A nod and bow:

Nose is always running, a desperate fever in my eyes. Headaches in the morning, restless sleep. Depravity, simple violence seems simply possible. Pocketbooks all around, who will claim them? It's survival of the fittest, to misuse a term, and I'm feeling quite fit in my desperation. I'll take it all. I'll put it in my mouth, I'll devour the world.

"Put your hands up for Detroit, our lovely city..."

I miss the endless appetite I enjoyed back home.

durn

well i'm gon' get us a pickup truck
put a puppy dawg in the back
we'll live real far away from the law
where we won't catch no flak
live our laaves real simple
but still reed that philosophaay
so come on, baby, how's about it?
won't you marry may?

Sports, meat and marriage:

Go team go.
Go baby go.
Some things are worth holding onto
and some things don't matter.

Pain, Pleasure and Disunity

All of our lives have changed. Am I surprised? Of course not, but it's taken in stride with that human sort of amazement that never ceases to amaze me. Soon I'll be gone, but the memories will stay. A best friend reduced only to a memory, a caress transformed to an itch... it's heart-breaking when things shift so in scenarios like this.
Nothing is sacred, and love changes too. It rises, fades, returns, then leaves again, but the friendship that exists throughout the entire experience never falters for a moment in my mind. Friendship is more inviolate than anything else for this human. Turns out I'm sentimental in that way, although it's never really brought me much more than disappointment most of the time. How disappointing people can be.
But hey--- pain can be just as stimulating as pleasure (love typically being a mixture of the two), so it's probably best just to have some fun with what I've got.
One day soon I'll be baptized again on a mountain top, but only after I build this bonfire in my backyard.
Life begins anew, I'm scared and excited.

Dope

I watch him write. Every day I wake up the same way, and I head over to the house to stir up these stagnant waters. Ken writes while Patty watches television upstairs. Billy comes by sometimes, his toes are black and falling off. Sarah talks to me about the day when we'll go drink at the bar. We both know it will never happen. The house is a mix of genius, aged intuition and repetition. Amongst visionaries I hold communion.




Stagnant waters require a mixer.

And fantasy is all I know. Absolutes are inescapable for this romantic.
The reality that my friends operate within isn't quite interesting enough for me. My instructor asks me to post something interesting on her school 'discussion board', and I'm frozen. My truths are lies... could I lie to people I don't even know?
I went out with a married woman.
Her husband is a kind man,
and my heart is shaken.

My love
is a glove.
It fits only my hand.

Who wishes sacrifices.
Who sacrifices loses.
Who wins what he loses?
Who wins? Who loses?

Song of Arms

The narrow slits part and I look outside.
Black children scream,
hearts explode,
cars speed and crash into trees...
And now I am the Devil,
raising my hands to the sky,
parting the asphalt,
crossing the lines,
tearing everything apart.
My wishing is one over another,
so I aim towards the moon.
My sores never go away because I touch them too often,
so I cut them out.

And now you no longer know my name.

Opposing perspectives, my friend-
That's what this show is all about.
We can have one and two and three..
but go ahead and try this:
stand outside your one and ask another to stand outside the three.
If you find common ground,
then I believe you've solved the 'problem' of existence.
My friends are all drunks,
and so am I.
And so was Alan Watts.
Formulate a thesis about this, write it on lined paper, seal it in and envelope and burn it.

Bring nothing back,
and embrace globalization as mycelium spans the forest floor.
Now what are you?
Embrace bulwark opposition to something vile,
set yourself in position against it.
Now what are you?

Acquiesce and become.

"Embrace death with your whole heart,
and you will live forever."

sleep

Every night I run from sleep. I think, "I really should go to bed", but then my thoughts go immediately to every other thing I could possibly be doing. Apparently I'm clinging desperately to something.. but I can't identify it. If I were clinging to experience, I'd be performing more actions and moving towards a wider range of experience with my life. If I were clinging to this feeling of being awake, I wouldn't relish the feeling of laying about, lackadaisically, in my bed until the time arises where getting up is a necessity.
Tonight I will embrace dream. I'll enter the other world eagerly and see what happens. Life doesn't wait. It doesn't even have a goddamn job.
Auf wiedersehen.

Huxley

In a letter circulated to Aldous’s friends, Laura Huxley described what followed: ‘You know very well the uneasiness in the medical mind about this drug. But no ‘authority’, not even an army of authorities, could have stopped me then. I went into Aldous’s room with the vial of LSD and prepared a syringe. The doctor asked me if I wanted him to give the shot- maybe because he saw that my hands were trembling. His asking me that made me conscious of my hands, and I said, ‘No, I must do this.’

An hour later she gave Huxley a second 100mm. Then she began to talk, bending close to his ear, whispering, ‘light and free you let go, darling; forward and up. You are going forward and up; you are going toward the light. Willingly and consciously you are going, willingly and consciously, and you are doing this beautifully — you are going toward the light — you are going toward a greater love … You are going toward Maria’s [Huxley's first wife, who had died many years earlier] love with my love. You are going toward a greater love than you have ever known. You are going toward the best, the greatest love, and it is easy, it is so easy, and you are doing it so beautifully.’

All struggle ceased. The breathing became slower and slower and slower until, ‘like a piece of music just finishing so gently in sempre piu piano, dolcamente,’ at twenty past five in the afternoon, Aldous Huxley died.”









I ask for understanding. Quality of love is subjective to the lover, but openness transcends all limitations.

Severed synapses.
My happiness is warm and airy.
Days meld into dream
and the dreams become more recognizable as me.
Turn back to look into the light and I disappear..
better to bask in the comfort of its warmth,
welcome what enters and allow it passage through.
The greatest lesson I learned was how to enjoy a flower's beauty without picking, smelling, killing it.
But every flower still gets lonely.
"Don't leave me here! Pick me! Kill me!"
Smelly shit and sweet cream.
This chaos is complete perfection.

Take away from this,
but layers remain.
Life upon itself-
all attempts to break down develop new stories, but no presence.
Farberware and cold cuts-
steel, metallic rods protruding from black tar pit-
Lion takes cub,
mother takes job,
frightened but together.

One

Deep down
and far below,
after all has been dematerialized
and deconstructed,
the most terrifying thing will remain.
What exists of my self that is not a reflection of what is around me?
Knowing will stop my breath.

I dreamed last night that everyone died. I sat on a dumpster and cried. I dove inside my mouth, took a crowbar to my insides, then shat myself out onto the pavement.