The Sock-Monkey As Alone

"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