went back, exhumed some.
found a genuine curiosity and pressing unique to love and only love.

saw the devout and frantic nervous words of trying to capture the mass overthrow of mentality caused by hungry and ravenous hearts. needing and knowing nothing else. not just the visage but the all-around tidal velocity undertow of her.

i kept the other half too. words where i'd see the deception of intent there. forcing effort just to posture them on a platform that was suitable for communication. untrustworthy; vultures swarming.


i'm in neither here,
and i missed my ship.









stockholm syndrome is real.

design.

aside from stripping down to oil lamps and that whole process, i agree with what's being said here. it takes different styles, different moods etc. i know people who can't even imagine sitting down and writing in a notebook being anything more than an archaic waste of time. personally, 100%, i would feel absolutely nothing if i were filling word documents with the kinds of things found in my myriad moleskines. there's a catharsis to it. the feel of so much blood.

sci-fi author on writing.

-

mix cd almost done.
dream journal filling fast.
video project to accompany if i can commit.

the many men of one face.

as far as i'm concerned, i haven't been here in years.
i threw a girl down the orgasm hole, stared down into it like a biologist. spasms and muscle contractions again. science versus recorded science: proper. my eyes fixed through her energy. you aren't here, you aren't here, you aren't here, you aren't her. i remember the heat when we couldn't even lay close but there was the desertpact we'd made, a cobra in heat, wrapped and torn together like arteries, moving like an anthill from meters off, the pulsing mass, thoughts drawn to the place where monasteries chant.

scales and scaling.
you walking off and oh god your human shape.

terror of the weather at its coldest and where i'd been a year ago.
when the volume got eroded.
when there was the finale as a curtain emergency.
lights up.
audience liability.
fingerlightening: your story vs your life.
understood, it was your life or it was me.
it was years you'd built up or years you'd spent.
on a has been.

i told you things i'd told my witnesses
about your stance and the prints you'd
left across my intricates. i knew you.
i failed as this is still a bridge of gasoline:
the flint in museum vacuumed glass, the steel my fingernails.

i'm an approach in recognized delay,
the pendulum held in apexloft.
say go,
i mean it:



you tell me go,
i go.

oxygenarian.

written on the commute to work while on the four ninety five. please excuse grammatical imperfections.

I often have no idea what anyones talking about and thinking back I have no clue how they fill up the silent space. What the stories are describing or who the characters are, or what has stuck. I think about trying to reengage some of them, the ones who are my age range, somewhat within my generation... But there's no venn diagram thats fulled with much more than blood. Movies, tv, music, games, books, any media.. Social appetite dripped down to minimal priority. I got to watch my dad, drunk because he was bored, stand up to flip some burgers, stagger, then smack his head on an air conditioner this past weekend. Mom laughs, "my husband has had a little too much to drink." What the fuck is happening.

portly.

i have spent the last few days thinking about drunk regret. and i guess i can't really say i've gotten to the point where i've succumb to it very hard at any point in my life. though this weekend could be a candidate for such a moment, with the juvenile karaoke bit, then the dancing with the girls on stage bit, though those things are just moments. i saw a video the next day cold-sober and i felt nothing about it. though i guess i start to think about the different levels and waves of people seeing it and the various possible reactions. but the amount of energy i've spent on thinking about that doesn't even show on the scan compared to what my phone history told me. called that number 3 times. based on the call time, i don't think i left any voicemails or anything brutally detailed like that. but still. how my fingers and mind continuously stray to that place is uncanny. it's so trustworthy. i'm sure it's best that these calls went ignored or missed.

if i can remember to associate it here, i'll post a link to any/all incriminating evidence from that night here (some are below, though these are just tolerable moments).

.

--

the first night we were out, we went to this horrible horrible place called "dick's last resort" (this particular location), and were told we were going to eat. instead they paid for a ton of drinks, and let us watch the house band who was decent, but seemed to be manufactured from the sum of dragging some lake. to explain a major part of the restaurant's modus operandi, they try making you feel like shit about yourself blatantly. in fact, an ongoing theme is that they'll make a paper hat for you and write some level of ridiculous quote on it (such as "i miss prison sex!"). the tablecloths are paper, and i had written down a TON of ideas for MY hat, none of which were taken. unfortunately, i ran out of room in front of me and started writing ideas down in a moleskine. i lost the entire thing. it's okay... it was only half full and was only from a couple nights before, the plane ride, and that day. but i can throw some ideas at you:

- my cock is a fortress of solitude.
- why does my mom's birthday remind me of the boy's locker room?
- this is the disney land of cop-a-feelia.
- the last chick i banged looked like lost highway from the waist down.
- the only thing gayer than me is the guy that came in my ass.

each time i offered a hat idea to the staff, they looked at me like i was some kind of foul-mouthed hooligan.

go hard or go home.