Feb 4

Celebrate insanity. Your life is more than a passive sleep. Volunteer yourself to the ground. Hurl your body into rushing traffic, ad nauseam, beneath the city over pass, one hundred fifty foot arc until all animals arrive your powdered bones are nothing more than star dust, the stuff that makes up the universe and allowed for the evolution of minds to create all powerful deities to explain, in a more comforting, maternal matter, the origin of the species and our role as puppets on the planet instead of individual, beautiful irises growing wildly on mountainsides of existence. This is to say that existence is huge in all directions and we are but tiny, quickly growing populations of invasive species, digging up geologic resources until massive sinkholes swallow shallow cities, the ones on the edge of the void between absolute humanity and the balance of nature reserves and wild animals still running free and abundant. Most wild animals are in zoos. Most cities are human zoos and this delicate balance of species has been off set for long enough that our invented god cannot possibly save us all, or anyone else for that matter, if we are adam and eve, the tree of knowledge became the tree of ignorance and we are feasting heartily…

On the other side of the barbed wire fence, armed guards patrol the battlements, snipers hidden through all seeing crevasses, with omnipotent eyes and the shark tooth grin of imposing viewpoints… That whole cast can watch the emotional roller coaster theme park disengage them and left unobserved in the perilous dips and turns, spinning so quickly, all riders become sick with rage and ill will toward each other. The rude and ruddy claims spat out in between back handed compliments, video game distraction, television remote, volume control, distraction, forgotten birthdays.

This whole cast of terrible characters like a play with only antagonists and discordant music from the pit. Pixelated scenes in retrospect, with variegated shapes and colors, like a static kaliedoscope, or a canvas with paint all lumped up at the bottom, from having radioactively melted. We are in this purgatory with our minds like gutters, with weakening filters, more gunk comes through the passage of mind to mouth and we whisper heart twisting insults until damage becomes immutable. Turn off that psychoanalytic mind and simply try to help them with their fine print.

Every 11 years we will both have the same number twice in our age.

The mess I couldn’t bear to make. The disrespect I didn’t mean to flaunt. Drinks consumed without joy. Eyes lost their luster and painful night of haunting reality drawn on me like an enemy sword. Almost still think good riddance. Tangled up in this mess with infectious passivity and an undercurrent of horrible internal strife. Resentment fuels on this fire. Our hearts smoldering.

Just please stop.


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