I have been thinking about it a lot lately, but today, after I hand full of shoulder shrugs and surgical steel prods and cotton pokes, today I am pretty sure that I am going to die... and I don't like that.

On the bright side, I can't tell what Paul Weller is saying, but I am pretty sure it's beautiful.

actors

They are actors. They wash lips and eyes up and down pantone shorelines and silk sheets and across regal bed frames and couches softly in and out but always slowly contracting and expanding lenses finding focus near then far. They leave beaches bare and then covered and then bare but for the skeletons of lives once lived, lives of stars and soft jelly satellites and carnival seahorses with cotton candy imprints and giggling reflections. They are comedians... telling themselves jokes about themselves to make them smile and to make cameras melt and me to spite the causality of sensuality... the price of partial intimacy. They are innocent, as god made them, bare and careless picking fruit in the garden, picking the forbidden but never feeling the fall. And I am the snake that watches, that laughs and revels in their charade of pleasure, and makes evil out of art.

of nature and guilt

Guilty. Guilty of plebian pleasures and gilded whispers. Guilty of limping through shadowed circles and exposing my soft belly for the taking. Guilty of liking it.

She was the lark, and I the loon.

but the curtains opened...

now she sings sharkly, and I am chum producing chum producing chum until the water is more salty with blood and mis-directed vascular excretion than crystal salt and diamond nature

Guilty of still liking it. Guilty of turning sharp things into soft things, and as the teeth sink in, guilty of laughing over and over again, thrashing flesh, busy fingers

I should have known to stick to cool colors. Purple. Aqua-marine. Forest greens and chocolate browns. Nature gave me a sign, a warning, a warning that I ignored. Guilty. Guilty of indulging in radiant feathers.. red, yellow, gold, Amber.

So.. birds.. bees.. stranger strangers.. stranger bird.. new friend.. old friend.. friend of all.. lay blame as you like. I am guilty. But not wrong.

maybe a meteor is coming.

I had a dream that we fell in love. You didn't seem to notice at first, but eventually you caught on.

this is my street corner.

CHUCK AND SARAH 4VR

Because I care more about them, then about yous-- they are me. I am supposed to be selfish right now, and I am soo happy for them/me.

Here is their song (screw you Bon Iver):

CHUCK AND SARAH 4VR

*grant's power chord (base: 13321-), from 8 -> 3 -> 8 -> 3 (x2): -> 1 ->3 a few times on the chorus or something. Chew it, suck it, eat it, break it, take it, but be sure to be in bed before 11:30. Play it like it wants to be played but can't quite find the rhythm, or the will power to become what you need it to be, and you are too busy agonizing over that damn kiss and vicariously taking pleasure in it as if it is a sign that all of your problems will someday be reduced to such an extreme of beauty, and fulfillment. Never had a glass been so thirsty for so long, and friends, it went for a swim. Oh, and the song (because you want it, yes you. That's right, I am talking to you, reflection in my monitor. It's just you and me/them/us/I hate the fact that whatever this "is" is already and is an "is"):

I only know how to love you wrongly
I only know how dream of your touch
I only know how need you badly
I only know how to miss you too much
(chorus.. change the chord now.. to 1 ... and then pass out for 3 days)
but I'll wait...
i will wait...
but I will wait..
till i wake up..

..
..
.


...

I only know how to see you blindly
I only know how to feel you remote
I only know how to think on you kindly
but one day.. . well I won't!

*BECAUSE I
--- will wait ...
and I will wait...

..
.
Oh i will wa-a--a-i it (sing it like you effing mean it. If you don't every one will just think you are cheesy, but we are shooting for street crazy w/ cheesy.)

oh I will wait


until i wake up

next
----- to
------- you

************

and then all the world explodes into orgasmic rapture and the fractured fractions of earth and blood and love and finally, finally arriving to where it always knew it should be but never was. They will sing of us.

and maybe clap or stomp on the down-beat...

Hounds v2

Kappo 3rd fret: Eminor- Aminor - Fminor w/E2

steel and wood - I am good, I am good
send my ghost into the ground
dirt and pine - I am fine, I am fine
I'm flying in the bay of the hounds

when you find me, there won't be much to love
just a stain in your hand, from what you loved too much

blood and bone - I am home, I am home
fight the storm from within
mouth and eye - I have tried, I have died
fallen prey to the wind

and when they finally find me, there won't be much left to love
just a stain on your hand, and an empty glove

A leaf does not ask where it is to be blown-- it just blows. It's destination is not the outcome of it's direction or it's trail-- every spin and roll and flutter is the outcome of it's self.

It's this word "outcome" that I'm stuck on. I am currently and always the outcome. It can never happen somewhere in front or behind me, it's essence is in the present. What is left to be waited for?

Coma Blog

Here is a link to something that I wrote for a ten-page story assignment for my fiction writing class. Just keep in mind that it is a blog, and so it is in reverse-chronological order... so whatever that means to you... read accordingly.

http://s-comablog.blogspot.com/

I really like the idea of fiction blogging. I guess it's kind of like writing in a journal format, but there is something magical about the meta-physicality of the internet that appeals to me, and the format is far more flexible. I think there is a certain barrier that a reader has to overcome, however small, when they are holding a stack of papers, or a book, that is, a conflict between the reality that a story is trying to create, and the actual tangible reality of holding something in your hands that you printed or bought. For example, when you read Anne Frank's diary, it's not really Anne Frank's diary at all, but rather a copy, or re-publishing. When you read a blog, you are sucked into a world that is also a real part of the real world, and though what you are reading may or may not be fictional, there is so much less in the way of amalgamating those two realities.

This would perhaps be illustrated better by a blog that is fictional in a more subtle fashion, like this one: http://www.myregisblog.com/ . This is perhaps more non-fiction satire than fiction, but the idea is still the same. The writer is creating a character and a setting, with the purpose of convincing the reader of the reality of a certain world. At least, I hope it's satire. That's the beauty of the format. When you read a blog, you are stepping into someones life, and are left to make your own assumptions about their character (assuming that you don't know them in real life), which as a fiction writer, is a great start at engaging the reader.

Anyways, that's my shpeel. Admittedly, I am not an avid blog reader. I am just interested in the concept of the medium.

THE KING Part 3, final

The farther we got from the hospital the more Uncle Lloyd seemed to come back to life. We drove through blocks and blocks of what most people just called "Dallas", but was really the urban sprawl turned metropolitan area of a handful of cities with irrelevant names. As we got onto the freeway we could still see Saint Benidict's. Uncle Lloyd gave it a long stare, but was interrupted by a deep hacking cough that exploded from his chest.

"Lloyd", I said as if I could help. He shook his head and raised his hand in a motion that meant "I'm OK", and continued to bark into a handkerchief cupped in his hand. Eventually the cough was reduced to an unsettling wheeze, and as he looked up he was greeted by thinning traffic, a panorama of open country, and an exit sign for Gambridge. A smile spread across his face as he cleared his throat.

"That's where I met your Aunt Netty."

"Where, Gambridge?"

"Yep. Oh boy was that a long time ago... I was in town gettin' some things and I bumped into her at the grocery store."

"Really... I didn't know that."

Uncle Lloyd was not the type to indulge in conversations that were not of mutual interest. He knew I was humoring him; he could always tell, and there was nothing I could do about it. I wanted to be a good audience for him, but the fact was that I had heard the story before and could practically recite it from memory.

It's not that Uncle Lloyd's memory was bad; in fact, it was extraordinary. He could remember the birthdays of all of his employees. If he ever met a man, and shook his hand, he could remember his name long past it was of any use. A few years ago, when I was with my family for the holidays, he came up and patted me on the back and said, "He was a good dog kid. Damn could he play fetch!”. After a few minutes of confusion, I realized that it was indeed the anniversary of the day my dog, Bandit, had died a few years before.

It seemed to me that Uncle Lloyd never thought about the month, or the day, but had some natural connection to the individual signature of a moment. For him, last April 5th wasn't just another day at the office: It was the day that one of his accountants showed him pictures of his new born baby. It was the day that his wife cooked him a steak that was medium rare and shiny with grease and homemade gravy, and she wore a perfume that smelled like fresh cut daisies. She had reached over to kiss him on the forehead, and her blouse opened up like curtains to expose the ivory white of her breasts, and he comprehended the artistry of beauty’s maker.

He knew that I knew the story. But today, he wanted to hear it again.

"Yessir", he said in an amused retort. "I literally bumped into her! Bout' gave the girl a heart attack. She was holdin' a carton of eggs.. and I knocked em' straight out of her hands!"

He paused as if he had remembered something important and shifted his attention from me to his window. The side of his face became animated, embellished with amber evening sunlight washing over the subtle winkles around his eyes and the gentle shadow of gray stubble burgeoning from his ear to his throat. The medicine and ultra violet lights had muted his leathered complexion, but under the array of a setting sun it had become the color of infant gold.

"She was pretty. God damn your aunt was pretty. I told her right then 'I wish I could say I was sorry mam, but you are honestly the best thing that has happened to me this week!'"

He glanced back at me for a moment, in search of any sign of disinterest, but upon finding my expression acceptable, continued his story.

"I said 'Lady, I hope you don't mind if I buy you some new eggs. Also, I hope you wouldn't mind me buying you dinner- if you don't already got one.'" He laughed out loud in spite of the benign rasp that lingered in his throat. It was good to hear him laugh again. For a split second, we were back the fair, back on that rickety wooden rollercoaster, and back in front of those mirrors that shaped us into giggling clowns.

"Damn kid I was slick. Ha... She told me her mama was expecting her back for supper. Well, you know your aunt, she was pullin' my leg. She just wanted to watch me squirm and stutter. Haha... god damn she was sly. Eventually she threw me a rope and said that her mama had made plenty for an extra stomach, and that I should tag along back with her."

He was back looking out his window now with an expression of pleasant contemplation. We passed more little towns, and houses and grocery stores. I wasn't sure if he saw them all like he saw people, each with its own set of memories and emotions, or if he was looking at something else, more distant and more specific. We took the next exit and drove toward a carved wooden sign with a dairy cow and some wheat painted on it. Uncle Lloyd's eyes snapped away from the side window and trained in on the sign, then dutifully read it out loud as we came to it.

"Welcome to Bigsby"

Golden (poem from about a year ago)

We were a flock of doves but we weren’t white enough.

We became gold pigeons perched on a concrete overpass,

scavenging without searching
just deciding who to shit on

We claimed new rocks- named our own winds

We became predatory and solitary and longing

thinking without asking
clutching heat and bone
empty but not lacking

Remember when we were us, and me and I were parts of you him and her?

The phone went dead. I am a raptor.

My phone is warm. For some reason, I assume that it's because it was previously filled with your voice, even though it was just a recording.

I have waited weeks for this train-- sitting cross legged reading black and white paper, gray news under gray clouds. Arrival.

This is the right train. Finally. This is taking me places.

7am and I am awake. Make breakfast. Do dishes. Class. Write. Notes. Work.

Dinner.

Damn kids. My mother told me that if I put a penny on the tracks, I could derail the train. I thought about it every time I went somewhere with those machines that will eat 4 quarters and 1 penny, and give you 1 penny the size of a quarter, with it's "This is the best place ever/good thing you came here and got this damn penny squished so you will never forget your childhood.. unless you put me in a jar and put my jar in a box and my box in a closet and my closet in the far reaches of your now adult, or at least less innocent/penny squishing existence" signature, shiny where it was previously darkened by the mystery of time and pockets. You could have put that penny on a railroad track-- for free.

Shame nobody told those damn kids about how a single penny, can derail a 20,000 ton train.

She came. Jubilee. No sleep. Toss. Turn. Dreams of torture. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Im late. Blank page. Blank page. Blank screen. Emails? Damnit. I can't. Not today. Today I am a beehive and every thought is a bee and buzz buzz buzz they won't ever ever leave me alone or shut up and I am creative or desperate or curioius but not concentrated or ethical and certainly not going to the right place to see the right people or write the right damn things nononono. onesinglepennyandihavetippedoverintoascrapingwaveofironbearingearthandstoneandcoalintoacraterwitha newfacemoreshinyandnewbutinrealityancientandwhatisthisactionntostoppingforapparentlymybrilliantengineerdesignedmewith
antifrictioncarstoslideslideslideovergoodweatherandgoodfriendsandgoodfornothingnothings.screeeeeeeeeechscraaaaaape.

Ding. 8 little soldiers. I gobble them up.

L535

8 little soldiers. 2 more hours.

Lets make new words.

Yesterday I came home and couldn't find my keys. Backpack... no. Pockets... no. Spare... yes. Did anybody see me? Perhaps. And perhaps this why I invented a baseball bat that is hollowed out and pocketed with holes for pneumatic spikes. I have a baseball bat... would a metal one be cooler? No, I like the juxtaposition of the violence and the classic, while I lay in bed trying to fall asleep.

Door handle is on the left. Is that normal? I can't remember. Key is on the right. I extend my right arm lefterly, turn, squeeze, turn, push, and take a step forward with my right foot.

There is a new word for the pain I felt shoot through the inside of my left shoulder blade-- a pain that wasn't new, but presented it's self in a new context. My body is contorted to the rhythm of some banal version of twister, my right foot entering the dark and powerless (literally, powerless. I accidentally set my wall on fire because I "overpowered" the circuit with a space heater. The heat was nice... the smell wasn't worth it), and my left foot pointing to the back of my right heel, while tailing the last bit of sunlight of that day.

I grunted some word. Isn't that how all words begin?

L535

Take 4-8 with water every 4 hours. Do not exceed 48 in a twenty four hour period.

I like these pills. They taste horrible, but there is a certain satisfaction in taking more than 2 of any kind of pill. I feel like Elvis.

Strawberry circus and I rode that roller coaster spinning and reeling and screaming into the cloudless blue bleached in scorching, bleating and oppressive sunlight. Up .. down.. more loops.. and more loops. I could quit this, I say. I could punctuate some rhino'ed fluid influenza into an envelope worth receiving. Aquamarine.. Purple .. and now Amber .. but still aquamarine, and still purple.. still sticky sweet and indulgent. "Blasphemy!". yes. it is that. and much much much much more. i can ser her bent and bruised and hunchback with one eye that opens like tin can owl, and another that squints like some lemony pressured pussy-cat doll meow and me. Wart warts warts.. one on the nose.. one somewhere less visible.. and the brewing. blasphemy. I felt poetry like a warm breeze, but the cuckoling and cackle of some old trenchy bitch has left my blinded by the nerons that stand still on my neck like soldier pines on a hill like simile popcorn to mess shit up. If you masturbate, you will grow hair on your hands and warts. I have both. Well, only one wart, which is ironically placed about 1 inch from where I used to think I had stigmata.

THE KING part 3

The further we got from the hospital the more Uncle Loyd seemed to come back to life. We drove through blocks and blocks of what most people just called "Dallas", but was really the urban sprawl turned metropolitan area of a handful of cities with irrelevant names. As we got onto the freeway we could still see Saint Benidict's. Uncle Loyd gave it a long stare, but was interrupted by a deep hacking cough that exploded from his chest.

"Loyd", I said as if I could help. He shook his head and raised his hand in a motion that meant "I'm OK", and continued to bark into a handkerchief cupped in his hand. Eventually the cough was reduced to an unsettling wheeze, and as he looked up he was greeted by thinning traffic, a panorama of open country, and an exit sign for "Gambridge". A smile spread across his face as he cleared his throat.

"That's where I met your Aunt Netty."

"Where, Gambridge?"

"Yep. Oh boy was that a long time ago... I was in town gettin' some things and I bumped into her at the grocery store."

"Really... I didn't know that."

Uncle Loyd was not the type to indulge in conversations that were not of mutual interest. He knew that I was humoring him; he could always tell, and there was nothing I could do about it. I wanted to be a good audience for him, but the fact was that I had heard the story before and could practically recite it from memory. It's not that Uncle Loyd's memory was bad; in fact, it was extraordinary. He could remember the birthdays of all of his employees. If he ever met a man, and shook his hand, he could remember his name long past it was of any use. A few years ago, when I was with my family for the holidays, he came up and patted me on the back and said "He was a good dog kid. Damn could he play fetch!". After a few minutes of confusion, I realized that it was indeed the anniversary of the day my dog, Bandit, had died eight years ago.

It seemed to me that Uncle Loyd never thought about the month, or the day, but had some natural connection to the individual signature of a moment. For him, last April 5th wasn't just another day at the office: It was the day that one of his accountants showed him pictures of his new born baby. It was the day that his wife cooked him a steak that was medium rare and shiny with grease and homemade gravy, and she wore a perfume that smelled like fresh cut daisies. She had reached over to kiss him on the forehead, and her blouse opened up like curtains to expose the ivory white of her breasts, and he comprehended the extent of human beauty.

He knew that I knew the story. But today, he wanted to hear it again.

"Yessir", he said in an amused retort. "I literally bumped into her! Bout' gave the girl a heart attack. She was holdin' a carton of eggs.. and I knocked em' straight out of her hands!"

He paused as if he had remembered something important and shifted his attention from me to his window.

"She was pretty. God damn your aunt was pretty. I told her right then 'I wish I could say I was sorry mam, but you are honestly the best thing that has happened to me this week!'"

He glanced back at me for a moment, in search of any sign of disinterest, but upon finding my expression acceptable, continued his story.

"I said 'Lady, I hope you don't mind if I buy you some new eggs. Also, I hope you wouldn't mind me buying you dinner- if you don't already got one.'" He laughed out loud. It was good to hear him laugh. It had been too long.

"Damn kid I was slick. Ha... She told me that her mama was expecting her back for supper. Well, you know your aunt, she was pullin' my leg. She just wanted to watch me squirm and stutter. Haha... god damn she was sly. Eventually she threw me a rope and said that her momma had made plenty for an extra stomach, and that I should tag along back with her."

He was back looking out his window now with an expression of pleasant contemplation. We passed more little towns, and houses and grocery stores. I wasn't sure if he saw them all like he saw people, each with it's own set of memories and emotions, or if he was looking at something else, more distant and more specific. We took the next exit and drove toward a carved wooden sign with a dairy cow and some wheat painted on it. Uncle Loyd's eyes snapped away from the side window and trained in on the sign. He dutifully read it out loud as we came to it.

"Welcome to Bigsby"

quazi free write absuretery no editing o editing not for me or you or anyone.

The ticking noise i heard was self produced. yes, i made it with hours and hours of sweat and oil labor to splurge it s a chinsy trendy shiny colorful and danish super fat house. Tick tick tick tick... and a bell! what bell? I didn't hear it. i was drowning in a wave of heat and dreams and monsters and good lord do I know you? Cathartic and catholic I am, both un-reliazed and nu religious or un repented or un un un... I would wish to be the better parts of those words: confessed and oblidged to honey and strawberry jam on your sunday evening picnics- canoe rides with girls in pretty hats: religion is never a part of that story. Nor does it need to be right? A dark room and someone nods there head. Sooo easy he nods, Obviously someone gronas. Quationless and unmarked in a unanimous agreement. Well... water bottle in hand, I pander to the crowd. Bread is all they understand because bread is all that I tell them. There is so more thang greater mohuman neatness superdelicate non-repreenstational heart beat and TOCK! THE BELL! what was I doing? Do I nkow you? Excuse me mam, but i fear that your nakedness has some freudian root that i should like to uncover, no pun intended. Ehhh.. forget Freud. You are not my friend. You are just some desktop bobble head killing time with skipping stones as the bluejays sing sing sing to deaf ears. Whos ears are deaf now? My back is deaf and my ears are blind while my eyes hold no upper lumber support and start to arc against what the general surgeon orders. Empty. She leaves, I realease, and nothing, nothing is left. Cold, sweat, and my world awaits! I am KWEO! Conquerer of all!(below lvl 22). What sir doth ye require?MLEH! I am not that. I am not this. I am not even here or close to hear or even in the street near my house digging through dumpsters andcrying to the moon "Moon mother! So bright! So far!". How could i be? She said "what is now will not last""you are someone that niether of us have met". TOK. BELL.

quazi freewrite 2 (10 minutes, no.. minimal edit) I can't help it sometimes

No distractions. This room isn't dark enough. These fingers lack agility and the power to hunt. Less is more, they say. I haven't found that to be true. There is "less". There is "even less". Both of them have a positive counter part-- niether of them are friends or equals. Today is "even less". Last night was "even lesser". The night before that was "Welcome to the train to the bottom of the mouth of hell. To your right there is crippling depression! To you left.. well would you look at that.. It's the devil. Hello devil! May I take your picture? Can I get your autograph?". God is in the details, they say. No... god is not in the details. I looked there. God is in a painting of a window. Satan is in the details.. in the image of a reflection. I am not trying hard enough, I say. rusty and brown and veteraned members of metal and synaptical architecture just shuting down. One by one: I will be that old factory. New times, the papers will say. Industrial revolution, the socialites whelp. good and fine. good and fine modernity. I made the grease that you drink. rusty, brown and useless. patience is not mine today/ nor any muse or flower... and there have been flowers. mostly cold and dead ones... but still keeping some fragrance. I smelt, but I did not touch. Those horse faced whores have left me too: I sleep in a cacoon. the doors locked, but I am still ripe for the picking by some rouge man eating bear... like a pear bearing stress to it's mother. Left foot right foot, i said. I did it so casualy, too casually, and I tripped on my right foot.

quazi free write (10 minutes, no edit)

Leapord skin bible in biblic phrases screamin halelujah to the masses and cry ou tin the name of chocolate cheeto jesus. Why? Why would i say that I left here to die when I am surrounded by the living flesh of flowers and bread and knights and chivalrous wolves comming together like buzzards over a carrion beef eaters buffet? No reason i can think of. No reason I can ever think of. never comfortable here. Leg, arm, ass, and bad gas.. i guess more uncomfortable than usual- but this monitor always burns and sings of indescresionary love and a history of violence. All access, all the time . We started off as wolves, us men, hairy and farting and running through jungles looking for for people, looking for meat, to burn rape and pillage. I was there, I was born there. The clouds came, the rain came soon after, then the fires, then the dogs. I guess every river floats. Damn your eyes he said to himself. Damn itchy and crudded eyes. What for? Can I navigate this river without them? NAy.. no need to navigate. The leaf will not navigate. It is not a ship full of valiant and horny pillaging crusaders bound for gold and illegitamte children.. it is it's own vessel. Nay leaf. Winds and walurous and hippos and baskets will weave themselves in and out, carrying the hope of a mankind, singular in its ominence. Float float float float. This river is not a sea captain. This rock is not the loch ness monster. This waterfall... it is a waterfall. Tangible and fatemaking and wet. We are not the type to float.. but to swim and cry and howl like a baby in a snowman. We are wolves in a leaf's clothing. Left to die, left to kill and masturbate into equally abissmal entities. Float float float. I am a ghost. Float float float. I was once your astronought.. bold and shiny with the purity of science, exploration, and discovery.. but I floated to far, melted wings and a record playing country songs of a different and altogether similar era.