tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1015300932766538972024-03-13T15:16:18.632-05:00Bitter Wine and MefloquineI was born to hustle roses down the avenue of the deadmpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.comBlogger214125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-76005004485503603212012-11-26T03:53:00.000-06:002012-11-26T03:53:25.766-06:00plight of the onionlight in the gutter and garbage in the living room. Xanax in the water and ground fat streaming through. You can't wash filth off with a rag. The slime that comes through with that twinkling sky in the background and hums of fans and glowing tubes persecute. Sodium in the belfry.
One day I will say there were men who told me everything I knew but only I could teach myself to do. One day this note will disappear into nothingness unlike the nothingness in notes kept from more important men than me. The trailblazers who burnt their way through the shit and the scum while I waded on the surface. Its a sad thing about death, going under, unable to flap out the little waves that shake the boats and move the roots.
Everything gold is so because of us coming together, that beautiful stone and many beautiful things lay waste to those that could come, whose beauty is being untouched. All that is has been touched. Soon there will be no hunters left, soon the mad men in the slaughter houses wont feel the pain anymore, as if they do now. Soon the whores on main street will be elevated to goddesses and the bee keepers out of jobs. They will be growing edible slime on chicken wire in laboratories, not quite the soilent dream we fear, but we already live that dream. All things are created equal, die equally as well. Even the plants succumb to the maker.
Don't give up, but why even try.mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-84531463467002903302012-10-02T03:17:00.000-05:002012-10-02T03:17:01.063-05:00evening triggersit at home and watch the shows<br />
detest deceptive foes<br />
villainy is right here and over there<br />
I've seen the world, oh I know<br />
I've seen it all through the glass windows<br />
seen fires in barrels in places unknown<br />
felt cold and tasted snow<br />
<br />
blistered feet broken radio<br />
nowhere idiots can go on and on and on and on<br />
some days we make martyrs of ourselves<br />
pay for our own punishment<br />
<br />
go from house to house talking down about<br />
talking out about going out while you are out<br />
at the party bar getting your drinks at your party bar<br />
aren't we feeling special in our urbanwear<br />
a belt to match the shoes so debonnaire<br />
chemically altered hair, modified<br />
saying things in quantity not quality<br />
spitting mimicking triggering slithering<br />
bottom feed, bashing everything<br />
to pull the strings that make the things<br />
so interesting<br />
<br />
there's no rest for me<br />
a stranger among the strange<br />
tired ass and bitching fingers<br />
bursting nothing from inside of me<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-8726164898623585782012-09-11T10:56:00.000-05:002012-09-11T10:56:16.150-05:00honorable fallSome days its the chill in the air<br />
its the syrupy liquid consumed<br />
its the smoke inhaled<br />
the shit shit out<br />
dying on the inside<br />
the testicles the ass<br />
the achy back<br />
the broken down car<br />
the last cigarettes<br />
the change swirling in a cup<br />
its the hope<br />
its the cancer<br />
its the lonesome dust<br />
a field with no farmer<br />
the browned corn stalks<br />
flittering, dead<br />
their bounty, livelihood defeated<br />
its the swirls in the bright sky<br />
tiny creatures and blood vessels in my eyes<br />
today it is the trash<br />
next week is the food<br />
its the shows on television<br />
lines on the radio<br />
bickering people<br />
all drunk on their own ideas<br />
I'm drunk on a floor<br />
a couch<br />
in a bed or in a tent<br />
it doesn't matter where as long as it isn't Afghanistan<br />
its a yellow ribbon<br />
its a purple heart<br />
its time to forgive and forget<br />
to onwardly walk<br />
honorably fall<br />
<br />mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-3672931739147068072012-06-07T04:18:00.000-05:002012-06-07T04:18:42.481-05:00the taste of the unknownI remember when you were wild. Your eyes dark and light seeing into every movement, picking up on every tone whether planned or not. You came in comfort only to find no comfort to own.<br />
It was all a dream when you called and came in a funny red dress. I was garbage, and am still. You were a soft, smart, rugged piece of human, carved wih beauty and pain, thats what you gave off.<br />
Its taken 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style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">blame it on the flies at the door all day</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">waiting to get out, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> and when its opened they cling to the glass</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">all they see is freedom </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">but are too terrified or stupid to move</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">a letter from a postman</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">those same bills I had from before</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">these same shoes rubbing holes through</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">these same undershorts ripped to shreds balls exposed</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">that lottery ticket that went missing from the glovebox</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">those naked girls in shiny clothes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">run down eyes and teeth ground down</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">those fresh faces too young corrupt</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">this computer that barely runs does what it wants</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">shows what it wants</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">on a good day we sweat out our demons</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">on a bad we tear up at nothing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">get a fix to fix the unfixable </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">stop at the lights, drive on</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> you're insured sure you are</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">casualties mount and they aren't your friends</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">you only think of the past when the sun isn't up</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">guessing is for fools</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">the sure thing is the thing that counts</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">but don't count the crowd</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">the lonely and normal</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">the breathing lung and the pumping veins</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">don't underestimate reputation or green things</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">they give life and they kill</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">all the time in the world won't give you this time back</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">so make sense, or don't make sense </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">tis the question in the quest</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">not six days and a day of rest</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">but arrested feel, whether its your need to wheel, deal or steal, break, hate or just sit and wait</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm not the only one afraid of suspense</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">its sick shallow dirty ways</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">the eyes may see but darkness evaporates eventually</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">and the face that was seeking is the face you are seeing </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">momentum is continually dipping and slipping through gears, through the cheers, through connectivity to de-sensitivity</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">the dark side of the night, was the real dark side of the moon, darkest before sunrise and sweating </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">minds a balloon</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">time's a saloon </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">damn I keep running out of room to move</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-28571324615294008682012-01-18T22:51:00.000-06:002012-01-18T22:51:56.482-06:00the brain of the crain pt 3<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b> Living A Real Life</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b> Dr. Stiller loved neuroscience. He handled the matter very seriously. He planned every step of his research. He also handled all sensitive equipment and research material himself. Every night before he left the lab he would personally inspect each brain. Once a month he would change the blood tubes himself. It was a waking nightmare of his that someone else would be the fault in his experiments. He must know every step himself and the easiest way for him to do that was to do it himself. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b> Technically he was what might be considered as their father, and he treated each with that inspiration in mind. He had nurtured them since creation and had taught them things as they grew, as if each were really a child. Some nights, he would just stand and stare into the room. The glass barrier between him and his children as the slept and dreamed electromagnetic dreams. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b> If Stiller was the father then Niri Usala was the mother. Niri was the cognitive scientist and had a superior understanding of the mind. She was top of her class at MIT, and was an active member in the cogsci club. There were six members, all of which she was still friends with today. They were her family and the reason she got her PhD.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b> Now this was her family. Six brains and an antisocial coworker who fogged up the glass standing there looking at the unreal objects floating in synthetic amniotic fluid. Blood pumping in and out through smooth grafted tubes. Computer screens filled the walls, showing constant scans and data being collected at that moment. A giant screen in the middle displayed the vital signs, minus a heart beat. The blood is constantly flowing through the veins and capillaries giving the brains life. They had to use human blood, the staff gave twice a week. Their checks were a little larger for it, but for some it was worth it to be a part of this experiment physically. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b> Stiller looked like he was giving a quart a day. His cheeks were sunken in and his skin a pale white. Niri was just happy that he cleaned himself and everything around him meticulously. It kept him busy around the lab and it was better than watching him stand there dreaming about god knows what. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b> </b></span>mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-45616737070666696732012-01-05T21:16:00.000-06:002012-01-05T21:16:50.513-06:00the brain of the crain pt 2 They called him Crain. Crackheads in the park called him C-rain. Each time they say it with the same vigor they had when they started. They were smoking cigarettes, pockets full of change on their way to a CoinStar machine, because no dealer wants to mess with change. That would be a fruitless trip, but with that hard in hand they can make it the night. Crain weaved back and forth through crowds. Hipsters on bicycles wearing their bicycle shorts disgusted him. He couldn't understand how they would willingly dress up like that when they have the afternoon off. The crowds of tourists slid by, like a fish going upstream he hobbled and hopped his way around people in wheelchairs and kids in strollers.<br />
It started going bad when he felt like he was the center of attention for a moment. He started finding a rhythm with his movement and started making his "excuse me"'s and "pardons" go in time with his movements. He started adding in well coordinated and efficient and well timed movements. Past the ladies walking their dogs and by the old people with groceries he whirled and spun. He felt theatrical. People started noticing him coming and couldn't conceal their smiles. He picked a flower from the courthouse planters, he skipped forward whirling around a blue flower in the air like a love-sick madman. He saw a pretty girl as he was spinning and handed her the flower, she hesitated, still walking forward trying not to smile. She slowed to a stop and he placed the flower on the ground in front of her and said "pardon me", and gave a smile. He jumped up, spun around and started strutting forward shaking his body side to side with enthusiasm.<br />
People had stopped and started watching this man in a dirty coat, holey gloves, with ragged hair and a dirty face. Some people speculated he had just won the lottery. As he approached a fountain he jumped onto the ledge and drank from the angel that was spitting into the shell where he stood. He spit the water into the air above his face and let it spill back onto him. He let out a yell. "YEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHH"<br />
Everyone looked at him and backed away. He made a face at a little girl and she almost cried immediately. Luckily he was at the liquor store and spun inside leaving his spectators behind, knowing he was stopping in just the kind of place they thought he might be dancing off to. He bought a bottle with crisp bills.<br />
* * *<br />
"Two-hundred fuckin' dollars per page she said"<br />
Crain was talking to an older man. The two looked like they could be brothers. Sitting together you could see the other man had years in his eyes beyond that of a lot of men. He would be the father to every man he met. It wasn't just a show, the man had seen the road. He had seen generations of road, of the country, of the people in the world. He had no new left inside of him. He might get red faced if he ever had a 5 star treatment. <br />
"you have hundreds of those papers, how many could she want?" the man replied.mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-43289007673962727752012-01-01T00:32:00.000-06:002012-01-01T00:32:16.873-06:00brain of the crane pt1 The bank account was empty. Every day he would check. Each time disappointment. He thought that by some misfortune of the banks he would suddenly see his available balance rise. He was implementing the power of positive thinking. He bought lottery tickets with the same mindset. The account never rose. The winnings never outweighed the loss.<br />
<i>When will the gods decide to bless my digital holdings? </i>Not always exactly, but often enough these were his thoughts. When he got home at night, he would repeat his mantra over and over in his head, sometimes even mouthing the words aloud. <i>Gods of chance and change, shine good fortune onto me.</i><br />
He was never religious. He came from a family of half-assed protestants. Not that they could rightfully distinguish any of the facets of Christianity, but it seemed the easiest for them to say. No, and he was not aware of any true gods of chance and change, but he placed a faulty mental note to check at the library next time he was there putting in applications on the state employment services website. This faulty mental note went into a pile of other seemingly useless ideas that rarely got shuffled in his mind. Memories are a tough thing to perfect, sometimes it is hard to even remember ones name.<br />
The bottle of whiskey was easy to open, easy to empty, but sometimes too difficult to refill. He had given up on chasers all together. He never thought he would be the man drinking whiskey straight from the bottle on a park bench on the outskirts of the city. He remembered a time when alcohol would make him cringe as he sipped it, now it went down the gullet with the ease of fresh water. With those watery gulps, the current situations often warmed his stomach and dissipated throughout his body.<br />
In the mornings he would wake up with a dry mouth that tasted like the last drink and smokes of the night. He often found the ground around him littered with paper. Torn newspaper, notebook sheets, sheet music all scattered in no organized pattern. On each of them were small black frowning faces. Circle, dot, dot, semi-circle. Upon his first morning after examination he was surprised to find them. Drawn with no set pattern, some almost perfect circles, and others like amoebic blobs. He didn't remember drawing one of them.<br />
He would shake off the cold this morning and find more, the papers were getting unmanageable, but he couldn't bare to throw them out. Sometimes the few hours of sobriety in the morning were the only true moments he was himself. Newly optimistic, hungry, and searching. It was funny for him to think about searching. It seemed such a subjective term. Weren't we all searching from our nature, evolutionary pattern. You must always be seeking, creating, dying all at the same time. He didn't think there was much difference between searching the cracks in the ceiling, and searching for a place in life. The crack searching was the more tangible, the visible, the exposed and obvious. It was all of the existential, philosophical, and endless searching that seemed the unnecessary evil.<br />
He was searching through the black faces one morning on a bus ride to the First Presbyterian food pantry when she sat next to him. When a lady in a yellow pea coat came on the bus he didn't notice. He did notice that he hadn't been noticing lately. He remembered when a nice set of legs would drive him mad. He had not grown bitter or conscious of his transition, he seemed to just slowly slump away from the instincts he was born with, and did not find it a tragedy. The woman sat next to him, even though there were many open seats which she could have chose that didn't involve sitting next to the man with the ragged face and dirty fingernails reading old sheet music (which happened to be smeared with frowny faces).<br />
When she sat down her shirt rose up to mid-thigh. She had black stalkings on and he could see the edge where the garter met the nylon. He couldn't look at her face now, now that he had seen something intimate. He wanted to look at her face dearly, but in some form of shame he turned his eyes back to his paper. He couldn't look though. He kept seeing her leg in the corner of his eye and the mystery built. He saw the woman walking in his head. He could make out her movements, see her from the side with her shining handbag and expensive shoes. He could not put a face on her, he tried. He tried because he thought if he gave her a face his temptation to look up would defuse. This tactic did not work. Looking at the paper he began chanting his mantra.<br />
"Excuse me?"<br />
He heard the voice clearly. It came from the woman. The leg seemed to gesture for him to look up. He could feel the sweat bleeding from his hands into the paper. He wouldn't be surprised if the ink soaked into his hands. He wanted to look up. Fighting himself, his instinct and seemingly the universe, his head turned upward to where the sound came from.<br />
<br />
To be continued...<br />
mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-14938668285734319762011-09-04T01:16:00.000-05:002011-09-04T01:16:18.298-05:00a class of idiotall our heads are filled with the same words<br />
each as drab and burning as the next<br />
its a miracle that we push forward<br />
each with different colored shoes,<br />
but all still protecting our feet<br />
the thinking man gathers much moss<br />
he slumps down in chairs<br />
consumes the world with sad stares<br />
joins in chorus when one is needed<br />
monsters inside each<br />
feeding<br />
oh well the diatribe of the demented<br />
falls on ignoring ears<br />
the symphony, the melody forgotten<br />
replaced with malady, malignancy<br />
broken bottles and empty cans<br />
litter the streets and invade<br />
on the hoping spirits of weak<br />
Will I wreak havoc on wandering hearts<br />
which slash tires with little thought<br />
a beginning of an ending a miracle<br />
and a loss<br />
spin the wheel ride the ride<br />
shut up and sit downmpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-46835246403427302452011-09-01T18:38:00.000-05:002011-09-01T18:38:16.675-05:00crying does nothingIt isn't entropy that kills a man, it is thought. Mine come down like a hammer on my spine and store that pain in my back and legs. It's deep inside. A blackened sickness, tiredness from futility. Working for nothing, not being able to be loved or love at all. Losing senses slowly, painfully taking steps toward another fantastic nothing, waiting for the winds of change, but change comes from within and my within in jammed with all that before. One day we all die and fill up those graves, that earth, returned to the stink the stench we trudged through just to get this far. Just to find a wink of compassion from a nurse or a doctor in charge, just to find ourselves but that never happens because we are nothing, everything is nothing and nothing is disgusting.mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-7904571071319111512011-08-16T15:35:00.000-05:002011-08-16T15:35:49.450-05:00Birth of GeniusIt should be a god damned national holiday. The bureaucrats surely wouldn't understand. 91 years ago today Hank Bukowski was spit into this world, and I am thankful for it. I am drinking cheap beer and day dreaming about my own life as an avant garde crude manipulator of line, verse, idea, philosophy. One thing Bukowski said that will always produce veins in my consciousness was, " I'm the hero of my own shit" Exactly what I should strive for, because in my mind I am the hero, never the villain. I made mistakes but most heroes do. If I had more money in the wallet or in the bank than negative I would but bottles of cheap red wine and brandy to give to the homeless and down people of my city. I have no place in the world, but that is ok because Hank didn't either. Cheers.mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-80594356648472078482011-06-18T05:20:00.000-05:002011-06-18T05:20:37.918-05:00how to dismantle things that are working finelife is misery<br />
and each time you think<br />
"well there was a small victory"<br />
a thousand other souls<br />
are being tortured<br />
by just being<br />
just thinking<br />
we are taught<br />
to be blind<br />
to the weakness of others<br />
that the unbathed<br />
truly stink<br />
that smell<br />
is<br />
your<br />
guilt<br />
of being human<br />
the odor of mankind<br />
punishing eachother<br />
crammed<br />
into spaces<br />
individuals<br />
seperate<br />
fat<br />
happy<br />
from life<br />
and liberty<br />
<br />
<br />
wain moon<br />
wain<br />
next revolution<br />
lift me<br />
as you pull<br />
on earths<br />
jagged facempinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-39215955679885032152011-06-18T05:04:00.000-05:002011-06-18T05:04:48.278-05:00at the momentcurses<br />
run<br />
deep<br />
I don't know<br />
what<br />
my ancestors<br />
did<br />
<br />
luck<br />
sticks<br />
i<br />
must be<br />
teflon<br />
<br />
empty<br />
glasses<br />
are<br />
all I<br />
seempinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-49533537623453755612011-06-17T05:39:00.000-05:002011-06-17T05:39:33.610-05:00strange beingsShe turned her back to me and fell asleep after I told her a story that she had already known. Maybe she didn't notice my inaccuracies and fumbling mixes of similar tales. I laid there for an hour and wept some to myself, and as the sadness seeped inside of me. I knew I wouldn't sleep that night. I got up and thought she might notice me stirring, but as I put my clothes on and shoes she didn't move. I got close and kissed her on the cheek. That was the last kiss we had together. I called a cab and it seemed to take hours sitting in the cold on the steps in front of her apartment building. The driver let me be silent as he drove me to the train station. I sat on the L dazed and weary, thinking of what a night it had been. My ears were still ringing from the concert, and although it was amazing there was no excitement left for me. Soon enough I was close to home and departed. I strolled up the street to a worn down tavern where there were a few other night wanderers wallowing and cherishing in their drink. I sat to myself and passed little conversation with the people who knew me. I drank although my stomach was burning. When the last strings of my desperation were vibrating a friend walked into the liquor purchasing window. He grabbed me and we went to the cab outside that was waiting with other drunk and not ready to end things.<br />
We got to his place and we drank more and talked, there was a strange girl dancing and other fellows going on about various things. My friend had recently taken up a young girl in need of a place to stay, she was quiet and unappealing. The apartment was small and messy, I grabbed the computer and started playing music that I had seen earlier in the evening. I was distressed and couldn't go home yet, we got the energy and went for breakfast. I was still sober somehow but my two friends were drunk and disorderly. The man at the counter knew me as a good and regular customer so he was polite and let us roll through with our pancakes and eggs. They told me the female roommate was schizophrenic and would eventually be a problem for him. He was a drunk and fighting his own demons anyway. We said our goodbyes and when I laid down for bed when the sun was coming up, people were working and bustling through the streets. She messaged me angrily, I fought back with tired animosity. I pushed it until it broke. I slept terribly for the next week. I have yet to see her. No longer my lover, and will probably never be. But those mad fellows, the wild, the drunks, they are the ones who went to bed happy, and are probably bedding down for the night as I speak, hazy and used to disappointment, unbothered, unfettered by the sadness of living. Happy with the madness they provide, and in no need of the sort of affection I so desperately seek. Here I am again, weak and awake listening to Brahms notes playing dramatically as the sun rises and the disabled next door are about to wake and open up the doors to live and breathe. I know they are old, or dying, or too insane to care about anything, and it does not feel any better that some may be even more alone than me. I have compassion for them though, and my mad friends. Oh what a strange thing it is to be a human being.mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-1699285982010759072011-06-17T04:15:00.000-05:002011-06-17T04:15:05.368-05:00diggital shoestring theorytechnology is stripping me of my humanity<br />
I am too bored and entertained<br />
lulled to sleep with music or readings from the greats<br />
i'm struggling with death and life<br />
i'm burdened by being awake<br />
not being able to defend myself against passive aggression<br />
that in so many forms hits my face<br />
and real aggression that is random and commonplace<br />
I should get the muscles working so I no longer atrophy<br />
maybe I should stare at the sun or get struck by lightning<br />
in hopes that blindness or electricity revive me<br />
so that songs will play deep in my brain<br />
so i will have more songs to sing<br />
when they take me to the madhouse, the hospital, the prison<br />
and you will have songs to sing <br />
when the grave digger's machine buries mempinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-50688659260877659102011-06-16T03:45:00.000-05:002011-06-16T03:45:33.048-05:00justI am pathetic. I should have died on that fucking mountain. I should have pulled the trigger with that barrel in my mouth. I should have taken that RPG in my god damn chest so I wouldn't have to deal with this world anymore. I should have kissed my family goodbye and died on the fields of war. I should have been a fucking hero so I wouldn't have to think about this shit anymore. I should be the one with cancer, I should be the one old and bitter, torn and full of scorn.I should have been born more handsome with more silver spoons in mouth, I should have worked so much harder and should have been more sickened by being poor. I should have started a bar fight that ended in me getting cut up and bleeding on the floor. I shouldn't be here, there is nothing I add to the world, there is no one I am for. I should fall asleep and not wake up because waking is such a chore. I should shut up because no one listens, because no one is there anymore. I should end this path of sorrow that bleeds from my core. I should look in different places, but those places arent my own, I should just stop breathing and hope there is no more.mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-89009213810433110992011-06-15T20:24:00.000-05:002011-06-15T20:24:28.131-05:00today I started to care about privacyLet me start off by saying that I am just an average computer user. I am a designer and I work with loads of programs, but I am by no means a technology expert or anything. As of late I have been interested in the activity and actions of the group who call themselves "Anonymous". While looking through information around the interwebs I came across this little article on security and remaining anonymous. <a href="http://pastehtml.com/view/1dzvxhl.html">http://pastehtml.com/view/1dzvxhl.html </a>. Now I highly suggest that you download the firefox apps provided in the report, to stop being tracked by unknown people. It has sped my internet speed up dramatically, and I get to see every little company trying to track my information and it is a little scary.<br />
A few weeks ago my amazon.com account was accessed and some purchases were made, and the only thing amazon had to say was that I must have given my sensitive information out to some 3rd party or something. I have had an account for several years and I don't give out info, and never had this happen before. This made me rethink how I felt about my internet security. I used to feel that maybe it wasn't so bad that people track you, see what interests you, and what you like. Maybe then there would be more things available in the future that were brought to being simply by being me. I'm starting to feel that this is over the top, the amount of information that is unknowingly stored within our own computers. So my suggestion is to fight back a little, against big corporations and agencies by not letting them freely use our own thoughts and feelings against us in advertising, marketing, and messaging.mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-51864212982692578972011-06-15T07:02:00.000-05:002011-06-15T07:02:54.913-05:00check pleaseWhen I came back home from the Army I was married to a girl that I had known since I was fifteen. We were married before I went to Afghanistan. She was battling a lot of madness. Both of us were traumatic messes, only I believe she had given up on herself. She wasn't a wife or a companion. She took care of her pets, watched television and did a lot of drugs. I wasn't much better but I was trying much harder. I had found a good job running a kitchen downtown, and I made ice sculptures on the side. I would sit in a grimy room in the basement for hours chiseling and creating. She hated it and wouldn't leave me alone for a minute. She became very possessive and I was losing hope for life. She insisted that I had some girl at my job, when in reality I was having such a hard time just coming back to the world that I couldn't even consider adding more complexity to my emotional state. Also being alone in the world for those long months had tempered me, and made me much more used to being by myself. A lot of months not wanting to get killed, and a few nights where I came close to ending myself had changed me. I was becoming repulsed with my wife and my life. One day when I got off of work I knew that she was probably just getting up and I couldn't be a part of her life anymore. I went to a friends house and stayed on the couch. I turned my phone off and thought about the past few years of my life. I had no fear of cutting that connection, or any connection to anyone. I felt as though I may never love anyone ever again. It wasn't painful. It should have been but it wasn't. Almost every relationship I have had since then has been painful.<br />
It is strange in retrospect how I could have been so courageous then, to go into the future with a large degree of uncertainty and face it with confidence in myself and my actions. I wish I could have bottled some of that energy and saved it for days like these. Days where your dreams seem to be all but gone, and the smell of reality is disheartening. Days when no one calls, or writes and your eyes are dry from staring at a screen, when your back hurts from sitting and doing nothing and being fine with it. Days when you want a drink but your stomach might bleed if you do. Days when you wake up to storms and rain, to a life you don't even seem to lead. In the same places doing the same things all over again. Days when your once strong patience is now dwindling. When you are afraid of the world because you owe it so many god damned things. Days when faith never seemed to exist anyway, that so many things are just words and the true meanings were lost when we all stopped thinking so deeply. Now our thoughts are wide and encompass everything, at least mine do. I can't help but contemplate our existence methodically. From quarks and bosons, to the taste of tea. I don't know if its my mind that needs to change, or the world around me.<br />
I feel some nostalgia for America, I love it. I feel like it is being corrupted though. I feel we are all getting weak. What can we do without a phone, or a computer, a link or a tweet, without bicycles, cars, fast food, or tv? I'm too obsessed with information and technology, and I don't even have an i-phone or i-pad. I want to harness the heart of a revolutionary, and change the way we all think and believe. The first step is to make an attempt to be more compassionate, a more difficult thing than I initially believed. It's hard when you are bitter and disappointed with events and situations in your life. When you are unhappy scaling the ladders of social and career success. When all the food tastes bland and all those girls you loved are gone. When the wine tastes heavy and feels like spicy blood in your stomach but you drink your bitter drink to wash down the delights and disasters we each face every day.<br />
Here is to compassion, may I acquire much more someday.mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-78802056507719793532011-06-15T06:23:00.000-05:002011-06-15T06:23:43.937-05:00sheridan stop bluesI couldn't take the silence of my trashed room. I bellyached to the others and went out for a drink. My stomach turned and I knew I would be sick anyway. I get to the bar and have a seat with a few of my friends. It's karaoke night and the place looked like it was missing it's life juice. Most of the people there were gay and I knew the girls weren't interested in me. I tied one off and lost count after a few shots. The lady kindly called me up and from my drunken quietness my voice roared and I did some soul man a little justice. There was a beautiful waitress with ripped up stalkings, too beautiful, and too cool to notice my eyes. She got up and sang, her voice was just right and I was jealous, down, because she had a man, and I didn't like my odds.<br />
Pretty soon they rush us out into the streets and like fighting lions we roared into another place. I sat with a drink as the boys and girls I knew chuckled through the small crowd at a dying hole in the wall. My friend called me over to talk to a few girls, and we started walking them home. The girl I was with kissed me a little but seemed more interested in what the other two were up to. I sat on a curb with a cigarette and let them walk away. I was drunk and lost in the city. The rest of my friends had already taken off and stopped to talk to a girl carrying a lunchbox with a picture of a raw steak on it. She was cute and friendly, I got directions and stumbled off to find a train to send me back to that trashy room by the lake. <br />
Time flies when you are losing yourself. In another week I will likely forget most of this and have more stories to tell. I am a writer. Although it may be only for the few people who actually read what I write. A lot of it is crap and I'm sorry for that, but for every hundred terrible poems or manic expressions of my feelings that my heart and mind vomit out into these keys there is one that might make you happy, even for a second. Or for every thousand stupid lines or rhymes there will be one that gets you. I'm trying to whittle down myself so I can create something unique, that didn't come from being told what I should write, or what is right to write. Huzzah.mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-58837237432813084602011-06-09T08:52:00.000-05:002011-06-09T08:52:21.897-05:00open water IVthe beautiful are the lucky ones<br />
sometimes the world will kneel for lovely eyes<br />
<br />
the ones that want love go searching around and can't find it, getting burnt up<br />
the ones that don't want it have to sweep it out in the morning, get their coffee and doughnut<br />
the ones who should live get sent to die, and the dead can't speak their wisdom<br />
the oafs, users, masquerade behind the artists renditions making everyone suck our souls through plastic straws<br />
i didn't wake up and dislike the world, it has been against me from the start<br />
I always had love though. A good family, good friends.<br />
I've been upset, crushed, used like a man who had something to begin with.<br />
As soon as I could stand I could dance, and i could joke, and make my family laugh. I used to draw pictures for my grandmother. I made ant people who looked like the crew of the original starship enterprise. I miss a family. I should have my own by now I think. I should have love and happiness. I see people from my past, people who I never had any real respect for, and I see them happy and in love, making babies, building that family up. I feel lost and lonely. I've lost my enthuisiasm. What is life for god? Is it to make art for some corporation that thinks I'm only worth what a budget allows, what a people are happy to consume? Is it to find some niche in hollywood and get stuck in those insufferable circles of social exclusion and polarized egos? I can't waste away, but I'm not sure I can be happy with those things. I'm not sure I can be happy without finding a real reason to live. I like to write, not usually like this, i'm more coded or angry usually but now I'm feeling more contemplative. I made some mistakes, my heart is sore, I maybe made some good choices though. I feel like I've been walked on a lot in my life, and I let it happen, no one else, if anything others warned me. I feel like I'm at a place where I should be demanding, at least changing my passive ways which never work out anyway. I am setting fires all over the place though, my heart is tired and my tongue burns with a thousand unsaid words and I probably hurt someone I really started to love. I gave up, because saying nothing wasn't enough. I value morals, and compassion. I can't help but constantly analyze and imagine myself in the other shoe, but being a man and a man hopefully of virtue, I couldn't see through a closed door. What can we know of the inside of a room we've never been in, except that it could be scary, and maybe we've seen a room like this before, and every room with this style of trim and doorknob reminds you of being held up tight, and abused and then thrown to the sharks.mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-81885774429549762512011-06-08T17:21:00.000-05:002011-06-08T17:21:26.035-05:00could you be loathedshe squeezes sheet and likes what he does right<br />
he closes his eyes and still holds her image in mind<br />
she walks fast or rides a bike<br />
he takes his time<br />
she holds an arm, kisses necks or ears<br />
he holds a memory, kisses a dream goodbye<br />
she's got summer in a clutch, short skirt day dream love<br />
he's an enemy to the world, head down curled up<br />
she's armored, holding onto nothing like a diligent off-duty security truck<br />
he's exposed to the elements, susceptible to the little paper cuts that add up<br />
she wants to be open for something<br />
he wants to be closed and sewn shut<br />
she is on the road, on a boat, on a beach in the sun<br />
he is on the low, a no show, burnt up<br />
there is little difference between a bullet and a gun<br />
between the good one and the wrong one<br />
she holds the pillows close as if she weren't alone<br />
he fades away because he knows he is the only one<br />
<br />
the sun was on their bodies, fed well and undernourished soul<br />
complex castaways stirring ponds of home making memories<br />
setting a tent and building a fire on the shore<br />
there are others with torches, with fires burning into the night<br />
empty boats where shadows float across the line<br />
they cinder and sink to the bottom where death lies<br />
the dreams that come aren't any good<br />
they are heartache and with them rides anger on a drunken horse<br />
rippled on top, the face of loss and hurt shimmers in moonlight<br />
oh there are places to be and successes to breathe, sadnesses to bleed<br />
hungry sores seeking more and more<br />
this one is the best one, the first one that feels like something, like anything other than all the things it has been being, this one feels like comfort and cool drinks and songs to sing, this one is an easy chair cozy and feeding, this one is a trip across the world seeing high things and low ravines, forests and galleries, this one is so much of everything, and empty and receding, disheartening and collapsing, this one is addressing all the wrong things, remembering the cold and bitter beliefs, embracing the invisible breeze, soul opening, expressing, missing the point of being, paint a painting and build a plaything, ignore, ignorance just don't say anything, young, fun, out to get it, get it baby, bet it lady, pray that all your energy isn't just wasting, pretend that you're reading everything you need<br />
so that these awful words, these truths and feelings can just burn out when I'm done impeding<br />
obstructing, we were just fucking, lucky that it was just that one thing, imagine if you were lovingmpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-37668589439840151292011-06-07T00:13:00.000-05:002011-06-07T00:13:13.541-05:00i am disaster<br />
stumbling down the street<br />
wrapped up in cables and wires<br />
dragging the electronics and broken instruments<br />
still babbling<br />
old bitter heart<br />
seeking torment<br />
pushing out warmth<br />
<br />
i am a storm<br />
i change with the tide<br />
moon on my side<br />
raining down on you and trying to catch you right<br />
between enough<br />
beyond too far<br />
as most emergencies arempinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-82915267319701125482011-05-26T15:00:00.000-05:002011-05-26T15:00:19.825-05:00spoonful of chlorinei'm not asking for your heart in a paper bag, nor ball and chain for you to wear around like a prisoner. i've spent time on the outskirts of time, where the days go slow and all you can do is watch dust settle on your lonely bones. I've painted pictures, written symphonies, and told stories never heard before inside my head on the borders between nothing and even more. i still remember hanging chemical lights at dusk, to make us see so that when death comes thrashing we were not all blind. now i am a light. i shine bright and stand tall with a damaged backbone. the pain washes in and out. the sadness always leaves eventually. im counting my fingers every day happy they are still there and I can read, ride a bike, or listen to your voice. i've been stepped on and stepped over since, washed and rinsed, hung to dry tear stained and not knowing why i try. i've been fed well and starved, degraded and pried apart, changed and rearranged and I still have empathy, drive and somehow a loving ability. the leaves have gotten green again and we find ourselves at winters end, the world of opportunity for the young and without love, as we stream through the world searching for substance and fun. i can't help but feel not up to par at the moment. I cant help but feel that the world pulls at the strings that it knows will hurt me. bleeding for the god's enjoyment, making me hate the things I cannot change and escaping the grasps of the throes of love because I want what I can't have, and what i do have is breaking me. i don't need anything, i'm built to last, my line is cast and quickly sinking, always hoping words i'm sending will redeem me for being forward and fleeting. it's so fucking cold here, like most places I have been, like those hearts i have seen and held and tried to warm up to me. can't be happy because I am not worthy. i can't find love because love no longer wants me. i can't change minds because mine is collapsing under pressure, i've got an unbreakable chain between emotion and pleasure that makes me treasure you, makes me want to see something through, for once, for joy, for my own well being. i don't want your ship to just skim by and go missing. i don't want to lose my minds pictures of laughing and kissing, as i move forward you are distancing, and no one is witnessing because no one knows you even mean anything to me, because no one knows we have anything. as you cheers, or kiss, as you drink life from your single serving cup get drunk and live it up, because you know you can find love, will find love, will be something to someone, and god I wish that someone was me.mpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-30478367757615932402011-05-20T14:29:00.000-05:002011-05-20T14:29:57.442-05:00Everything we say is theoretical and subject to disectionMan was at first trained and conditioned by nature. It was the rise of communication that allowed my species to assimilate the world around and therefore begin to speculate in a verbal way the experience of living. Each of us carries a torch inside of us, our only duty is to keep the fire burning and survive the violent storms that fling our fellow beings into the abyss. We may try and save the ones we can, many are part of that unknown force that helps to send these beings on that journey into the unknown. Speculation surrounding that unknown ranges far and wide, to unseen and unheard beings, forces that guide existence in some way. Without concrete, programmed, or divine guidance it is difficult to find hopes for some similar existence when our matter is returned once again to the cycles of the universe. Or to hear the calls of the gods within ourselves to become what is meant for you. Most fall short in accurately describing the true reason for existence.<br />
As we rose, in recent history, into an age of consumption and assimilation I see no definite or great future for this world. I am sorry for all war waged until now. Every death and moment of solitude, confinement, or second of pain, fear of everything, loss of friends, family, and men and women of inspiration. I am sorry for the pollution, the corruption, and the ability for like minds to be subdued and broken down by the destructive forces that gain in numbers and power everyday. Entropy increases with time, and Klimpt once said "To be truly great you must live outside of time". It is difficult to do so, when you stand back and see the "powerful" (monetarily and politically usually) subject the major population to exclusion through corporatization of resources. Options for living and keeping the torch burning are not designed with the worker in mind but the production and consumption of said resources. When someone spends their entire life building a life and burning a torch through the lavish consumption of goods by their peers and fellow beings, is it possible to maintain a respect for existing, or gain some better insight on existence that is not merely attributed to the decay of the mind (not to say that our minds are always sound). When I thought of this, I thought of the first inhabitants of this country, the men and women who were tangled in wars of ideas and opportunities. If they were here today after giving their lives, and sometimes everything they have, their children, would they look upon us and say "these are my descendants and they fought for a right and just world consistently", will I say that in a hundred years after I had fought in Afghanistan? When I see and hear of the darkest this world has to offer, I have heard the calls of the revolutionaries and none seem in noble positions for an enlightened being, there are few great men and we may never see many because of the exclusion of image and information. <br />
There are no banks in the abyssmpinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101530093276653897.post-66020373809970878772011-04-06T06:05:00.000-05:002011-04-06T06:05:12.357-05:00what do you go home toi am a shadow on a cave wall<br />
i am a dog at the door hungry for the bell<br />
i give up and get down<br />
wake in time for nothing<br />
this cold stint I'm doing here is getting inside<br />
the cell is getting smaller every day. i hope. i eat. struggle with fears, doubt, and other peoples emotions. it's a spiral into space where it gets harder to breathe. the gods are closer there<br />
we are turning into something sterile, my heart cant take it anymore<br />
when i grow, i gallop, seeking future events like a lost and lonely lion of the night<br />
when i die the earth sits still as i drift. looking back at the ripples I see the trail i have waded , the carnage i push to radiated shores.<br />
we are becoming nothing, but lost ones<br />
hold me til the morning at least darling, speak soft and happy into my mourning ear, my sad cut away of everything, tiny bones like machines absorbing your energy, to waves i can believe<br />
my genesis is in the tiny chains that bound our ancestors<br />
not built to survive, just able to live<br />
i am in the burning pit and hope that not all we saved is lost today<br />
stagnantly staggering making haste only losing taste<br />
from black smokey lines grasping me wildly into the night<br />
nothing beats time, it's erosion and decay<br />
the ruler of all i know and saympinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178453882082966239noreply@blogger.com0