after about a year of not cleaning
wherever you live
a room starts to develop that stale bread texture
that smell or taste
and you live with it
or you seek it out and disinfect it
like some old gangrenous limb that threatens to fall off

you dissassemble the room
you've been habitating
and under a pile of socks,
a couch,
in an old suitcase that's never been closed
there's some papers
that you'd wrote on a year ago

the words look like these ones
the words sound like these ones
the words feel like these ones

and it smells of stale bread

you pick it up, bite into it,
to make sure
and you find that smell in your mouth
that texture.

and you sit with that
for a day or two

because you know you're not done
but you're too tired now
to finish

and now that the smell is out
in the open
exposed and a hundred times stronger
with your memories

you move the little briefcase,
you find a new place for it
where you think you won't smell it again.

and these pages, you've found hanging around this year
you place with in the briefcase too.

forget about it, with a couch, some socks,
and a stick of incense.

it's so much better this way.

i write a lot about
failed artists and writers

and my favourite books
have despondant anti-heros
who live life truly;
as real life is lived -
with great imperfections

and all their goals incomplete
or with great compromises,

and just to make you know it's real
the editors line the books with biographies
of the stories inventor

graduated from
ph d. in
married to
also wrote

a life that's pure, fulfilled
and free of any error,
or noble ones
or ones that were beyond their control

while inside
these little forwards
and biographies

lies something dark and horrible
that you know happens
even sometimes to you

and this character
wants to write a book
but can't
and has to deal with
the strange opportunities
and failures
life permits
because it's real.

(you know it's because
they've been so righteously selfish
in a way you can't be;
where you write about others
and not yourself;
and you keep your life
and that life you want to show
seperately;
and you wonder why you can't be
that selfish
and work on your life;
and not give your life
to the characters in a story
while leaving yourself behind)

21

birthdays make sense.
we celebrate death
as life, a moment
measured in cakes.

drunk and smoking too much

Artist's Statement:

my doctor says i should quit but he says the worst part is it's scaring me to death.

i do it to deal with the stress of it.

Craig and Sarah looking away from me

Pygmalion watching Galatea leave.

Artist's Statement:

i think what i'm trying to say here is i have such a big fucking crush on everything imaginable,

everything that can't ever be physically reached.

‎(a woman is [a metaphor for] an idea)

""If Xenophon of Ithaca is gonna spend 120 hours a week netting fish in a floating wooden coffin, Xenophon is gonna pretend that coffin has tits goddammit!"~Origin of ship gender tradition, ~2000 BCE."

Talking to children about sex

Automatic Writing 2

A man wearing a suit jacket walks under the incandescent light, it vibrates and he shifts his eyes fast enough to notice. He is an office man, official and of that inane dignity many become envious of. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here ($$$). He leaves in a couple hours, after throwing down his suit and jacket, after spanning the long halls of his building and filling it’s toilets and urinals with his raw, dirty essence. He goes down the street and looks for something exciting.
A poster catches his eye.
“WHAT I LEARNED FROM LSD

Friday, October 6^th, at a sketchy cinema”
Under that,
“PINK FLOYD AND ALICE IN WONDERLAND

Thursday October 5^th, at a sketchy cinema”

A monopolistic entrepreneur of the psychonauts. They go at far ends to explain how they’ve received chemical enlightenment in just over 1000 doses of mixed recreational experiences. They’re probably just as dumb and pigheaded as he is.

He catches a voice somewhere, “You bashin’? I’m bashin’. Let’s Jam.” He doesn’t know what to think of it and moves on, some young afro with his whole life of guiltless fun ahead of him. Hopes he’s not a criminal.

He walks into a bar, the drinks are expensive, but it’s nearly empty and they have his favourite beer. A line from an old episode of the Simpson’s plays in his head, “What about us drunken slobs?” “You’ll be given cushy jobs!” “Monoraaaail…” It repeats 3 times before he catches a glimpse of the t.v., Sports.

He orders a drink because he can’t talk to these colourful and monotonous strangers without one.  He orders another because one wasn’t enough. It gets a man’s attention and he walks over.
“So?”
“What?”
“What’s your story?”
“Oh, I just got off work and felt a little thirsty.”
“You hear this band man? I fucking love this band. It's The Fall. I used to go to their shows in the 80s, I have all their vinyls, I was so into punk in the 80s, did you ever listen to punk?”
The man doesn’t care.
“No.”

There’s a pause and he wonders what he’s doing here. His drink is nearly done and he thinks about leaving.

“He gets another drink.”
“What? Who?”
“Oh, did I say that out loud?”

He gets another drink.

Automatic writing 1

If I spent enough time perfecting my art I would no longer be an artist, but a machine. I would collapse with the whole weary weight of exhaustion as the pinhole of the world that is my mind’s eye engulfs and spits out a gross, abstract, camera obscura image of insanity. Look here, listen. Do you want to know a secret? I don’t get it nearly as much as you do. I don’t wanna do it just about as much as you don’t. but society dictates that I have to if I want something else (food, satisfaction, women, money, respect. Do I need these things? Yeah I guess so.). Automatic spin-offs of text mean nothing. Touching this keyboard and letting out some sort of organized madness is madness itself. Flooding the whole light of felt tip yearning pages with some notes is silly. Don’t do this because you want to but only if this is the only burning plight you could ever imagine. Don’t tell me I’m wrong, but please don’t tell me I’m right. I only want to exist in my menial space as you do.

hightimes magazine

                The most important thing I’ve learned in college is that I’m going to be broke for a long time, at least heavily in debt. They prostrate my finances for an education that feels like it’s just killing me. The grown up kids they send in first year deal with it by filling their livers with alcohol (drugs), over the counter stimulants (drugs), cheap experiences (drugs), chlamydia, pot (drugs), and cortisol. The majority learn they’ll always be in debt, or if they’re lucky, that nothing really matters because someone will always be there supporting them until they’ve joined the rich oligarchy their fathers are in. Billions of Sisyphus’ pushing themselves up a mountain of debt: poverty, student loans, mortgages, private pension plans, government bailouts, bribes and islands of trash floating in the pacific because they’ll clean up after themselves much later.

                How can we ever live in the present when we live in a culture that enslaves us to a future we literally can’t afford? We live on borrowed money from the world’s ultimate powers (usurpers), or borrowed time from our own cheap, environmentally negligent greed also bestowed upon us by our masters. We managed to build the pyramids of Giza without slowly poisoning our planet and killing a third of the world’s species, why can’t people hold down jobs while doing the same today? When it’s close to too late, we’ll pay much more with our labour to forgive ourselves and fill the gap from all these artificially cheapened prices of our vices. Again, we’ll fall victim to major financial powers who are completely out of our range of influence. They’ll take our money as punishment for following them down the same hole they’ve lead us into. This is a zealous corporatocracy violently spreading itself across the world; the free market rules in a system where the only products are consumers.
                Now the neoliberal financial system consumes itself and brings political strife throughout Europe, the Middle East, America, and North Africa. In the meantime Asia, South America,  and the rest of Africa are also beginning to temporarily profit from our destructive philosophy, and the powerful ‘investing’(they buy you and your resources and your ideas) dollars of the invisible mega-rich. Once the whole world falls to prey and suffering to these financial dominions, when we are consumed with toxic debt and waste while a select few hold whatever they could ever possibly imagine, what will happen?
                Will we use our established collective technological and informational wealth to strike down, ignore these masters and control our own fate? Will we lay ignorant in the dearth of power while steeped in a world full of energy and resources?

I know I saw it
when she looked as if she's catched her existence' first
glimps of light
flickering on and off through a tree shaking in the sun,

and she

she only said 3 empty words to cover up what she was
with a polite what she should be,

"how are you"

a sad look down, her shoes are dirty and they have little holes
(her feet outdoing their slow obliteration in travels)
.

i smiled,
and not knowing how to hide what it was i am and feel in such simple elegance,

left.
(while my shadow stayed for another 3 seconds and held on to
but could not say,
"fine")

He's back in the meat truck again.
The kids are trading hickeys
like baseball cards

I'm in a field
picking and chewing the seeds
from a sunflower's womb.

Wondering:
when are you back
when will I be next
and when the hell
are we
going to grow
up?

Dec. 6th, re: Nov. 28th

One year of delirious madness
cursing the name of woman kind
loving, forgiving, using and being used.
I found myself staring
at the shadow of last year's
broken ideals.
The same colours of shame and regret
but seeping in from other people.

I laugh it off like a word
repeated excessively.
It loses definition,
a gross bodilly function
and the simplest joke.

Finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger,
finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger, finger, finger, finger,
finger, finger.

I HOPE THIS LOOKS GOOD.

Mark's Birthday

      It was 5am and I was walking around downtown looking for a place to sleep. The Park seemed nice. I saw a friend walking around high on acid with no way of getting home. We were both pretty indifferent.

      We walked by a dumpster, there was a junkie digging there. He said, "I found God." I walked over to see what the fuss was about. He was sitting in a pile of rot, smelling like a dead cunt, staring at a moldy pizza crust. There were letters strewn around, from lovers far gone.

     He said, "I found God."
     There he was.

     I rode a bus down sleep street until they started yelling at me to get off. I walked into a school and laid down. There was a hunk of green slime where my head was. "I found God."
I woke up and studied the vanity in human knowledge, tried to find him in some words carved by crumbling bones buried far away. I left feeling frustrated. "I found God."

      I was walking through the quiet villages of scorn and pity and there in the bloodshot eyes of hate, "I found God". I went to a bar alone and talked lovely with a young bird who felt like she deserved too much, an older woman who was there looking for some money and attention with bad skin. There I saw Him again. I hugged the toilet with blood mixing into my tears and could clearly see the face of God, smiling and shining and shading on me.There was all black except for the fire in a single white-red point where I could feel the engine of like stoked by the endless burning of souls.

     "I found God." He was the answer to the bad dreams we live through. All the violence, pain and shame. There he sits and feels you.

If thoughts were a thing that happened.

Feb 20th, 12:50 p.m.
     I am laying in a pool of cold water, the sky is dark and I can feel warm stagnation lifting off my belly and creep endlessly into that great void between me. Next to me is the only thing I could ever count as a possession: a floating plank of cedar. Now, as sometimes happens, the wind comes and brings all the smells of life I know but can't remember: hard sweat, genitals, perfume, smoke, alcohol, library pages, and always the cedar. The wind makes the stagnation lift a little more off my belly, and sometimes I try and catch some of it back. I lift one arm and it gets a little cold. It feels different. I let little beads of my own vapour and wind saturated smells get caught on my vestigial hair. I let the smells soak in on my skin and then drop them onto the cedar. I can keep them longer like this before they fade away. On the luckiest days, comin' in on the tail end of short zephyrs are these little birds of light. You can almost touch these little sparks sometimes, but mostly you just try and squint and see what you can make of the shapes in those lines and feathers. They bring just enough warmth to quickly dry my skin, and the little beads of water I sometimes leave on the wood turns into saltstains. The cracks in the dead water beads resemble the birds. At least I think so 'cause when I look at the plank it's all I see: those smells and the birds in the passing shapes of life so far away, written out in my dim, salty cracks. So far, I am happy just like this. There are days, though, with no birds, and no wind; days where I just feel the immeasurable cold blackness underneath, and I find myself, in the slowest touch, sink.

This is what a thought looks like.
Half baked, still pink on the inside, hardly edible. A mess all over the plate. OTC Stimulated thoughts sold for $7 a bottle. Stolen, returned, with a few more tokens within than before. Unfocussed thoughts. Thoughts about nothing. About people looking at themselves too seriously or not seriously enough. About the status quo being entangled within itself, and always unbound too hesitantly. Bad philosophy thoughts. I don't want to feel like this anymore. Putting words out in a half a heartbeat skipped inflection about putting a part of my mind out to rest. Shut up. Shut up brain. Do what i Want you to, not what you want me to do. Stop distracting me. Stop and start again. To a hip hop beat. To the unending drum solo of reconciliation between the world in here and the world out there. To an impressive image of quarrels coming out only with winners. All the losers forgotten joyfully. All great things end themselves and with no help from the Gods. Temply chest wall pains. Overcognisized burns. Overstimulated meaningless drivel. On and on. Word vouch for painfull ness. I need fun but my connections are drying up. I won't be able to read this. I don't know where I am. I don't know if I'll ever care to read this. I'm on a road to destruction and it's only got one lane and i'm sharing it with everyone else while we watch some lucky ones on across the median going the other way. Or we look enviously back and see the young faces who can't see ahead. Dark weather forecasts, the weatherman's always wrong and he still gets paid day after day. There is more to life than this. We hope. When we can hear the dull roar of an infinite army of souls falling off and dying everywhere. There's gotta be more than this. As we sit and mix out drinks and share stories about nothing but what we saw on the road. Or else we'd be bored to tears and suicide. There's gotta be more than this. We write and we share books made by people far more careful and observant than us. There's gotta be more than this. And we get the best of help from world class educators whose only shame is not being able to standup to the youthful minds coming in to take their place. Not ours, but they know they're out there and so do we. There's gotta be more than this. Even now as i sit with my eyes closed hoping this all unfolds properly so I won't have to try again because I should only get one shot at and life works in ways that always lead us towards our unforgiven determinism. We are helpless and there's only us to blame. There's gotta be more than this. There is nothing now. Beyond these fingers and closed eyes and haze, there is nothing worth escaping from or to. I can feel the stagnant alcohol nerve connections holding me back. Yet pulling me forward. Spending weeks at a time doing nothing but sitting in cigarette smoke and having fun and knowing it's not enough. We go to bars and empty them with a few dollars moved and the world turns again and we grow up and people hate us where we used to sit because they looked at us the wrong way or we were too stupid to know what to say. There's gotta be more than this. We stop, just for a moment. To reflect on what's coming soon, coming ahead. We realize we don't see much, just hopes but we feel them fizzling out due to our irreparable irresponsibility and bad game. And the technological vices that help us ignore real life keep faltering or breaking down and we get disappointed at them and disappointed when they only entertain us so little. There's gotta be more than this. And we wash down the same pills of routine and here goes nothing again, knowing that slowly our little rivers of thought that we've neglected somewhere else far away have dried up. We lost the map to creativity, to youthful radiance somewhere a long time ago. There's gotta be more than this. We're crashing over and over and dying every night in our dreams. We think about death and everytime we do we get a little closer there ourselves, we get there everytime we breath, we drink water, we fuck, we dance, we scream at the world that it's too loud and it needs to shut up and you're the only one making any godamn noise and you can't stop. So you start yelling at the echoes you've created and you try to cancel them out and your whole fucking world starts to crack like crystal. It never really breaks because you're too goddamn scared to get your voice in that perfect opera tone cause the whole mystery of everything else always screws you over when you get closer to breaking through it. There's gotta be more than this. Interruptions over interruptions getting between you and some unknown ambitions. You don't know what the fuck you're doing so stop pretending. Stop putting out fruitless bullshit because it's only cramping your hands and those rivers drying up somewhere lost in the maps of childhood were probably just going to be the same anyway. You repeat: There's gotta be more than this. There's gotta be more than transitory success and shame and shame again and so much sadness and heartbreak that you even wonder why the hell they gave you these little gifts in the first place. There's gotta me more than this. And you find love: a woman and sex and the smooth, silky sin of a live snake crawling all over her neck. And it's never enough, and you find magic and think it'll break you free from all the bad spells some evil lord put on you years ago but that only lasts for a moment too. I get what's advertised but I don't get the product. There's gotta be more than this. There's gotta be more than this. Ther-

Jan 6th, 9:49 am

I
Boarded the bus to Montreal @ 8:20, 20 minutes late. Hungry and tired with no sleep. Can't sleep. I want to make art out of life and daily living (Ken Kesey). My words are growling like my belly.

I am being driven down an endless stretch of ribbon which rips through repetitive, indescribable nature, unfolding in endless variations of God. There is no one on this road but us: the halflifes, the undeads, the sleeping saints motioning @ 100km/h through limbo. Waiting to thaw to life by the dawn of urban breath. Until then, sleep and ignore this track of life.

II
So I am left here, with the option to calm and clear and write to explore the deepest crevices of logic-cum-memory-cum-inspirations. Along endless scroll is set before. The road never ends and it never covers regretted mistakes. It only moves on leaving a thin trail of heat exhaust and rubber behind. Indiscernible beyond that left by every other. White, black, loud, sick cars, no differences. We are all encumbered by consciousness, all running here and there and sitting boredoms in between. We all murmur out our lives, loud or not, enjoyable or deafly.

Cursive is the lost art of endless road.  And now in it I struggle for consistency, cohesion. If exaustion does not get the best of me I will continue, if my mortal state shall not need rest, I will fly it towards those who have no qualms with eternity. With love, on a bus, sharing two seats with inspiration: a travelling mathematician who is ready to flirt with you if you've worked hard enough on a humble temple for him to visit, to stay in.

‎"upward behind the onstreaming it mooned."

I only want what is mine to claim
peaceful hours of nightly dignity
and a score of books to tame.
I will make ruins of this dead city
to burn the distractions away.
...deaf to hear the heartless pulse -
red lights - people who won't stay
carrying messages with no remorse
death will shunt out the headless
who wear blinders of a racing horse.
I, a crack, lightening the morphing sky
untangling knots throughout distress
between endless sips of lye.

unspoken spoken word (@ rex's den)

so another little girl has twined my mind twisted and whirled

i got her playing over and over in my head like a barbershop poll

girl crush powerdreams like superdoubts in cyberspace

i coyed my way into her room to check the books she's read
and saw all the pages she's left scattered around her bed
covered in her secrets

god i want those secrets

but i can't think.
i can't remember what i wanted to say
everything i know is on fire burning hotter than all the books in alexandria

that's it
i know

i know what i'm going to do like the done have risen and taken my place in doing.

not.

the trick has been played and in the moment of tricking i could have spent the momentwiser.
and the moments reflecting on moments of you passing by passing away pass away. i KILL time. painfully, idly.

and in the morning i will kill again after waking in the easy thighs of regret. wondering why my pillow's wet.

but if i had to say it to her

call me when i'm found out. on the side of the road. with one foot following another. follow my voice until i get to what you're looking for. we are basically two sides of the same person. even though you're on the other half of town we are both vandalizing eachother in this city. the bricks are being splashed by our fresh wet soul. we  paint the backs of eyelids and take photos through them. we nuance the sounds coming out of every window. like so much metal and power which attacks the slow waste of time we are the future branching out of the thoughtdead moments. variating until the end of the end but there are always more ends that never end. there's so many knots to leave untied

old uneditted unpublished, october 2010

I cornered off the world.
in 4 walls of my own.
I bought knives and rifles(rivals).
I yelled at the kids on the grass,
I put up a fence around the lawn.
I looked out the window
onto the street,
for the rest of my life.
I got old
I died.
Nobody noticed.
So squatters moved in
and made art
and did drugs
and tore down the walls.

When all the magic exploded,
released by bulldozers.
Something grew there that I hated
Something beautiful
unselfish
and violent.

unpublished uneditted and once written, april 25, 2010

 the lashing of the vulgar tongue
heard everywhere equally, earnest without reason/
the doses we swallow daily to corrupt
minds to times current
interrupt in coughs, commotions and nightly commas
we are better off, half of us
while the rest don't want to hear
any comings from creatures so equal
billions so same and single
that are alone or wish will it
 live life out the river tree top cliff fort bend by deadly sweet bees bird bears
bring a single soul
another halfway hypocrite

Sanity is a hard system check.
Logic is an unsure phenomenon.
Sometimes it's hard to tell
when your pants are
slipping off your ass where they
belong. Maybe you might
feel them at your
ankles, but at that point the
shame is done.

What are you to do?

But it's certainly easy to feel
the distress of another
naked bum.

Rilke makes me want to feel dangerously -- A passion not of an action hero drama but a slow magnificent undercurrent on humanity pulling myself and the world into the deep painful murks of liquid thinking.

Thinking which outstrips itself like a naked Earth slowly being drained of her blue skirt to show us all the life she's held in her deepest gashes -- fossils and legendary creatures and shipwrecks of lost knowledge and the causes in everything that hides away from us.

I want to lose
my youth laughing while he joyfully
surrenders himself to bitter age,
while it hurts.
While I can
while I can.

2010 dec. 2nd

My life comes to this: I was never given the opportunities to fall into the well respected niches people die out of. I am in a struggle to find my own modest space.

Love is truly the mightiest thing. I can not just love Jesus because I would not love Buddha, Zeus, Moloch, Allah, Ra. Simply because it would be more profitable for me to only follow one path of love -a well trodden one like Christianity- does not mean it is the right one to follow. I love ...long long list of people... I love everyone. I love Charles Manson, I love the two serial killers who went to my school. God is a synonym for love. Humanists put this ultimate power of love and creation in our hands, to love ourselves. I need to tell...not love everyone enough. Every moment of everyone else's life is precious. When you come in contact with someone, you place yourself into them. You literally are a part of them. When you cause them ills, you hurt yourself too. Rastafarians say I and I because in this way we are all one. Empathy is key. Make the lives of other only better. Please. Golden Rule and all. 1 Corinthians 13