rare sighting

we saw a bobcat on the ridge. i do not wish to write with a clear subject in mind i wish to unravel the threaded sculpture of my thought patterns and let loose the harmonies of those strings plucked individually. no music tomorrow. listen to the rhythms of traffic in the city. regret drinking. watch a movie and be an insensitive critic. see what is there. see what is needed. where do these inflatable nights take us? what of the magnets on the refrigerator or the tears in the bedroom or the tweakers in the alleyway or the heirloom citrus or the speed of walking down the street (and about the functionality of shoes). is this comfortable to be surrounded by what you don’t own always and losing days so the gym membership has already bumped up exponentially for daily practice, only been once and, regretfully, only figured it out one time, watching birds fly in blue skies on a screen in someone’s apartment across Mercer street and babies laughing and the soft hum of moving buses moving people in doppler affect, in straight lines predetermined and chosen by the people. we are not scientists. we are philosophers with lungs. we are the living breathing engine of caregiving to the self though we are almost always bombarded and strangled and coaxed by free radicals by desires beyond the edges of skin and chemical formulas for high points retraced and reenacted like an awful play and an awful play would be to let the windows close before they were known to be open. you cannot let those bastards take you down.

November 2

Without hesitation, he is concerned with where he will be tomorrow, where the rain will be, and mudslides, and making a way out there to get to a place that makes meditation on the heart rate easy. A serene lake, he thinks. Somewhere with reflective surfaces and distance. Somewhere with old trees to keep out of the rain. Rivers overflowing. Or flowing low or spitting out salmon, don’t remember what happens when you lose three seasons after intending “maybe August” and letting that go, letting the dream of backpacking the Olympics lost, making the music no one asked for and wondering, in this age of wonder, where and when it can all find outlet. Go out and make it to the ocean, lovely human, your body is not lost on you, it is waiting for you to make up your mind on how to fix what is tense, smart, spelled, and coming after you with the chemical make up of invisible threats or serotonin bombs, the fireworks when you are happy, sad duds, the rain picks up I can feel it in my spine and my 1st system edges toward and away from the sound of the guitar music and the old rain. Dry tones with open chord changes, as everything changes, “unbroken for one hundred years in a constantly changing world” and wondering what watch on what wrist can keep me locked away in some false resemblance of time spent hovering away from who you are, barely hiding the taste of the spirits (self-critique squeezing back in) “days are fine, nights are unbearable” and let me tell you about familiar feelings. I feel tired and sore with scratched and stabbed hands a weighted chest with some guilt spiral and some vicious words from a bereaved and November already I lost everything this year, it is all gone and from its absence, this new canvas, I can move away from hating imagining your body and settle back into the flowers, where the haunt is, the rain on feedback loop, the goings on in the night. Nothing makes sense. Let time pass and let yourself feel back inside the body you live in. No abstractions in that. Commit to the body you’ve been given. Its limitations and experiences and vaunt over the depressions with new experiencing conscious art racing heart tracing mountain yodel gallop wild horse kind of sound of the heart beat in the bath tub too small for that same body, the little pump staying regularly heated in the tension and letting itself fizzle down, spark up, and flash red lights to his submerged toes. I am watching this happen from above, as steam rising off a body picking out warm from one source and dispersing it into the room, but is it cold, and why have I acted on such little positive forethought, all a kind of rushed emotion, signifying nothing.


today. this late. 3:29 am on the first day of this new year…. here is where my unedited daily writing rants will have a home. the handwriting will continue yet the fact this is sent out into oblivion is an exciting incentive to write with a clarity unfounded in my notebooks, a placebo of crowd control, a pill that makes an audience materialize where there isn’t one, a quiet girl who abstains from everything and a party where a dude pukes on the ground while the rest watch the senseless fireworks from the 45th street bridge over I-5 and the voices complain anyways- because they are used to complaining about the cold as if it is news to anyone to say such words aloud, {I require new words. Screamed out loud. New ideas.} The fragments of talk are lost because it is a shit show of a night, with the vomiting and the jazz music in the car and the avoidance of drinking and the sleeping on the orange chair and the strangeness of it all I appreciate and yet I wonder what the appeal of the others was, the allure of the observation and the couch conspiracy and the kayakers and the overwhelming odds, the lost opportunities and the lost girlfriends, cast aside like soft buoys to prevent smashing into loading docks.

What is a BA w/ Writing Emphasis if you do not habitually write? Okay, Sufjan, I agree there is too much riding on that. And I realize the squandered time of my life in education when I could have been studying how to tone car engines, the peer pressure talk about it, and the motor oil companies drilling into the earth with a force of new technology and the hard hats all of those fractin’ fools wear out there to protect themselves.

Nothing matters anymore. Writing because it needs to be a necessity. Writing because Sigur Ros is soundtrack and my night is full of experience I barely understand. My night is full of impressions I cannot fathom and will never be able to. What I felt tonight will explode into the past as soon as I wake up. That is the fear. This will happen continuously until I grow old into retirement and die with mounds of unused cash under my corpse. Yet I also fear the wage of it all, when the money piles on in waves like millionaire pilots or like getting in great shape and making more music because it all matters that my mind is uneasy and the new years in seattle have been bust always and fuck seattle fuck it to its core because it is a bad luck omen at everything possibly relaxing and the quiet is not something I appreciate. I need the noise. I need the words that are considered filler because I need human contact and words like goodbye are not enough to express a longing to disappear, a longing to jump off of bridges alone, alone, alone. Words fix it up and let it golden in the wintry sun.


10:09 am

waking to the sound of trumpet blasts, morning violin, morning guitar, speedy recovery of a lost art, great green ghosts gliding, nothing said, barely communicating with the airs put on by the light weight, collared shirt of a mindful guy, the music and the intimidation of playing guitar, the stylized virtue, the moral values, the codes of conduct, the Benjamin Franklins of our day are in computer labs, typing code, synthesizing data, drinking well whiskey, talking into red wine cups, playing bass in a band like Pete the janitor, juggling oranges on the street for cash, mumbling into the pillow sweet something or others, completing puzzles and television series….

Blood Red Moon

The soothsayer told of this night. When the ashen grey orange sky would conceal the promise of a blood red moon like the tidal warnings before dead fish float belly up. Smiling heads rolled down the palace steps for fear of this night. A nocturnal blood letting. The owls keep their wits about them tirelessly scanning 360 while clamped to branches of trees in quiet woods. Not here too much construction, the cranes towering and lit up festivities, the crowds roaring, the owls flee for fear of burst ear drums, of course the city does not care and will progress beyond your needs and desires regardless if they are satiated or listened to. The owl wants silence for peaceful reverie. Mournful train whistle wants a concave surface to bounce off. The irregularities of an acoustic triangulated cement block horse shoe half circle, then the three sisters, the embarrassed flattened top of one who had the shortest temper, trees have not grown back in certain faux snow regions melted down and turned to timber for the paper stock in which the green peace records are kept in filing cabinets made out of blue whale esophagus, the spears twirling through the air like barbaric rituals that everyone is gullible to believe happen elsewhere like the savage world that can exist within dreams, that unflattering naked Freud all hunched over his wife with a quizzical expression because although sex he is tackling his own spiritual desires… otherwise known as a bad kisser. the reputation worn like a coat that shrinks if worn too long, becomes a second skin. so many layers like graffiti painted over old graffiti until the wall is too thick and the city must remove layers with non toxic solution and scrubbing labor workers with particulate masks to protect pink lungs from becoming green, purple, black, orange. 

The moon up there is implied. Animals all run away from the East and burrow when the bloody moon arcs its lonely parabolic expression into the space immediately above their furry heads, the zenith, like that lofty ambition to travel to Europe with a few extra arms, a waterproof camera and documentary, the Italian dance music scene, with orchestration like that of a feel good soundtrack. Wagner made it with minor keys. Einstein made it relatively. Adventure enticed them into heights of spectral navigation the likes of which I’ve only glimpsed. The cloud shadow of a darkly implied blood moon. Oh the desire to see to soak and bask and dance in my own red cells glimmering out of my pores like a flushed shameful friend admitting the rumor mill produced a rare truth, like the churning up of old conventional method, the pouring out of mulch from the fruit stand rot, the lemonade stand time stamp and highway sign clock, fifty cents at our humble stop due to the danger of our exposed backs. Red grey clouds cover the impressed beauty. A veil, a gossamer veil, concealing the truth like a summer dress. Those intricate floral twists and turns to distract the eyes of passersby from the shapely young maiden beneath, who keeps to herself on cloudy days and glares unremittingly on anyone deemed unnecessarily loud on the tram, the max, the metro, the taxi cab blaring honk tunes to the nausea of tone deff conductors with ambidextrous show off orchestral pits, masked up and glorified Joyce, I feel your pity in the nape of my neck like a sharpened training collar meant to pierce me through and through as in a glorified altar state, with the iconic little glasses and cornea issues proud and recurrent like a naive medical student who faints at the sight of an opened up chest, but the bible says, the bible says that to open your heart is a beautiful flooding valley and the cries are not cries of apocalyptic fear but of joyful rapture, sucked up into the red blood sky moon, raptured like a good pious vacuum, those sins warned superstitious and exiled from the impulsive nature of the self of man before named man and women before men named all men men in history texts instead of gender neutrality which is not even the point to begin with. Forget it. All is lost. The moon is flushed with an angry passion. Like Dad when he is frustrated out of his whits in second attempt to fix the VCR. When those existed and the speed of technology no longer sold whiplash xanax dramamine anti-suicide pills to our sleeping and corrugated flesh. our stained flesh. with weighted florid heights and a lack of mutual respect. It must be because I have a window and sit naked in the illumined sphere above pretending to float. 

spring broken

Mental fireworks flared up with birdsong and the blackest tea, a thin film of sleep still covers my teeth weakly as I’m torn awake by movement and cold chills both. The heater clicks predictably in a total disarray like a drunk percussion band leader throwing mallets at undergraduate marching band drummers. Planes fly overhead predictably like the yawning sound of God’s total and absolute absence from modern life. We like to cling, to cling haphazard like barnacles, to our old wooden ship ideals, those washed ashore years ago, lightning blasted a hole through the hull with diamond precision and nothing floats.

This is the first morning of Spring Term and of my, freshly considered, junior existence at the University of Washington. Not sure how to feel except gently brazen, a blase demeanor though an infectious smile and nod toward truth and literature. There will be words. So many words to describe the world through other lenses. There will be fish eye, telescopic, retractable, malleable, grounded in observatory, depth charge, window washing… I will spray rain-w-x on my body and run through the rain watching it glide off my body as rocks tumble down a mountainside through a forceful upward slope.

My critical thinking will not flatline, I’ll be drowned in words. Courage to settle into myself and feel no teeth gnashing, snarling guilt about my charity case silent resignation apartment life. Can I exist without losing my mind in this apartment? can there be music and laughter even with the repetitious and insane click-clack of the heater which is so incredibly distracting to my rhythmic words and musical mind… it has no rhythm… it is atonal… there is no music… Quite often I hear voices and the slam of the garbage or recycling bins outside the living room. I hope they sorted correctly though throwing glass in with paper doesn’t make much sense and fills the consciousness with a dread that our mess is too great to fix easily, quickly, efficiently.

This is the time for growth. For job hunting and lovesickness. I have to carve my way into this place with the insane persistence of wind erosion or canal building.

Motivation comes from putting things off in a forest of distraction and suddenly finding a clearing in which to work through as much as possible before returning to the trees.

She is a clearing with big beautiful spruce and maple, with vines tangling around my feet when I step out too far, those tulip fields and nimble foot dance partners.

I am suspended animation. To believe that I have a purpose to fulfill today, in comparing clothes and eyelashes with the fellow students of my first two classes, the very first a long trek all the way beyond campus, it is rattling and confusing. Really I shouldn’t chase this rabbit much longer… questioning, concerned… everything… It should come natural and I can’t do it without a good breakfast. I can’t have the energy to pretend I’m more socially stable than I am among those who probably downplay it to seem humble in my presence. To overthink is to die in introductory settings. It must be instinctive and without polish. Let the dull truth shine like gleaming sunlight over an ocean.

Realize how worthwhile you are to get to know. Never pretend. Know who you are and nourish that personality with a magnetism to attract others with similar beautiful belligerence. Now clarity waits in the form of a petty breakfast scramble in the corner kitchen. There will be vegetables and fruit. Fuel for these important encounters with future peers. With confidants or co-conspirators. With enemies.

Science of an Anxious Party Scene

mar 8th 3:13am (edited March 12th)

Those paralytic stairs and the head-on glances with downcast eyes that barely avoid getting hit by an alleyway car. I hike through the drunk-pretense gauntlet and my mental health is variable. When so much is uncertain the role wallpaper plays in a room is questioned absurdly, as if it could respond itself. The retro patterns take human form. Here there are traumatic visions and a disappointed skull for never reconnecting with such an averted past. (the concrete or the abstract… which would you rather bang your head against?) Then wow! the consistent cross checked 2 year conditioning period to “break in” as they say through bath salt  bated breath. I worry that I’m projecting the needy, well-fed house dog attitude onto the other younger partygoers. They concern themselves with the trivial subject matter from which I had long dissociated, while I darkly brood and dance simultaneous, moving awkward and tentative like a newborn calf unsure of its footing, the musculature of achilles. The bow and arrow.
The bar idea falls flat. It exits my dark cloud shadow pulpit mind into mist, with the musical talks from ghosts of friends, then it makes more sense, then it is lost in the glazed over uncertainty of dance moves and curb jumps while traffic zooms by. I am too a ghost. The physical barriers lost and my distinctions can be limited by a mere removal of certain particles, replaced by crystals and diamonds of an incessant thirst, put in the request and enlist me in your mighty punk rock army, with the ideas manufactured like post war colonies. Then everything is formed like nothing ever happened. On the tombs of our greater, older ideas, and the whole dressed cute little mischief, all of those conjured up histories and the isolated heat of indoor sticky messes. Our conversations limited to bullshit with the silent condolence of our most recently deceased dreams.
…for our (four hour) minutes spill out forever in the lost art of broken teeth to open beers. Terrible decisions of youth taking flakes our of our skulls, the reach for water ignorance, the conversations averted, sad drunken misfortunate, the black cat followed me like a plague of death, party becomes a lifeless body when there are no collaborative games, or meaningful shared content. The intimacy of infinite spaces and hugs of wondrous warmth ignored by the cold glass eyes of harmonious detail, as the personalities change, is how bodies melt together. No matter who I was, it was good to make a statement, English. Weird isolation. Hungry for music. Waiting for it to happen like a blissful firework in the palm of night. Disappointment is an understatement.
The head straight down through the midst of gawking people. Shrill laughter. Dollar to the coffee desirous homeless man and the Japanese girls that cackled disapproval at me from their stiletto heals for the action, the hand washed like sheets after an orgy, the documents after the unjust verdict is made, shredded then burned up in a a fire of astonishing size. These are not the most full thoughts, emotional outpour of complete passive dismissal, the unbelievable truth of only knowing a handful of people and then panicking from an undiagnosed social disorder, the dreams die together with the accountability of oneself for action spent to get home. I understand how your interactions with strange men occur now. If I went less guarded to the party and cool hand Luke decided to keep the ‘mixed greens’ high to himself, with the windows opened, the volume increases and our ideals are crazily felt, the alcoholic influences of dreams all dried out due to lack of nutrient supplies. We hashed out the plan, we’ll take the jeep, now crashed, parked and blocked in, the panic and senseless anxiety to consider any situation as an impossible one to account for, there was a hand meant to hold, a crazy desire like that of a tiger coming of age, my hands were so dry back then, huge gashing cuts from carpal tunnel percussion frenzy, somehow the humility extinguished…
I thought back so fondly to those dead moments that I willed myself to exit present truth.

A Night in Santa Barbara (from July 3rd)

It was cloudy and we are riding bikes with uncomfortable seats, dreaming of better, longer parkways and allowing our stupid selves fall into dead ins.

(I interrupt myself from pleasant recollection of a day in a sweaty and sudden desire to go swimming in the cold pool at 12:11am on Independence Day.)

We keep finding ways to ruin our bank accounts for this limited summer. I am here for the long haul burning through money as if it kept me warm at night and wondering when words might come to my rescue. They come flowing out of me but I have still yet to understand how to many anyone give a shit about what I have to say. We all get so used to interruption. Brothers, our kin, speak over us as easily as if we had said nothing to begin with. We are left hideous and voiceless. We feel unsafe on long drives back home and there is nothing to it but the trapped sensation of our selves entering the groove, where many souls have expired to pave the way, we are left alone in our hot oblivion.

Strange to think of how transient this love is. We hope to end up in Europe somewhere and understand that everyone hates Americans even if the Americans hate themselves.

We drank with old MCA Records employees, gold-diggers, and prison guards. We felt obligated as we had already been sitting there for awhile, unemployed by the interesting lights and sound effects.

She realizes how unhealthy this life is for me. I am too stubborn to exit in any sense beyond common word usage and jam sessions of myriad accusations sent through electrified speakers and hard wired to our brains like signals of accidental strength, the ridiculous lengths we go to have a decent conversation with a complete stranger. It takes allowing them to buy us both two cheap and watery drinks for the price of one and a quarter and then a pint of the gin with conversation on the beach with fireworks illegal and cop cars chasing them down as if the illegal inventory matters more than blissful tradition and the sense of heaven on earth, with our own power and investment to make stars explode on our own accord, the finalized claims against humanity as an entire species, horrific altogether….

Oh no, Oh no… I carried her from my car. We sat in the van for many more hours than the bike ride lasted. They smoked cigars without us; us without them. They did not need us. Us them. The van allowed conversation about nights. The wildly different perspectives and we felt the anxiety on levels higher than normal.

Too hot to continue. Too drunk and hot.

Embarrassing end to a day, long with stupid weight of insolent claims. Gin and tonic forever and ever. Never allowing this to happen in such a manner again.


I fell under the weight of my own fear, toppled head long into the ocean to cool off, drowned under a frozen lake with no hope for air, crashed into the median like the last stampede of wild horses, manes trailing behind like fire. When I’m afraid, I fall out of love with my confidence. More aligned with a total disconnect, or a deflated balloon. No, that’s depression. When birthday boys and girls suck out all of the helium of my high voiced happiness, I’m a hollowed shell of purpose and darkly brooding out behind the arcade.

There is an enormous paralyzing fear of humanity eradicating all other species off of the planet. At least, no natural animals remain in this scenario, plenty of genetically engineered creatures wander, zombie-like, enslaved, in the wake of the lost. This won’t be a replacement. This fear is huge and hard to comprehend. I hate how conservation efforts have become based solely on local economies and clipboard nagging outside trader joe’s. We tell someone about diminishing numbers of tigers. They tell us about starving children.

Why must we only save humans? Have we no empathy for our cousins?

This self righteous mindset. Us before them. The archaic hierarchies, like Shakespeare’s challenged natural chain of being, with god on top and trees at the bottom. I want to flip this chart. Trees, bugs, animals, then humans (unlike the archaic chain of being with masters and slaves or royalty and ruled)… angels and god belongs at the bottom.

So many good christians do not believe that they need to take care of our world because of the promise of heaven. “If it sucks here it doesn’t matter, because it is infinitely better there, and I have a backstage pass.” I’m not saying that it is bad to dream, but as a belief system that proliferates like insects, it might be wise to think of your little impressionable offspring. What kind of world will they inherit? How could they ever forgive our collective insolence?

Many fears. Many fears. These big ones allow the small ones, such as social discomfort during a job interview, to become trite and trivial, ultimately meaningless. These looming shadows of truth and inevitable consequence makes torn muscle tissue less sore and the anxieties of isolation to dissipate into a fog.

Lastly… I’m taking an introductory Oceanography class at the University of Washington and as we discuss the potential global effects of sea level rise, or ocean acidification, there is a painful constant reminder of humanity’s self interest. To talk of ocean acidification and the possible disappearance of all coral reefs in mass, terrible die-offs, there is the inevitable question… “So what? How would the extinction of these species affect human life?”

A miserable question. Then we talk of socio-economic consequences such as coastal land loss and damages done to the fishing industry. Boo hoo.

Humans can only be coaxed into action if their “favorite kind of sea food” is endangered.

Why can’t we become an endangered species.

Blonde Girl With a New Tattoo

(somewhere in Canoga Park, California)

Blonde waitress asks, “Hey do you come here often?”

“No,” I say. “This is my first time.”

Conversation ends with an exchange of names and a handshake. The joint offers beer with breakfast and weekend jazz. These are crucial ingredients to a fulfilled life here in this harsh, unforgiving valley. The valley of the damned. Language barriers (English/Spanish) and many cars in lines attempting to get out of parking lots. The valley of lost and broken souls spans from each equator to the northern and southern poles. (The entire world is a valley of lost and broken souls).

Unforgiving blonde waitress with arms cradling plates and coffee mugs. She has to deal with the yahoos who take advantage of the $2 miller lites on special, to chase down scrambled eggs and french toast. She has a blurry tattoo on the back of her neck. Drunk tattoo artist maybe. I don’t look twice.

Because, I’m captivated by the swirl of creamer in my coffee cup. Is there a pattern? This chaotic swirl of white mixing with the clear black of the weak coffee, in a tan whirl pool. I mix things up with my coffee spoon. An ample comparison for a drunk young women who go out on lakeside docks with stoned friends, trespassing on private, though unarmed and vacant, property. They send naked pictures of each other to boys. They mix things up into tan profusion.

My thoughts drifted to the young women on the dock due to parts of an overheard conversation while eating dinner elsewhere last night. They have nothing to do with my current caffeinated meditations.

There is a painting of a rainy city block where people and their umbrellas take off into the sky. Watermarks of impressive precision. Some careful, trained hands created these streaks with the artistic certainty of the totally insane.

Cut off a chunk of your ear and mail it to your ex girlfriend.

Spend the final years of your life in an asylum staring at clocks and gardens.

Water flowers with your salty tears.

Imagine tree removal surfaces. When everything becomes a liability in such an interwoven clusterfuck of man, machine, and nature. In that order. Dystopian future is machine, man, then nature. The age of the cave man was nature, man, and what in the hell is machinery.

Blame me for the removal of your tree. I pissed on it because I didn’t want to waste the water of a flushing toilet just because I had too many vodka-tonics in big plastic double-lined cups while playing drums or bass or guitar inside the hot box of the wax-scrapping studio, where magic music manifested and wax widened wits.

Blonde waitress, will you come to my show? Will my shifting perspective put you off entirely?

It should. It damn well should. I’m impossible to follow and you have better things to do.

So thank you, my second mother, (from last night’s dinner) for giving me advice. You talked of tolerance. Of what it takes to bite my tongue and when to choose battles.

It hurts me to understand where you are coming from. Clearly, you do not speak up every time something bothers you. It gets tucked away somewhere hidden. Somewhere behind the tight, wry smile. Somewhere behind the cooking/cleaning habits. The habits of a dead world, buried in the 1950’s.Your blonde streaks do not hide the emotional disturbance clawing at the floorboards. You are not alone in your absent speech. Instead of allowing words to hurt, you take yourself to paradise in your mind and everything is more vibrant and beautiful… This makes you absent from the unpleasant present. An acknowledgment of the sadness of the world is there, like a fucking meteorite speeding toward earth, but it’s simpler and happier to just ignore. To cancel the weight of strong, intelligent thought.

This dinner party all fall victim to illogical thoughts in a mass delusion. The kind of thoughts that shared ignorance plus isolation creates. In this cavernous isolation, people speak out of their asses and tolerate each other’s nonsense with a yip and a yaw. They yell filth and rumor out of their over-privileged mouths. It sounds the same as vomiting to me.

They talk over me like their words are a train and I’m tied to the tracks, shackled and bound, with duct tape over my mouth. My words aren’t even acknowledged. I must wonder if I’ve even said anything. “Go back to your books, fucking democrat,” they say. And I wonder what what politics has to do with ethics. i.e.: death penalty, angelina jolie’s tits, terrorism/drone bombing. How is it so easy to completely ignore a well-known bias? i.e.: fox news, their reputable, down-home safe and sound news source because it spews obfuscation when issues are too complicated to understand after a tall vodka club and a chew. Spitting in a red solo cup.

I have crucial points to express. Please, dear lord, offer me your fucking ears. You may not like what I have to say. But, in your ultimate thoughtlessness, your immoral gibberish, have you ever known what your idiotic words do to me? To my heart? My sensibilities?

Beside justifying my personality to myself before it gets wiped clean, which is ultimately positive, most everything you say is nails against a chalkboard. Grating me in the worst possible way and I hate you for it. I can’t deny that. I must accept that. I die to tolerate your bullshit.

I can’t change you or the stupid, fucked-up-to-the-well-being-of-the-world things you do… although, god damn it, I wish I could… I only have my own perspective in the end. I only have my reaction to you. To your senseless, thoughtless garbage.

All I can do for now is avoid you. Why associate with something intolerable? Something that doesn’t listen carefully to what I have to say about my place in the world? What can I do about a person who talks over me without realizing it. Who understands nothing. Who believes in an entire world that does not exist. Who lives in a fantasy of pipe dreams and wasted water. Who watches television in rapture and plays video games like they mean something to the developing seed of their soul. Who sleeps in late without alarm and with no drive to think singular unique thoughts. Who feels comfortable in crowds of racist marching assholes.

They must be eradicated from my head, blonde darling.

Sorry for the rant. I see you scratching that tattoo on your neck like a nervous tic. Let’s change the topic. Is that new?


Muscle memories serve as incorrect anchors to the gravity of a weightless word. The dynamics slowed up at the wrong moments and we all felt ourselves tumble out of consciousness. Play at a low volume to conceive of fresh rudiments in philosophical ways. The humbling jam session is a room full of flavorful chops and group acknowledgment when a groove is extra tasty or tight.

Some weird insecurity. I lost my words. I was too careful with what I said and too prone to break eye contact and forget names. I introduced myself multiple times to people with high idiocy in my heart and the worst time for me to represent my self for a first impression is when I am alone and sedated by THC. Often a wonder drug to stimulate departure from concerns and that carelessness is accentuated by peaks and river beds. Blood flowing through canyons. All of the dead native culture. All of the foreign influence to put grey smog clouds in the air.

These barefoot hill folk, misunderstanding me for my cultural derision. Let the jam fly in all directions and play music with a stream of consciousness wit. Push and pull. Mostly listening and carrying the weight of open minded conversation with shared fingertips and no bravado. When taking a solo, make sure everyone knows where you are in the simply structure. When world beats take over and everyone starts hitting a drum to save their lives from inconsistency and non-partison participation. Meet me at the equinox. I need the feel back. We hurt inside after conversations. No one understands and that absurdity in my heart… that aching anxiety… nothing can make that disappear unless I allow it to depart from my brain.