You only say you can't imagine pure nothing because you can imagine everything but you don't and the worst part is you don't even realize you can imagine everything in the first place because we just follow the ball which causes us to be broken down and forget things that we once felt like all those pins in needles in our legs when we were a bit new at the game and also thought that we could see through objects that were up close when we couldn't understand right then and there the power of having two forward eyes for viewing.
Because I've been to places where I shoplifted to get a girl and places where I couldn't suck the air into my lungs fast enough and I've drank more glasses of water than I've had mornings where I woke up with a positive attitude and that don't mean a fucking thing except that I have a bit more appreciation for when a bona fide positive attitude comes around or at least that is the excuse I give so people will get off my fucking back because I couldn't even tell you where I stop or if I already have.
So I'm going to do what I do best is make a to-do list and cross some things off and get to put the cap on my pen for one more day so I can stand up not without a stiffness in my back but in a better attitude with which to receive it as I finally make my first trip of the day outside only to cross [5. Exercise] off my list as I run past the small gathering outside that one fucking restaurant and one of the patrons applauds what he believes to be rocks in my backpack as I run, carrying myself and the extra weight up on back towards my lovely hole I found for myself here near our small but suitable coast, carved out of a dying empire, constantly brainstorming gun-laden plans for defending myself against what seems to be an eventual mudslide towards economic collapse and the regrettable military style reactions that everyone should but doesn't and only me a handful of my paisanos worry about.
As I sit here wearing the loose cyan pants worn by our father on the night of your birth in a hospital, as I slept unknowingly in my basement catacomb at a ripe and shaky 13 years of age, the same shaky age at which you find yourself now, these pants littered with lounged days and depressed sighs, piss stains from a lazily shaken dick and depleted cups of tea and water, the same pants I took with me on one return trip to a desert country I could have lived without seeing again and which I could only imagine what immensities and possibilities regarding which you may or may not be curious to think about concerning me and the life you have come to realize is quite unlike what you ever may have even imagined before. And for some reason I’m sorry.
Because I will say here what I will most likely say many times hereafter about how I feel most like some sort of burnt out nerve ending, sent to occupy an earthly mass like a pinpoint between the dynamics of palm-faced, shaking-head fantods and smoke billowing apathy and to come up with no sum short of that I’m just a bit tired and could use a coma or something to recharge because I’m running on low and I’m fucking sick of having to keep my droopy, exhausted gaze upon convincing myself to keep this earthly mass for like a week or two more and to do so I have to imagine a not too distant futures filled with hand to mouth survival and basic righteousness of which I will shine like a motherfucking supernova because then it really will be a level playing field unlike what you were born into and accept without question or curiosity and I seem to have a nuclear powered radar for and am just fucking sick of having to absorb the suffering you choose not to see because you allowed your culture to turn off your radar for you.
And all the while I'm oh so nasolacrimal-ly sorry.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Pot Helps pt. 20
I refuse with grace the corrupt philter from your RGB eyes
I despise
Naifs and Fops, all of whom counter my cries
and they often win
with few syllables
rejecting any notion of peace or goodwill as sin
and too voluble
but I am unshaken,
a cosmopolite of deaths and awakenings,
sometimes stuck,
the dynamic is amazing,
because I maintain a Chthonic mind full of both peace and hating.
so patiently waiting, smelling the view
a summer day's clarity which might prove to be too good to be true,
to change the brainwashing message you send with your three eyes:
the Red, Green and Blue.
I despise
Naifs and Fops, all of whom counter my cries
and they often win
with few syllables
rejecting any notion of peace or goodwill as sin
and too voluble
but I am unshaken,
a cosmopolite of deaths and awakenings,
sometimes stuck,
the dynamic is amazing,
because I maintain a Chthonic mind full of both peace and hating.
so patiently waiting, smelling the view
a summer day's clarity which might prove to be too good to be true,
to change the brainwashing message you send with your three eyes:
the Red, Green and Blue.
Pot Helps pt. 19
YOU KNOW WHAT
HOW ABOUT FUCK YOU
HOW ABOUT YOU HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE
WHAT WITH YOUR BANDANNAS AND SHADES AND BROWN BOTTLED SOCIAL LUBRICANT GLUE,
FUCK YOU
AND CONDESCENDING TO ME WHILE YOU'RE THE ONE WITH CAPRI PANTS ON
I COULDN'T HELP BUT JUGGLE MY LAUGHTER WITH A PUNCH OF YOUR FACE,
OR YOUR MOTHER'S FACE THAT I ALWAYS JUST RECENTLY CAME ON
CAUSE I DON'T DROP BOMBS
I CARPET BOMB
I GET INSIDE YOUR HEAD AND STAB YOUR THOUGHTS WITH SHIT-TIPPED SPEARS
LIKE THE UNDEFEATED VIETCONG
ASKING ME WHAT'S WRONG
LIKE YOU NEED SOME SORT OF AN EXPLANATION
I SEE DEBT SLAVERY SO CLEAR WE MIGHT AS WELL BE ON THE MOTHERFUCKING PLANTATION
WE GOT A LITTLE RAIN AND YOU COULDN'T HAVE WAITED
TO PUT US ON PAR WITH THOSE POOR DEAD HAITIANS
TWISTED FUCKING RELATIONS IN THE YEAR TWENTY TEN
AND YOU'RE AT IT AGAIN
LIVING FOR THOSE ADVERTISING MESSAGES JAMMED ALL THE WAY DOWN IN YOUR HEAD
AND YOU DO WHAT THEY TELL YOU TO DO NOW THEN AND NEXT
FEAR DEATH
OR ANYTHING THAT CAUSES YOU TO SLOW DOWN HOW YOU SPEND
BECAUSE IT'S ALL FUCKING MADE UP
LIKE THE WORDS THAT COME FROM THE LAVA OF MY GUT
AND THE INFLATED THINGS YOU'LL PROBABLY WANT TO SAY
AFTER YOU HEAR ABOUT MY WRIST
THAT GOT CUT
so get fucked.
HOW ABOUT FUCK YOU
HOW ABOUT YOU HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE
WHAT WITH YOUR BANDANNAS AND SHADES AND BROWN BOTTLED SOCIAL LUBRICANT GLUE,
FUCK YOU
AND CONDESCENDING TO ME WHILE YOU'RE THE ONE WITH CAPRI PANTS ON
I COULDN'T HELP BUT JUGGLE MY LAUGHTER WITH A PUNCH OF YOUR FACE,
OR YOUR MOTHER'S FACE THAT I ALWAYS JUST RECENTLY CAME ON
CAUSE I DON'T DROP BOMBS
I CARPET BOMB
I GET INSIDE YOUR HEAD AND STAB YOUR THOUGHTS WITH SHIT-TIPPED SPEARS
LIKE THE UNDEFEATED VIETCONG
ASKING ME WHAT'S WRONG
LIKE YOU NEED SOME SORT OF AN EXPLANATION
I SEE DEBT SLAVERY SO CLEAR WE MIGHT AS WELL BE ON THE MOTHERFUCKING PLANTATION
WE GOT A LITTLE RAIN AND YOU COULDN'T HAVE WAITED
TO PUT US ON PAR WITH THOSE POOR DEAD HAITIANS
TWISTED FUCKING RELATIONS IN THE YEAR TWENTY TEN
AND YOU'RE AT IT AGAIN
LIVING FOR THOSE ADVERTISING MESSAGES JAMMED ALL THE WAY DOWN IN YOUR HEAD
AND YOU DO WHAT THEY TELL YOU TO DO NOW THEN AND NEXT
FEAR DEATH
OR ANYTHING THAT CAUSES YOU TO SLOW DOWN HOW YOU SPEND
BECAUSE IT'S ALL FUCKING MADE UP
LIKE THE WORDS THAT COME FROM THE LAVA OF MY GUT
AND THE INFLATED THINGS YOU'LL PROBABLY WANT TO SAY
AFTER YOU HEAR ABOUT MY WRIST
THAT GOT CUT
so get fucked.
Pot Helps pt. 18 (Sun-Soaked)
It's when I'm mid-west’d and sun-soaked, just going through the motions, when I can hear as clear as the shore water is after the sun breaks from the clouds and shines its justice through the murky brown, children's laughter, soon to be stifled children's laughter, my very own two half-cousins’ laughter and when I lay in a loft, dreaming of revelatory goodness and of grandparent's hugs and familial respect I let go of one more optimistic inflated balloon and peek out of the window nestled in a triangle to watch it soar. I am in here. Like when I was one part of one hundred thousand, a cog dipped in khaki clothing, crammed into a chartered jet to hear an intercommunication system used with disenchantment to praise the zeitgeist of military action with the power of magnetic coils and pulses of either light or electricity, pulses that inform us we are to feel proud; that the mileage-laden attendants of such a voyage towards perhaps certain death have informed me that they are at the first and very least grateful for our eventual ascension to becoming ghosts of uncertain death in the name of a now two-hundred-plus year old emptiness known as freedom, but if you were like me and translated what was coming out of those electric-powered magnetic coils you would hear: ‘I'm just glad it isn't me.’ Like when it's what might as well be one hundred thousand years later and I'm sun-soaked in the back of a car listening to, but not absorbing, constipated appraisals of my survival made to sound empathetic if only to put on a costume and act a certain way, the same approach they take to parenting when they do their best to assemble psyches for the purpose of willfully joining slavery, what with their contrasting use of negative and positive reinforcement that now justifies with perversion their stifling of the children's laughter, the only damn thing those kids have left.
Pot Helps pt. 17
Because I slouch in this chair
horribly positioned,
horribly sweaty,
hoping for inspiration
and never getting any.
Devouring pages but feeling no sustenance,
hopelessness.
Missing my mother but never showing it,
blatant.
Like when they told me that blood was red but I found out it wasn't
and could I even begin to tell you,
the real you,
what it means to me to be experienced in American war,
graduated with honors in horror,
what it means to understand the complexities of our helplessness
and the pragmatic, willful submission to our lords.
And it allows you to ask me,
why my blood isn't a lighter shade of red,
because it's darkened
with pollution when it visits my horror-filled head.
horribly positioned,
horribly sweaty,
hoping for inspiration
and never getting any.
Devouring pages but feeling no sustenance,
hopelessness.
Missing my mother but never showing it,
blatant.
Like when they told me that blood was red but I found out it wasn't
and could I even begin to tell you,
the real you,
what it means to me to be experienced in American war,
graduated with honors in horror,
what it means to understand the complexities of our helplessness
and the pragmatic, willful submission to our lords.
And it allows you to ask me,
why my blood isn't a lighter shade of red,
because it's darkened
with pollution when it visits my horror-filled head.
Pot Helps pt. 16 (Things are ok as of now)
There's a spot that
might
not be there anymore tonight
where
I was reading this afternoon and
where gravity,
and my earthly mass,
made a trampled spot in the grass
where I was reading and basking and
where the smell of the waves and coast
made me think about other forms of being
like death,
maybe you call it being a ghost,
and sometimes my breath
is rapid and indicative
of someone in a life mess
but as much as I fret and pull my hair
I'm not really there
nor do I care
because one day I'll get to be a ghost,
just a memory,
like that trampled mass
of grass
I left down there near the coast.
might
not be there anymore tonight
where
I was reading this afternoon and
where gravity,
and my earthly mass,
made a trampled spot in the grass
where I was reading and basking and
where the smell of the waves and coast
made me think about other forms of being
like death,
maybe you call it being a ghost,
and sometimes my breath
is rapid and indicative
of someone in a life mess
but as much as I fret and pull my hair
I'm not really there
nor do I care
because one day I'll get to be a ghost,
just a memory,
like that trampled mass
of grass
I left down there near the coast.
Pot Helps pt. 15
People that say 'I love you' out loud don't really mean it at all because,
they just want other people to hear it!
Because true love is in the eyeballs. It's in sweat.
it's in those moments you almost died!
And those moments you dance with yourself in your little crawlspace of time,
simply because there are no other suitable partners!
America is one big ole giant house with 2 1/2 bathrooms for one person,
and the notion that no insects, birds or rodents are allowed to share the same space!
America is calling yourself an artist because you want to emulate the notoriety
of previous artists, and definitely not the
one thing that made them artists in the first place: suffering in the real world!
America is watching those who like to call themselves artists get notoriety because
their only artistic talent was to inflate their worth. Tragedies are always the best stories!
And those moments when you want to cut yourself in your little crawlspace of time,
don't forget that you are my only suitable partner!
Because true love is what made me my mother's son, what made me an artist:
the moments I was suffering in the real world!
People that say 'I love you' out loud don't really mean it at all because,
they just want you to say it back to them!
they just want other people to hear it!
Because true love is in the eyeballs. It's in sweat.
it's in those moments you almost died!
And those moments you dance with yourself in your little crawlspace of time,
simply because there are no other suitable partners!
America is one big ole giant house with 2 1/2 bathrooms for one person,
and the notion that no insects, birds or rodents are allowed to share the same space!
America is calling yourself an artist because you want to emulate the notoriety
of previous artists, and definitely not the
one thing that made them artists in the first place: suffering in the real world!
America is watching those who like to call themselves artists get notoriety because
their only artistic talent was to inflate their worth. Tragedies are always the best stories!
And those moments when you want to cut yourself in your little crawlspace of time,
don't forget that you are my only suitable partner!
Because true love is what made me my mother's son, what made me an artist:
the moments I was suffering in the real world!
People that say 'I love you' out loud don't really mean it at all because,
they just want you to say it back to them!
Pot Helps pt. 14
What is it where, in the death pleasure of my life mess
Like the finest bleached white couldn't make me feel new or clean
The best,
know how to be cruel and choose to not know it, it seems.
What's just an acronym to you is a bit more to me than just GAD or PTSD
Until you're juggling with whether or not to be a Felo de se
Don't talk to me,
because sometimes I feel like there are a million of me in my way.
You know I'm the most qualified to whisper in your ear
Because I'm no stranger to bullets, bombs and guns
Eschatological fears,
I just won't be finished loving you until I'm done.
One of these days I'm going to get me some lasting peace
Until then it's all I've ever known; square peg/round hole.
The deceased,
know more about life than you could ever know.
Like the finest bleached white couldn't make me feel new or clean
The best,
know how to be cruel and choose to not know it, it seems.
What's just an acronym to you is a bit more to me than just GAD or PTSD
Until you're juggling with whether or not to be a Felo de se
Don't talk to me,
because sometimes I feel like there are a million of me in my way.
You know I'm the most qualified to whisper in your ear
Because I'm no stranger to bullets, bombs and guns
Eschatological fears,
I just won't be finished loving you until I'm done.
One of these days I'm going to get me some lasting peace
Until then it's all I've ever known; square peg/round hole.
The deceased,
know more about life than you could ever know.
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