives a feeling of desolation and neglect to those who have seen and want these conflicts to end.
    “Whoever controls the media, the images, controls the culture.”  Allen Ginsberg said this profound statement that is truer now than ever in American history.  I refer more to news media, mass media, and changing technology when I say this.  In the bustling American world, where people sit in coffee shops and don’t talk, staring at computer screens, and families sit in front of television screens in every room of the house, they are fed little sound bytes, and advertisement that pounds the subconscious to the core.  I see Jack Kerouac in Dharma Bums strolling down the street, seeing those families, and saddened by the state of his people. “...colleges being nothing but grooming schools for the middleclass non-identity which usually finds its perfect expression on the outskirts of the campus in rows of well-to-do houses with lawns and television sets is each living room with everybody looking at the same thing and thinking the same thing at the same time while the Japhies of the world go prowling in the wilderness...” (Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums)  Without that fire, that experience Jack never could have written such profound, and simple things that ring true today.  The members of the Desolate Generation have more in common with the beats because they have that fire of experience, that exhilaration, and trauma which fuels them as people to go against the grains of society, to take the streets and yell, to fight for a better world, a more equal world with less violence, and greater understanding of culture and fear.
    These bands of desolate veterans in the modern world find each other, and outlets through various projects throughout the country.  Iraq Veterans Against the War is an organization driven to end the war and to help treat veterans dealing with trauma through writing and talking about experience, and how each of us does it differently.  There is also the Vet Art Project, which helps treat soldiers, and family members through art therapy, while getting veterans involved with members of the community to create a more diverse and educated public.  The only problem with these groups is that they are shadowed by media, and a docile society, who is not picking up on what is going on in their world.  These are the same battles that the Beats had to go through, along with the filmmakers that they influenced.  John Cassavetes broke out of mainstream film to make Shadows, and challenged the industry he worked for.   Without contributions like his the culture might still be stuck in a completely dominated entertainment industry.  This industry is instrumental in confronting the public with issues, such as war, poverty, and government abuse.  The Desolate Generation is learning to take the tools back from the corporations, and build on independent ideas such as Cassavetes.
     Like the Beats, the Desolate Generation challenges the American Dream.  They ask people to do something, and start by doing it first.  This most likely stems from the slacker generation of the nineties.  Where material things lost their influence, or at least a large group of kids lost interest in obtaining these material objects through a system offering little and asking for a lot.  It was a generation where kids didn’t want to end up like their parents, ground down by a nine to five job, living in a country of divorce, where most marital arguments are over money.  Those that joined the military, looking for escape, experience, and a jump-start at providing for themselves in a way that proves some kind of deeper worth to themselves.  Yet, the policies of the US government have created dissent and a richer distaste with corporate America, which seems to run the government, and the media. (http://projects.publicintegrity.org/wow/resources.aspx?act=contrib) It only takes a few seconds to find campaign contributions from war profiteers.  It takes a trip to the Middle East, and a talk with a Halliburton employee to see that they are paid five times as much as a soldier, to do less, and to be the support system, for a military designed to support itself.  This is one small area of abuse of power and conflict of interests that soldiers become aware of as they progress through their career. (http://www.rense.com/general46/hal.html)  War Profit Litany is a poem by Allen Ginsberg, about war profiteering during the Vietnam War, and retains its stance as much in these wars as it did in that one.
    William S. Burroughs had an honest idea when he said, “Sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts.”  This is a possible explanation of the disinterest of the public, or rather the inability to change the aforementioned problems with capitalism and government.  It is possible people fear knowing too much because it becomes disheartening, and creates feelings of paranoia.  People also have their own agendas and causes, which they follow, while many follow none.  Many have lost all touch with any kind of spirituality, or morality beyond those advertised, and those nostalgic, attached to memory fading in and out of life through whims and pleasures.  The Beats searched for answers, like a sick man seeks a cure, just as the Desolate Generation searches for answers and the cure. 
    This brings me to some thoughts on the after effects of war.  Though not a Beat author, Kurt Vonnegut has many themes, which seem beatesque, and he also served in a major US war.  After watching the firebombing of Dresden as a prisoner of war, in his compilation of works Armageddon in Retrospect, he says that he would have given his life to save the beautiful city of Dresden.  The guilt of a man does not seem to translate into American society at the time.  I recently interviewed a group of World War II veterans about war and the after effects.  The general answer for the question, “ How did you feel after the war?” was that they felt good.  Granted, these men and women ended a war, but there has to be a moment where we should think of the mass destruction of culture and large-scale loss of civilian life.  After two atomic bombs America had Japan on it’s knees, but two beautiful cities were demolished, and poisoned for years. “Ginsberg, Kerouac, and Burroughs met, became friends, and set up housekeeping together in New York City the year before the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima in 1945. Their religious visions were conceived in its shadow and born out of their shared affinities.”  (John Lardas. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2001) It is possible that the Beats were affected by not only the fear and paranoia of a post-atomic bomb America, but rolling off of the karmatic effects of destructive action. “This is a war universe. War all the time. That is its nature. There may be other universes based on all sorts of other principles, but ours seems to be based on war and games.”  This quote from Burroughs is another example of growing dissent toward a society lacking communication and ability to change its natural ways.  It also comes back to the slacker generation of video game absorbed youth, growing more obese and non-committal toward life.  Where the Beat Generation and the Desolate Generation were and are driven to use communication as a leveling tool. 
    In Hemingway’s short story A Soldiers Home, he tells the story of a War Veteran named Krebs.  Krebs returns home after the war and is disassociated from society, unable to tell his story because it has been heard too many times already, because he comes home from the war after it is over.  The people have celebrated, and most soldiers had made it home already.  Krebs gets hassled by his parents to get a job, and to find a girl to settle down with.  Krebs is not interested in any American girls, he notices trends but seems very indifferent to everything.  He loses touch with society and has no outlet.  This is likely an account of Hemingway’s own experience, and was no doubt something read by the Beats, and seen as an accurate depiction of those outcasts of society, giving them the understanding of this outsider view.  The cycle is only continuing with today’s vets and Beat followers. 
    “…who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating
Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,” Ginsberg says in Howl.  It seems that he not only talks about the government contributing to Columbia University (where he, Kerouac, and Burroughs met), to work on the splitting of the Atom, but also of the lack of support for open expression, and societies fear of obscenity.  This irony parallels that of modern war dissenters.   You cannot force people to have open ears and open minds, Ginsberg knew that, and that you cannot change a system from the inside easily.  This is the plight of the Desolation Generation.  Though they are the seers and sayers, the eyes of the front, the hands pounding the hammer of democracy night and day, they only find voice inside the system when it is beneficial for the ruling groups.  The corporations and politicians use veterans for their pandering of goods, and political pamphlets.  Shaking hands and smiling faces are a façade.  The Veterans Administration is basically a bureau, which Burroughs so eloquently speaks of in Naked Lunch by saying, “Democracy is cancerous, and bureaus are its cancer.”  The VA is a government agency created only from the outcries of the lost generation, seeking retribution for being sent to war, and lost afterwards.  In the modern society the VA is falling apart.  Not only have they gotten in trouble for infecting vets with the HIV virus by cutting costs and reusing dialysis catheters, misdiagnosing and under-diagnosing Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but also of shredding patient’s medical records and claim forms.  (http://cujo359.blogspot.com/2008/04/va-caught-witholding-information.html)  This is detrimental to the wellbeing and trust of the Desolate Generation, and a sad fact that few people realize. 
    To come back to the “Support Our Troops” mentality and falsehoods, the Desolate Generation is quite desolate, dejected, forgotten, and neglected.  This desolate landscape is similar to that which the Beat Generation must have faced during draft times, and the Vietnam War, where veterans were being called baby-killers and spit on in the streets.  The mentality of the veteran is complex and full of torment, ready to be released.  Ready to stand and expose society, in its crevices and forgotten spaces.  To shed light on the forgotten people, as the Beats did years before.  By turning pop-culture on it’s head.  By attacking people in their living room with strange ideas, music, and also making themselves targets for ridicule, which they rode out from as victors.
    In conclusion I believe the Desolate Generation is one built on the foundations of the Lost Generation and the Beat Generation.  It also grows roots out from GenX and GenY, and the modern media generation.  The fire that it takes to make change, make art, and challenge the norms and dreams of a society removed from its government’s actions.  These generations have found ways to put the ugly, the tired, and the offbeat right in the faces of Americans, and the world.


farewell foolish objectivism

it's a sad state when man is raized to hate, discriminate, and eliminate all things strange, thinking they hold no solid place.
I can never be a hero
foolish things often run deep for me,
my lost thoughts as barren and systematic as winter trees
all subconscious comes forward through lack of dreams
cigarettes and antacids at six a.m.
water and eggs drowning down and coagulating
i feel bad and good all the same
transcending perception, making myself outsane
out in the streets howling to the early morning air
to the sleeping, sleepless, drunk, and meandering
breaking up the spaces between all of us stuck
in this blistering burning reality, with cars and tv screens
with debt and monetary dreams, lotteries to keep em clean
to keep them from destroying themselves
spiraling down the rabbit holes reading gravestones as no escape
only hope lies in the book that says the meek shall be saved
the high, the hearty, the full, and greed will try and repent for deeds
what a load of shit shoveled for the poor to believe
everything is amazing and no one is happy


war they said

I used to think of war in the hollywood sense without any sense.  I used to see these heroic actions, which no doubt in many cases involved the bravery and willpower of the human spirit, and these actions are admirable from the nature of man, but being that, the nature of man, we aknowledge that we all stem from the same thing, and that thing, exists still beyond our scientific unified comprehension.  Man is a warring creature who takes from the violent nature of the very substances which he is created from.  The twisted earth bulging hot inside from the still fresh universe, lit up by the burning light of the sun.  Earthquakes and Hydrogen Dioxide, wind, volcanoes, we live in a violent, turbulent time in the universe.
__I used to not think about things.  I've been watching footage from WWII.  The atom bomb and damages done by the US.  The hand of god dropped down and burnt you up inside and out if you were even close enough to see it.  I think that never in history have so many people been killed at one time.  Should we have bombed North Korea in the Korean War, or now?  Should we bomb Iran?  Is this the problem that constantly faces the American person?  What significance do the moral implications reflect on us as a religious, capitalist, warring system?  Capitalism ensures a fair society, but a hollow society as well.  I don't blame capitalism, I blame greed and the way that power and money make you hollow, what good is there in life when you are on a pedestal and don't have to struggle through the twisted world in which we are forced to exist on?  What choice have I to be spurt forth on a warring planet and laying my hands in what guilt and Hollywood manufactured in my youth and what those warring people bought me to do. 
  I think few of us really have to struggle with the moral implications of mass destruction, but we buy people to do that.  Grown old men, lawyers and families of former politicians, we buy them to make our decisions.  I was bought young to battle in strange lands and would never again offer my soul.  Not with the mysteries of the universe still at large, not with that distrust and distaste still bitter and hot in my throat. 
   Do we live in fear of the next atom bomb?  I'm sure there are still wounds buried deep in foreign soil.  Here we are sweeping up history's ever growing mess.  Albert Einstein helped find the power of god, now we live in fear.  What weapons will the discoverer of the unified theory create?  Will we crash the moon down on the earth in a final assault, is total destruction the only solution?  The mind makes the world the world makes the mind. 


Taught and Twisted Creatures

Little memories of a smaller me flash like old film.  I've always wanted to learn regardless of where I was or what I was doing.  I have big eyes and a big heart and I wanted to know the world from every angle.  Now glowing ghosts in dry eyes are manifestations of a complex sadness.  Everything rubs off on you.  Your DNA learns from everything around you even if you don't notice it.  I think we are always changing and cells always rebuilding, maybe we have gotten out of the grips of nature, either that or nature thrives on chaos, given the chaotic nature of the human.
We are not always analytical, and neither are we focusing all energy on survival.  What makes us love?  Stress and struggle.  Struggle to survive and be, persistence, growth, and care.  No one needs anyone anymore.  So instead we use sex as therapy.  
So we outgrew our bodies and our minds had nowhere to grow.  Now the thick weed of the mind is crying out to the body through migranes, obecity, insomnia, and depression.  It's screaming for more soil with which to root, but physical limitations and the slow nature of evolution leave us dire.  As our technology seems to outgrow us, our minds outgrow our bodies, and thus the current insufferable social-economical and political climates throughout the world.  Racism, genocide, torture, and war.  Nuclear weapons, chemical weapons.  Some people and entire societies are barely out of the caves we lived in 60,000 years ago, while the world grows at an unbelievable rate. 

taught and twisted creatures
fumbling through the night
the vultures and the weasels
got steely eyes alright
if you don't have any ideas
then why do you exist
the part that you just cant start
is the reason for my bliss


showroom of compassion

Empires are risen and destroyed within our sonar shores.  Everyone has a place but I can't seem to find mine.  I see the dark turn of time, and it breaks my inner signals up. It's getting cold landlocked and frozen in past desolations throes.  less temporary than the styrofoam cups, broken down cars and pick-up trucks.  With whiskey and boredom peace can be found in sprawling lines of anonymous ideas written on pages with simple complexity. Develop the self in rage against the system that betrays me, us.  Word is no bond anymore, papers and copies are what spurs the system forward, absent and untrusting as we slip by in the corridors.  Be good, be kind, be interesting.  I've got a soft spot for anything.


I have no eyes beating at the door.

Some want it all.  Some want it more. 
I have no ears, screaming what seem to be words
The American Dream so discouraging.  It hurts.
I have no heart beating rhythmic misconception
I use instinctual perception when searching through the voids.
Incarnation of the soul bewildering scientific mind.
You can clap your hands and stomp your feet to the
charging electrical el train beat, down system,
down the roads to LCD youths in tight clothes
fighting the current inside, while going along for the ride
through corrosion of life in blistering sun
beat down, I feel it, you feel it too
I look into the mirror for hope, every time I stare into my own eyes
I have this intense feeling of knowing exactly what and who I am
i don't think it's quite self realization, as being aware and
contemplating your position as a biological self replicating organism
that beats you down the most.
We are the exhausted generation, upon arrival
we absorb ourselves in replication, mass representation
a mediocre modern exile from Eden.
Some words have weight and power, minds are strong
but being what we are, we cannot comprehend the answer.

beggars delight

    We pass through stores, and wait in lines.  We cycle our tickets, and walk through the turn-style.  Fragments of paper and trash litter the ground as some memory of life and time.  I’m in the world, a part of the world. 
    The tiny strips of DNA trace back to survival.  We are surviving, and doing so much more.  I walk by the guy on the bridge posted on his milk crate.  He laughs at the tourist walking by as they avoid eye contact and shuffle to the furthest side.  “Scared” he says with a smile and shakes his cup a little louder. 
    Fear, I think to myself, is something few people truly know.  Those brushes with the darkness that change our perception forever in the new world are seldom seen.  I feel connected as the street poet tells me about sleeping on the train and how brushing your teeth every couple days is just as good as three times a day.  I feel a connection because at a point I was embracing that feeling on top of a Humvee on the side of a mountain staring at the stars past the brim of a helmet.  At least I knew I would eat.
    It takes a special kind of person to live between the lines of society, a halfway person melting reality, and some foreign dream.  Surviving sleeping above the warm air of the subway grate.  Shaking the cup with the tiny metal discs that mean nothing, or everything.  They deal with being ignored, brushed off, and feeling angry.  From the “heroes” of a nation to the outsiders living on the banks, it’s really all the same.


Business Kid and The Disco Dogs

                               10     Fists To The Earth

   The rhythm of the fire moved to the music coming out of the solar powered FM radio. The beach was nice and the night had a cool darkness.  Smooth like black velvet and looking into it you got to where you felt like you were being swallowed into the ocean.  Peering into the sadness that the depths held for you, except it didn't feel bad, it was an adventure.  That night it felt like a whale had moved into the darkness and some kind of static energy floated off of everything.  We passed cheap wiskey to eachother drawing circles in the sand.  I think I was just trying to float.  Float on with the wavy breaks and hot currents of lifes deeps.  I saw the numbers in your head clearer than you did. It was no trick we both knew.  I lifted the rocks into the air, it was scary.  I was afraid.  But I was amazed, and excited to the point of hyperventilation.  All the stories of people who could do it ended terribly.  For a long time it was our secret.  I wish I could say it still is, but obviously I wouldn't be here writing this now if that was the case.
_____The head person, whom I should not name, has given me this pencil and pad of paper, one envelope and one stamp.  I fear though that this will never reach you. I have been imprisoned the past four years by people whom specialize in abnormalities such as mine.  These people are dangerous and I assume know who you are fully, so please do not attempt to find me, I fear that ill wll may befall you if you do brother. 


Bitter Rich Fool

                                       Part 3.5

                             ****   9   ******  lucky me again

___Brent woke up to a scream in the night.  A howl of some creature disturbed and flitters of burning light outside danced in the windowpane as Brent's dreary mind sprung alive lazily.
"I'll kill everyone of you sons of bitches! Get the law called on me, I'll burn your carcasses and leave the bones for strays!"
 ___ This burst obviously came from Mr. Stevens.  Jill even caught a bit of the rant as she stirred in bed.  Brent went to the window and there was Mr. Stevens in his house coat and boots drinking whiskey from the bottle while holding a burning Maltav cocktail.  Brent could hear the raccoons scatter from the garbage in the back of the house.  Mr. Stevens took a stumbling run and threw the cocktail into a group of retreating animals.  They scurried quickly away and it didn't seem that any were injured.  Brent watched the old man as he collapsed and knelt down on the ground watching the fire burn up scortching the lively lawn and dying out in the cool night.  Brent felt like he understood the man a little more in seeing his sad nature quietly.
____We all die.  It doesn't matter if your worth a million dollars, have a thousand kids, invent the most amazing thing ever, you are expendable. 
____Mr. Stevens stared blankly into the advertising box in his living room.  He rolled around thoughts inspecting loopholes and options. He did this process frequently with no avail.  He eventually forgot what he was doing in the first place.  This kept him sharp, but his information was all mixed up.  He couldn't differentiate reality from fiction.  He didn't know the difference between the truth and fiction, most of which he had made up without  recalling his true meaning.  This left him uneasy and often afraid of everything outside of himself and outside of his control, because with all this time checking facts and separating created meaning from true meaning had robbed him of most organizational ability.  He drove himself mad when deciding on dinner for the evening.  The proper placement of silverware and a thousand thoughts on ettiquite, dining, and entertainment filled his head, beckoning him to make everything perfect.  In reality he was surrounded in a mess.  Yes it was often tidy, but no place of comfort.  He often sat in his room enjoying a book, because the insanity would die down behind the words.  He would often not even absorb what he had read, but just sit there calmly running his eyes over the words and mouthing or humming a slight tune as he did so to balance with the piercing silence of his lonely dark hollow.
___look out

Everyone wants love, yet no one grows flowers

stuck in swirling circiuts of sadness
retelling and retolling the lacking nature
of the beast, am the beast
and legends die

I'm standing lakeside
waiting for the high tide
so I can cast my bottle
and say goodby

anxiety is mistaken for
claustrophobic inside
agoraphobic out
wild wild world so boring day to day today

maybe we will meet today
maybe we did yesterday
or the other week or year
but it's all drowned
and no one has any real fear

I'm not going to settle
or settle down
settle around good things
build something from nothing

not going to draw
or draw from experience
not going to throw violence
anger in bundled fists

not going to carve
or carve myself from some
stone that I've become
I let the wind and water do their job

I'm not going to gaze
hypnotized in stasis
playing DVR for familiar faces
hibernating mind going faster than I would like

body dying from health and hindsight
creaking joints and dislocated spine
flat floor calling
white tiles and the faucet running
i look in the mirror
and ask where is my mind


Hollywood and Washington Stole Your Soul

 Part 3 of Many

Archaic and without substance my thoughts tremble and flutter.  Senses and perceptions becoming strained from overuse is often recurring.  The ground it shakes and breaks away senselessly. Violent cancers storm forth in the bodies of the overworked.  Eyes, oh god, tired eyes rolling and seeing all the same things.

???8???? Out of Gas
____It came to him one day when he was buttering his toast.  That he should do something about the weeds in the front yard.  Something had to be done and that was it.  The riding lawnmower had broken down and was parked semi-permanently sixteen feet from the side of the house.  The weeds now grew over the lawnmower much to the dismay of his neighbor Brent.  Brent's wife had told him it was ridiculous and he really should contact the authorities.  Brent thought to be more reasonable, and despite his wife's pleas wrote a letter for Mr. Walter Stevens, the tenant of the tidy cottage house.  They had shared a beer in the summer, when Mr. Stevens was more jovial.  Since then the relationship had grown more tense and bizarre due to a few nights Mr. Stevens had ran past their dining room window as they were enjoying  dinner.  Now this normally tolerable offense was amplified by the fact that Mr. Stevens was wearing an adult diaper, and only an adult diaper.  To Brent and his wife this seemed like dementia, an old man in his late years losing control.  It was when Mr. Stevens stopped and looked at them from the patio doors very close to where they were seated that it became an offensive act.  Brent started to get up as Mr. Stevens screamed like an infant, spraying spit onto the clean glass.  His hand then reached into the back of the diaper and the old man threw at lump of his own slimy excrement at the window, Brent and his wife both flinched with faces turned in disgust, Mr. Stevens laughed hysterically.  He threw his hands into the air and ran back home.
   ____ Since then Brent and Jill Anderson had spoken with Mr. Stevens brother Mortimer his only surviving relative.  Mortimer was 73 and still a quite bright man.  Brent was watering his lawn when Mortimer arrived in his luxury sedan and began climbing the steps.  Brent waved him over and told him of Mr. Stevens recent turn in behavior.  Mortimer was dumbfounded.  He had visited his brother regularly and had not noticed anything perculiar, and even claimed he did not know his brother to ever wear an adult diaper.  Brent scratched his head in disbelief, Mortimer gave his number and said to call the next time something happened.  Since then Mr. Stevens became a recluse shutting up his windows and throwing trash bags out his back door.  The local cats and raccoons had found a feasting ground.  The Andersons could hear the animals fighting in gluttonous rage every night.  Brent had to start locking their own trash cans after a few nights of being toppled over by what could only be a mutant raccoon the size of a Geo Metro.
____This time Brent called the local authorities to complain about this problem.  An hour later an officer arrived and spoke with Mr. Stevens through a screen door.  Mr. Stevens seemed to be polite.  The officer seemed satisfied as he walked away.  Brent and Jill were pulling the blinds open to see from a window when Mr. Stevens stared directly at them and gave a smirk as he shut the door.
____Country music was playing outside the gas station where Mr. Stevens was standing and filling a gas can next to his car.  He through it in the trunk next to a large bundle of dish rags.  He drove home nearly missing hitting a freakishly large raccoon on the way. 

more to come...