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.