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.