haunted thoughts 4 yrs ago

You feel your eyelids droop and wonder if you can read another page, another sentence, another word… Fear of death in the night keeps you awake but these ignored writing hours will come back to haunt your dreams, for you will have forgotten what is now unforgivable to forget.


unknown concert 4 yrs ago

This morning I’ll try to assuage my terrible fog-machine head ache with many cups of dark, dark coffee. I will count the slices and cuts on my knuckles, imagine getting four letter word tattoos on them that work well together. At the show, there was a multitude of strange personalities and all of them drunk or drunker, yelling incoherent phrases at the others, tall guys block path, “singing along.”


{originally drafted February 10th 2014)

We constantly have to make a decision between reality and oblivion. For me, this is oblivion. I exit reality in order to assuage my artistic yearnings for the production of things. Writing is oblivion because it is a rambling explanation of reality rather than the present experience of it. Reality is out there, beyond the window of my computer screen and the windows of this house. Snowflakes dangle on ribbons on that window. That is reality out there because I saw a confused young buck with enormous, growing antlers eating the brambles near the old haunted path. My life memories are out there. I could walk out there presently and put this whole writing idea in the can, exiting oblivion.

Marijuana is often a portal for people. If I am afraid or unwilling to live in reality to a full extent, I might smoke myself into the rabbit hole, from which communication with reality becomes difficult. Even now, without the guiding influence of any drugs, I am absent from reality and therefore distant from connected ties with it. I am presently absent. Gloriously vacant and ignorant of the conversations I must have with real human beings, my friends, my old beloved friends desire to hear from me in my cave, but I might hibernate awhile longer, only if my oblivion is productive, you see.

I owe many talks to many people. I owe it to myself to create. I owe it to karma to straighten this all out and balance between the absent minded daylight (however brief today, my god!) and the definitive absence while in dreams.

ancient cave inquiry

They were the last tour group guided through the ancient tumbled down hillside cave, with the animal paintings.Shown active, running as fast as hungry predator and tiring prey. red red prints near the carved out arch, the causeway of the river with tunnels for defensive siege, with the lawless activity of the light polluted city, masking the wonders of space with the aimed upward flashlights, the candle lit search parties, when all search inward and the lights are dimmed, with the intent to hold together, the purpose realized and a pressurized distant came over me like a seabound case of skurvy, no fruit for miles, until tropical shore is once again discovered and the waiters lay out lawn chairs where there are spots of sunlight shone through the steel grates of a poolside

castaways floating on air mattress with sunflower hats and intertubes also drifting without purpose other then as a transport for a six pack or two with the fellas, the lazy river with under water cameras to shake about in the invisible photography lounge in the deep red and the derision explication of my being felt out of place or my control… thinking of the art class that I took as serious as a divine plan. here instead of write continually I will travel inward to the childhood mind attitude I was in while making abstract dinosaur pictures or of jungles, colorful mammals of the cat species, a scenario with aching heart bear cub mothers with the protective paws extended like flag poles and oven mitts, an irresponsible night terror when the others had slept so wisely throughout, the mumbling was insane and horrific and elaborate, a spun maze with ideas deflecting psychoanalytically into a swirled vase jar like a sink used to clean up after paints, the dried splotches caked up in random tear drops on the carpet or cement, or blue tarp, weighed down by rain water and stretched out, thinner and threadbare.

the last tour guide in the new discovered ancient cave. the line of journeys had to quit because human respiration began to cause adverse effects in the previously isolated network of rooms. there are bear skulls from extinct species and a scent of mysterious cave markings

is there a way down from here? some circular passageway where light chokes us out beneath a curtain, a foxglove fern cover, the digging paws at the surface dirt, with intent to discover embedded diamonds. the respiration began to melt down the multi thousand year formations of dripping sediment during the rainy seasons, near the triumphant arc, the valley albino alligator, the evolutionary mistakes escape with their lives.

My Zenith

Silent Friday night when everyone is still home, wherever that is, for the lingering holiday hangover. However thrilled I am to participate, that egg nog has grown rotten in my stomach, the lining screams as it is eroded by decisions made by my hands and mouth, the tavern environment, my mother’s nostalgia, the fear of love-death and sudden, fatal car accidents in the fog, the fog, this mist and dense, thick fog, isolating the colors in the air with a surreal glow, everything was orange under those florescent street lamps. We stole coasters and winked and waitresses uselessly. Talk about life and existences of ghosts or worse.


Do you know what it feels like to time warp all the way through a weekend? You are wide open in the fields while the armored guards surround. Snipers in the tree branches  looking down festively and curious. Those outsider eyes entering new enclosed circles for the first, cold shouldered, time. Oh time, cold shouldered time, let’s put a blanket over you, your neck is warm with that tight-knitted skirt.

Time, you let images pass through our lenses without becoming memorable. Our filters are on always! How are there alternatives to this?

My zenith does depend on a most auspicious star.

Trouble maker,

it is up to you to puzzle fix it together

it is up to you to swallow the toy prize and pop that shining balloon, with intricate weaving patterns stitching the sidelines with glorious, hidden, deep water, drilling ink. Sleep now or forever hold your peace.

Forever hold your peace

without restraint

get up too soon, feeling faint

in three weeks I’ll make use of these

ligaments to lift up fallen trees

invade our day with foreign leaves

ocean flourescent lights cease

rotten means for rotten dreams

speak elaborate fantasies

debts will increase, at least

expect this weight from me, o please.

weigh in my attempt at poetry

meter, rhythm, woe is me

keep the peace

the harmony and open dreams


my  zenith, oh gosh, make a belief we hit it.

upset by that beer drawn image. that queen of quiet drunk based on disrespect of intellect. or worse delicate impact, like brace for something worse and hold your head up with a sideways lifted chin for images


Write tacenda * on envelopes and send them out with eternal stamps as the wind blows around the room, like “there goes the night!” in a chilly, cauldron-brewing voice with gravelly vowels, and bewitching consonants. There goes a stirring presence outside. Life of an animal. Some created beast of the deepest purple, imaginative domain. A black bear wearing a red/brown coat. Used as a rug in front of the fireplace. No derth of pets here in this sanctuary.

* ((tacenda are things not to be mentioned or made public—things better left unsaid; tacit means “unspoken, silent” or “implied, inferred.”))

Die in obscurity like sleep and everything else.

Tasting ground up teeth and weaving spiderwebs of future images in this weary, relaxed head. Away from apartment searching, complex confusions, innate details and fighting through anxious habitat. Stop tapping on the glass. I want to pretend you’re not there.

Pull the lever, the pressure is on and the startling amount of people driving is a crazy distraction, every now and then, with two hour traffic beers and wordless interaction, is it pretend to tell stories or to become a cog in a machine of purple fright? in this night zone, I found myself absent and unable to call for back up, with the singed ear of a hurricane epicenter, realize the time spent, bursting with words to convey, follow those crazy guitar thoughts and bass playing on the opposite end, we were concluding facts about how certain thresholds seem to fail to happenstance.

We are surprised by our impossible reactions. There are breaths, eyes closed, calculated steps and bed frame jam sessions, decide to open up like an envelope with cursive Latin insignia at the top, the centerfold, unveiled, habitat damage, focal point, underground railroad spikes, meeting of the minds, gregarious, numb fingers crumpled into fists, jammed into pockets, dimes stacked like a tower of layered cake, finding the frosting in a blizzard, make love like a batch of fresh cookies, ignore the sweet tooth urge and find escape through the realm of clean, unadulterated sleep.

Meet toward where we sat last time. With guns on our shoulders, capes on our backs, bleary overstimulated fog, unable to choose happy, appropriate words, make out like a fool, in public transit, drunk after an embarrassing home loss, televisions smashed in the streets, graffiti on the trees, highway rumbling, the buildings withstand but the people don’t seem to, they open umbrellas and take off toward the south for the winter, like migratory birds, with climate style chosen by lizards, become another sun bathing creature. Now it ends in a hurried tap out. taken across the burning sand of empty memories in slight hindsight. meet for me the new king and I will allow her presence

Stretch out your larynx soldier, you’re on the right track. Eating gruel out of small tins over big fires. Keep your composure and everyone will follow your every tangent. You’re in control of this battalion of white blood cells and pulsing embryos. Sparkling eyes in the midsummer twilight. You’ve seen the future battle scenes as heroic feats of athletic prowess. You’re confident you can’t lose. Until the enemy invades your sleeping camp and poisons your crates of food, disappearing once more in the night. After breakfast, once the paralyzing poison kicks in, the enemy drifts in, leisurely severing the heads of your battalion. The enemy is cancer. Or sickness. Fat cells. Alcohol in the bloodstream. 


Lose the rhythm and the building topples over