The Sock-Monkey As Alone

I breathe,   and like everyone else I am closer to death. Five hours in the hospital   my mother's back hurting from waiting with me. My problem is on some level    I want to die, even if I am scared of it.  So what does it mean: I have a broken heart. That these sorta dreams really do come true. Or is as simple as I am afraid     and control makes me safe. I have a broken heart,    but it was before my medical care. I have a broken heart    and I am more sad than scared.

"I have to go somewhere and I don't think I can come back." - driver "I get what I deserve... but being old and alone doesn't sound fun. So I guess we are at a crossroads." He was talking to his reflection. the lines of middle age and scars that bleed easy. The broken dreams that hope left him years ago. "I fucked more women that I didn't care about. then I care to remember." What are you trying to talk yourself into? He picks up the phone and cancels on a date. then sits in the dark with music playing. One of his early bands      back when         he thought he had something to offer           the world. "in Japan, they hold funerals for dolls   with monks praying...    before they can throw them away." He sips his beer. "It's almost like I was never here."

  “Life is suffering. It is hard. The world is cursed. But still, you find reasons to keep living.” - Osa Driven by vengeance Centerless without dichotomies. Life is without direction, dualism creates conflict. life and death is waking dreams of labored breathing. Yet old age in all of its frustration. is the grace  of opportunity to say...not just yet. with a cingular conceit... for whom the flowers grow.   

“The mind is the shadow of the light it seeks.”                                  - Jim Dodge   "Man is nothing like God; not only are our powers limited, but sometimes we are forced to become the Devil himself." - Nicholas D. Wolfwood the pitiful attempts   energy drinks and cigarettes     memories of four loco in Florida I am not in my right mind anymore. Remembering my voice shout       "If I was you I would knock me the fuck out."   and my friend's voice "turn your head sideways."         The impact a small bruise for me            and a cracked knuckle for him Or, a lifetime, finite poetry.  A lifetime of being... ...of collapsing into ellipsis... of being told my confidence is founded on the delusion of violent outbursts that threaten the progress         of music. hearing harmony when there is none and confusing dissonance                         with carrying a tune of thought spirals    looping      v

“The mind is the shadow of the light it seeks.”                                  - Jim Dodge   the pitiful attempts by me at asserting my masculinity   energy drinks and cigarettes I am not in my right mind anymore. Or, a lifetime, finite poetry.  A lifetime of being... ...of collapsing into ellipsis... of being told my confidence is founded on the delusion of violent outbursts that threaten the progress         of music. hearing harmony when there is none and confusing dissonance                         with carrying a tune of thought spirals    looping      vainly        for my attention I don't know what I am thinking   What I am writing     or if I want too. I failed at everything even suicide I hate all of this I hate        but still, solipsism is at it's worst when you are told "this is who you are"    from a voice, no one else has to listen too and it's familiarity makes you sick.

"There's incredible effect in being either loved or hated, but knowing that, either way, you have penetrated the mind and have altered it; that is a very pleasurable feeling."                                                                                               - Nicolas Winding Refn     Dealers and pushers  of another person's mind The chainsaw idles in my hand Neon lights advertising            fellowship in Amsterdam as mayhem is in my pulse   eight empty cans of monster and he says    "no, the steady cam annoys me"  the irregular rhythm of missing   a beat, obesity is unforgivable but being alone, and writing   a poem not about poetry focusing instead on the ugly  on the nature of       voyeurism         violence           language  is as satisfying as a "fuck you"  before the aggravated assault.

one clean line one perfect sentence one story that makes a reaction                 that is not disgust. My fear of reduction is that                  all simplifications are a failure propaganda closes mind art opens them when you see that                        all this...                              everything, everyone is                 an answer, not a question. reframe reductions              as an infinity symbol                                 does away with math. acceptance is the heart of a sound mind                   progress of purity an illusion                          the sign on the door                               "all unnecessary                              information is welcome" necessity is the blood mortar of a civilization       passing through a filter              that may end all life                    in a mushroom cloud  I write trivial things              with ambition                      that what I see      

Hi, how are you? I am alone. I feel a disconnection from hope on a fundamental level. I am disappointed in myself as an artist and a person. On having any meaningful connection with another human being. on being a cringe cliche (inept without being a comedian) of desperation that clings to any interaction as an opportunity for meaningful change. I relate to all who are disenfranchised but find that I am always alone. I understand that happiness is not something I can rely on and think that maybe I should give up on self-expression even as a casual hobby. At least as I am lost in a sea of frustration. I feel like God hates me. I know what I deserve and as all truth it is ambiguous.    So much of life is a disappointment. So much of life is learning to laugh at yourself. So much of life is longing. So much of life is hurting. So much of life is anxiety.    I told a bad joke once that goes "If I kill myself on youtube it would get two views three weeks later." It wasn't

Vincent Van Gogh...   the myth of the tortured artist. political leaders  disappointed mothers angry fathers   and people who just want     to do there job. tormented and delusional    listening to the meme of validation and or                       acknowledgment this scissors cut irregular line  a zig-zag of gore and loss an envelope sent to the world  that willfully ignores        any expression           of cause and effect as a blood-stained letter stuffed             with a former part of myself I hear the click of the scissors                     with forced resolve as silence fulfilled or, half-truth mailing a part of myself with a                                 question mark Now can you hear me?    I feel no privilege in being        your neighbor.

Back and forth,  twisting like so much            desire Where we shape a shifting bet.  You show me yours and I will share my story. But pornography is spiritual tooth decay   and while cavities have their place  losing life to feel alive is losing a one-dollar bet  that doesn't ever end but drops like a rollercoaster.

"Fame or integrity: which is more important? Money or happiness: which is more valuable? Success or failure: which is more destructive?"                                            - tao te ching. Brocken fragment,   scatter like incense burning. between fingertips   the smoke shapes emptiness. while illusive    lessons form and recast. a problem    that can't be solved with class       all of it trails           off to              a railing                 smoke                    that                      ends                        in a                          breath for which I am forever in debt.                                             exhale regret (a physical breath.)

"I’ve also come to understand that freedom resides in being equal to your needs, self-determinism requires self-reliance, and that the “self” is the worst idea of Western Civilization (or at least doesn’t excite my imagination as much as the pantheist notion of an extended, constellated identity, as suggested by genetics, ecology, and a kiss"  - Jim Dodge Stone Junction is the father you never had. It is where optimism and catatonic-despondency intersect as a blister of awareness. It is the point where you feel faith is all that is left and keep ongoing. It is highly recommended by Thomas Pynchon.     I read stone junction when I was seventeen, confused, hateful, and on many levels alone. I have read stone junction four other times since then and am about to start on it for the sixth time. It is my favorite work of art. My favorite odyssey. My favorite hope in a world that won't let idealism have a place. If you love Bukowski, then I don't know what to say other

“Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.”                                         - Thomas Pynchon  "war is a perversion of sex."                        Alan Moore So what is the grand theme of his masterwork, war, and love?  Going beyond the 0/zero and all that fucking spam. I find lyricism fails when it gets in the way of what is being said. While the truth only fails when it is too hard to digest. A blood-red full moon of shifting oceans. Memories of early 3d games inspiring the same awe of inspiration. Yet, all I can say is a little consistency would be nice. A.I. driving the bus of information by way of a Google algorithm. We have become so much herded sheep,                           even if only by expectation.  When we become posthuman, how will we know? Could it be when ambition is not driven by ego? The traffic outside my window and the construction guys across the street. Are the soundtrack of a world being created one word at a time.

Well, I have thought about now for a while...and seeing as I have not been working on it because it is not a very publishable kind of book. I thought I would serialize it on my blog like I did with the third part, Death lesson.     Not saying it will be good, I wrote it when I was psychotic and living in a trailer in Florida, but maybe after some revisions, it weel be readable. We will see.  Though I thought I would tell you guys to keep an eye out for posts if you're interested in reading it. So, yeah impractical weapons is the second part of my fictional autobiography, an I will start posting it soon.

“ Ideas are like fish . If you want to catch little fish , you can stay in the shallow water. But if you want to catch the big fish , you've got to go deeper. Down deep, the fish are more powerful and elusive. They're huge and abstract."       -  David Lynch There is a world where you can be found, though often mistaken for night terrors. The truth is for those who are illusive. Like a google search blessed with an error. Carried across with the tattered sound of lost memories that are carried. Like milk to giving birth to reclusive ornaments that can not be married. I feel the fate to which I am bound. I feel the state where robins sing. That which can be my intrusive love, for the fear enriches everything.

Wilful in the mist my ever-elusive dream. Reluctantly a kiss that rips and starts to scream. The old empire in simple attire. With volumes of shame for an ounce of grain, just so, call me a liar. Willful in sin as tender as a grin. so simple and plain a doggerel refrain "the king is not where you begin."

Been trying to write a thousand words a day of my first real novel. While bouncing back and forth with work on other projects. Like my collection of novellas: dharma-discharge and doing a drawing a day.   I find the more I work, the less I share, which I find fascinating and frustrating.  As you can tell, if you read semi-regularly, mainly have been posting poems and pornographic short stories on here as of late. Possibly this may change, though not likely.   I feel like a failure, but that isn't new, I just have been overwhelmed by disappointment with the quality of my creative output while not being sure how to fix it. Honestly, I spend most of my time reading anymore. I have read something like sixty books this year. So basic schedule is three hours of writing and between nine to six hours of reading. Not much more to add, I may share some of my new writing, but it will be awhile. So yeah, take it easy and be kind when you can.      

"And I'm working at trying to find a kind of language where I won't be so easily modulated by expectation."   -  Kathy Acker "You will never be a novelist. You say more than you describe." The voice is mine, even if it is with resistance that I accept it. However, shattering monotony with, "and that is all I got." The thought spirals into a vertigo of green and black. "can you make a point that is new?" "that is not how the truth works." so I spray paint on the eviction notice pinned to my door. "F U" then think to myself, "that wasn't witty at all." but what if I posted it on my landlord's window? "The police would become involved," I say aloud. then feeling like I have robbed myself of dignity. I start the endeavor of creating a world where that doesn't matter.

"He never bleeds" -Nirvana. "Don't wake me for the end of the world unless it has very good special effects." - Roger Zelazny Grim-hope rode the warm air; you could feel it had a hateful quality. The potato bugs were going kamikaze on the porch light. Getting used to its warmth, then fearing it, flying away but always crashing back into the naked bulb of the lamp. An exhale of breath like a computer permanently powering down, is the story of a life going up in smoke. His eyes are fixed on me in a bitter grimace, a brutal face for violent death, an extreme end to savage life. I take from him the necklace, a mummified hand flipping the bird, buddhas middle finger. Then I take from his lip the dangling smoke, the third of a cigarette that is still burning and flick the ashes into his mouth. Taking a drag, Then putting it out sizzling on his tung, I walk off into the night confused as to why this mummified hand is so important. My n

Shaping shadows with the flickering light from candles cast in the mold of a human spines, the tone of her blue skin was bruised dead with green and yellow sharing a history of secrets spoke softly. Pale with her ribs showing each well-earned breath. Reluctant in the corner of her bedroom, squirming, forceful as a darkness reluctant towards revelation and being trapped.     The walls lined with family photos showing a couple and their child. Her husband watching her, however, the one bar prison between her legs was a cage for both of them and he unable to have satisfaction watched her fight off pleasure and shame in equal measure. Ankles cuffed too and trapping inside her cunt the seven-inch vibrator that coiled around inside her like a snake that could never find its way Eve's heart. The ball gag in her mouth, and a blindfold over her eyes. Her husband chad cupped one of her small breasts and watched with satisfaction as she pushed against it. The muffled sounds of her tired brea

Being wrong is being alive illusive reductions of sharing an ambiguous gospel,   good news for those who have lost there way. being right may very well lead to "skillful behavior." Where consciousness points to homo-Ludens. And the wherewithal, to go at what I have learned. The aesthetic stance of alpha males,   is that people being afraid to tell you that your wrong     is nothing but a sign of superior intellect. So where is my pride when I lie to your face?   I believe what I believe no matter what I say. but the resonance of rapture   like an umbilical cord  lets connection be made till they are cut.

"I'm not looking for anything,                  In anyone else eyes."                           - Bob Dylan. Trite, cliche, or a manifestation of the truth. A lie is seen as self-expression? Or, a delusion divided and set loose. He doesn't even follow the rules of surrealism. It makes to much sense. But that is the fault of legalism... "No reason to be so bent." Ĺike one of the three stooges saying "I'm blind, I'm blind!" The truth won't make a dent or spare the rod. Yet clarity comes at the price of eloquent lies. That I prefer for there enrichment.

Do you find it odd that some people think          that saying, "there is no way you can convince me otherwise."                    Is a rational argument? Anonymity breeds ignorance.      And clarity convictions in the legal term sort of way. Images can mean anything, but it is only when you choose... That you actually say something.    Bad days are my business, I lie to get what I want. Life after poetry is a contradiction I have excepted. I find that I have no use for a good soliloquy.   Though I am fond of spell-check. The joke is broken, yet I laugh defensively. Some idea, some time ago       In another life in this country              I had hope inside a dying star. Gravity gave me yoyo's but god gave me a middle finger.

Frogs or dirty old toads line the forest with rainbows on their backs. An angel walked over the world, and his gold skin and flames for hair are only a glimpse of what I thought capable to dream.  My young friend's pretty eyes and fair Hare like an angels skin walks his dog over the blacktop though nothing is ever what it seems.    The asylum was not kind to me, "we will strap you down and shoot you up on meds!" I was told. Though an anonymous phone call spared me more than I deserved. Sleeping in the grass, freshly mowed, and sticking to my clothes. They drove me in a prison cell over the interstate. My steel box was bouncing me around in handcuffs without a seatbelt.    Symbols have a way of getting away...walking over the world or down the aisle of some other man's wedding. Still, they have a purpose because safety is always a concern. "Maybe he will be tempted? Make him go to the cafeteria?" I started to laugh, " you had t

Truth, I feel you though like music you are invisible. Yawning like a lion, Yawning like something in a zoo. To find out where you belong,            Is there nothing you won't do? A rhino and a war machine, let be what has been done. Forever the time is changing: radiation from the sun. Chimera's and laughing dog                  without the other one can not belong. Is it naive to not be political?                   Or, mature to patronize kings? when the words that define me are belittled                   than the walrus starts to sing. " Rimbaud  was a trader who outgrew the need. For poetry and art to find himself some things. So while free verse can be broken or a statement made clear. nothing is left write in this age of fear."

"Where the wind blows, that's where I go."                -Daniel Johnston Smoke like weaving Through my controlled and safe space. Life is an act of plagiarism From which the smoke will escape. Any idea is obscene When a TM is involved. To wake from the dream But still lost in the fog. A mechanism of terror Or, a giant god that got. "We were told in error That our soul can be bought." His mechanical legs Leave a footprint a mile wide. His iron soul  wakes the dead While his eyes see where angels reside. The Kaiju he seeks Alternates in the matrix of things. With a sword for the geek That feeds off of screams. They struggle in conflict As life lives on Both are catatonic In the madness of there bond. Science as magic An atheist mystic with games That plays on the tragic desire to regain ownership of a name That shakes the world with ever step. As an idol maimed the same As an old testament that crept. To take from the living what little is left.

"Sometimes I feel very sad Sometimes I feel very sad (Can't find nothin' I can put my heart and soul into) Sometimes I feel very sad (Can't find nothin' I can put my heart and soul into)"   - the beach boys: just wasn't made for these times. I rode the four-wheeler around the twenty-foot circle in my parents back yard. Goku had just defeated Frieza, but Namek was destroyed. The girl I had a crush on was afraid of me. Her older brother cared but in an observant worried sort of way. I had a box with a barbie I had painted blood on. My parents told me I was an idiot for claiming I read gone with the wind (I hadn't). My mother dragged me into the house my wrist cutting on the bricks of the house I reached for screaming for help. My neighbors thought this was normal. But Goku had defeated Frieza. I had drawn women naked in bondage. My parents found out by the house cleaner who went through my stuff without my consent. He told my parents she

"You have the brain of a very clever man, and the heart of a child."                                       - one of lewis carrol's child friends. So sick, as a telescope. Or, just the right size staring down the barrel of a rope. Fingers greasy from McDonald's fries. The sick age of abuse the truth is he doesn't fit his shoes. Like a vampire stealing life he can't even cope with the truth. That logic prevails, and to play with it is a joy. "Who in the world am I, that's the great question?" I will set demons loose while deeming it fit to teach you this lesson With an off the coof quip. "he is spooky as a person, or I am losing my grip." Yours sincerely, and independent little girl. Who questions authority (dangerous, questioning, claustrophobic).

Words of decadence swallow decay swarming eyes in line to remain. Shallow property of well-meaning sores. To educate the thoughtless or open up doors. The dance has been over for far too long. we (you and I) Are dreading the cleanup tomorrow. The pamphlets and confetti. Streamers and kazoos childlike wonder that never came through. So the masks come off,and the frolic is to be feared with the flicker of cinders of our tempest of years.

What is the story, information as seen through post Eliot and Pound? We see a delirium, of spice and snails...incense over ever-encroaching decay. While my dream life, a brain destined to make associations that aren't there. Or name drop a reference in a desire to be seen as literate. Not the overweight, balding freak of tooth decay and "you need to take a shower," I am. Yet I find the coolest trick in my bag is an awareness of my failings. Not the bouncing jingle jangle of bells that my incompetent vocabulary can't defend. But looking you in the eye and saying no matter how much I say I am sorry, nothing changes. I can lose weight, but the sagging net of scars will not make you my number one fan. Nor will my legal psychosis make you sick, no matter how much people act like I am contagious. I can hate, and I can hate, but rage won't make me number one on the bestseller list. so what I am left if you can care enough to ask is, "I should have no lega

Traffic in the morning, tells the story of a species in love with gambling. I would rather stay at home watching the song go by. Rambling and disoriented, as much a victim as I have nothing to say. So I make clean sentences trying to organize the associations of another day. A collage of repercussions, fear, and sincerity. Alternating as black and white cross-hatching Where is the music in the language? The melody of the rhyme? A short statement in prose in the promise of it's kind. Poetry is in between word though it never rereads the same. I am content to be a variation in the age of information loss. an old fashioned dandy addicted wordplay for its sake (and on its own terms) that wishes granted are in the very least are here so I can love language as a framing device.

Radioactive gods dismember the foretold of promised land. The shadows line a silhouette of cliches that tell me where not to go, as poetry is dead and someone like Frankenstein is busy in the lab. But the monster unleashed can not salvage, for me, clarity. While yesterday says sweet things about the wasteland and mother acts ashamed at my desire to know her before death. you tell me there is nothing left, I laugh and say there never was I drink my bottle of wine and quickly type something I promise I will fix later but days, add up, and problems line the walls of my creative endeavors, So much frustration and so little reward, for my amusement or for yours? And I find no solace in a fistful of shattered sand escaping from a desperate hand.

Weeping stone angels. Or, the life and times of Mason Andrew Freak. "People do things they can't live with, but they go on living."  -David Lynch. He was fat and had a green mohawk like the ones found on those who serve in the air force. Vulgar was his natural aesthetic. Insane his natural disposition.  He was a freak and chose that word as his family name.      The field he stood in was a place of shattered dreams, A sand lot of forgotten childhood and VHS tapes watched until they bubbled and ripped.  A place that disagreed with him. He looked around (feeling watched), but couldn't find out who was stalking him.     His trech coat flapping in the wind, with it's turtle neck hiding his face from below his eyes. his  eyes changed colors. his eyes were ominouse. The sinister if antisocial creature stomped off as his black converse sneakers kicked up a trail of dust.  He looked like he weighed three hundred pounds and was twelve years old.  He was looking for