this is going to be weird

i broke my rules with the title, but the rules start now.

this rambline nonses you are about to read witll be typied via kyboard with no error coorections. i'm not saying this i origal (unles soeone's already done it), but it should be fun.

thi s is wholly predicated on my trust of myself, because i'm the only one who really kn ows ewhether i've correctedmyself or gone back afer the fact and re-edited.

anyway, kit seeounded like fun.

this might go on for awhile.

consideringt it like a film. but ex not the dark night. gecaues that movie is the new style. it will go like a bird soraing up. wow.

so we lost gotday with

our team got shelled today. we lost 18-1, in a true heartbreaker. i didn't play. i passed off the costume quite well, but i didn't feel disingenusous. and i'm glad i didn't play, because i lran leared (n) that will i will be a much better coach.c

i was standig at first base waiting for runners. i looked up pat past the terribly rbright overhead floodlights. the sky was this ov lovely purple colorw n and the clouds rollin in (geez, i suck at typing) ay? and the clouds rolling in were majesticly mas s fuck it . the clouds . i was at first base, and i looked up at the sky, and these amazing clouds were rolling in, and i thought: there is no where else on this planet that i would rather be right now.

18-1. 11 run sce second inning. i didn't play- my thumg should be ok for next wknd. we need pitching. i ove love baseball.

if you made it this ar, you are a hero. please give yourself a huge hug.

back soon.

this funny thing

we dream endless falling dreams.
we dream of sadness
and sex
and mystery.
when it's all over,
we wish we'd taken the time
to dream of love.
or to at least remember the good words,
the ones that come at 1 a.m.
while we're sitting up with sleep laughing at us.

she's in that place again
that place she goes where you can't reach her
her skin falling over itself to catch up with her bones
as her heart beats itself into emptiness
and all the things you created die,
over and over again.

it won't work
it won't work

forming at the cracks and the corners
are notes from songs you've never heard.
these songs are getting louder.
these songs are made for driving.
these songs are made for driving us
mad.

again

weevils

you know those weevils that get into your laundry basket and eat your skin and your hair and keep turning up in the strangest places, like the back of your gorilla jacket? i remember this, once, this non-sequitur once upon a time place where demons roamed. why demons? why not a weight instructor, or your dad, or how you used to be beaten by lemons?

a lemon party? certainly. oh my.

when the time runs out
when the time goes away
when the machines quit
or have nothing left to say

that is when i will leave this place. what's that, you say? why, it's a baseball! it's a dog! it's a storybook going away forever on the sheets of the wind, writhing in your pain addled monkeysuit.

bring this here to me now. bring your face before me, so i may laugh at you, laugh in my dreams.

bring this here forever.

forever is so overused. why not always? why not?

this dead city inside my heart is ablaze again.

more dead cities

the sequel...

Life

dead city sunsets

dead city sunsets
nothing but rigor for my friends
i love beauty and death
you know where the water
meets the land
cold teenage flesh
cold teenage hearts
so far away from textbooks
so far away from love
i hate your face
i hate your knowledge
this is why i march alone
this is why i die

why not?
why not bring something to your blood
that eats what you feel
it eats what you love
the concrete highway dies in your heart
the math doesn't work
the teachers are wrong
the mathematics die at night
when the dogs howl
we die laughing
we die together
we die

Post your political feelings here!

Is the U.S. edging toward a fascist state? Is it ok to criticize the government and still remain patriotic? Talk about it!

I wish I'd thought of this.

I'm going to post this here and say that I think this is one of the loveliest and most inspirational thing I've seen in awhile. Enjoy. And go to the link here and choose "Watch in high quality." The version here doesn't do it justice.

Where IS Matt?

badel

we made love close up, in black and white photographs-
head shots, forehead to forehead, in sharp relief,
always on the move
with the caravans that travel underneath the cities.
your beauty is a mystery.
your heart is a question mark.
i love you so much.

every day, each family has a different cat.
does that make you smile still,
the way you would when i said your name,
badel?

no one can pronounce your name
but me.
and i sit here, alone.
and i miss you.
you are my only love,
and you have my heart.

how does anybody get anything done
in this town?
it never rains.

It's just a "mental" recession.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_lu4dcxl4GY

Sunday: dream

i’m in some kind of room with bill. there are newspapers scattered all over that I want to read, but cannot. I feel like i’m in some sort of trouble, although we both seem to both be the same age. as I start to leave the room, I ask him if he’s ever seen the movie “unbreakable." he says no. I want to tell him about it, about the mythology of setting up the hero and about human potential, but I don’t want to spoil the story. I ask him if he thinks he’ll ever see it. he says he isn’t sure. suddenly I feel like i’m going to cry from the very roots of my being. I cannot speak.

I go outside and i’m in the front yard in pahrump. there are huge trees down the road where there weren’t before. i’m with two other people, a girl I don’t recognize and jason bellak. there is a white dog outside the fence, hopping up and down to play with another dog I have with me, penny. the white dog could come into the yard easily- the fence is wide open redwood slats. but I know it cannot come in unless invited. I invite it in. it begins to chase me and penny. meanwhile, george is in his pen looking sad. the white dog grabs onto my finger on my left hand and hangs on. I can feel its needle sharp teeth in my skin. I shake it off and begin to spray it with the hose I suddenly have in my hands. it fights me and gets closer, but with the girl and jason’s help, we get the hose unkinked and the water pressure increases. I yell “I uninvite you! you betrayed me! I have to get a tetanus shot now because of you! you are uninvited!” I explain to jason that the creature can only come in when invited but you can uninvite it as well. he’s wearing glasses and looks educated.

the white dog has disappeared. I am anxious that it might return, but it seems to be gone. I go over to george in his pen and pet him. penny is gone. george looks very sad. I still have the hose and begin watering the huge trees that were never there before. I am having a conversation in my head, I think with brandy, about the trees and how they were transplanted. I enjoy watering the trees. I enjoy giving them nourishment.

I just want the peace I had in my life back.

This one is for Jupiter.

i'm so easy

jasper & me

we're in love. that much is plain. i'd be a fool to be so blind. but, how much?

jasper, that guy...he likes to pretend it's just infatuation...something that happens with roommates. but i know better. and he's just betrayed himself.

when i get home i pop the a/c unit in the bedroom on, in order to make that room comfortable for sleep when the time arrives. jasper normally gets in there early, reveling in the cool air. i caught him, tonight, lolling about on the bed, lol-ing. if that's something he can do. which i believe it is.

so i capered on in, fresh from some nice white wine and 'alpha dog.' yes, it's a good film. please see it. you'll enjoy. jasper was on the bed, lounging lazily, being himself. i've never doubted his happiness with his home. i snuggled up against him, and he responded in kind, moving gently, softly, looking into my eyes. i touched his chin, his ear, his back. he moved against me. we were in sync. we were notes of music, soft on the air, sweet and divine.

then...the real motivation. i know now how deep his feelings run. he stepped on my chest, his tail raised high, and moved his furry little ass in front of my nose. "what?" i could sense him thinking, "nina smells my ass...jewels smells my ass. you live here. why not you?"

"sorry, buddy," i said, as i moved him away from my face. "i'm not into that scene. i love you, but...no."

and tomorrow, for dinner, it's fresh tilapia with gravy. the smell alone will help him to forget i spurned him. and we'll move on. until the next hot july night. oh my god, i can't wait.

Glad to know you.

*note: i did NOT take this. i've seen it around a few places. when i find the actual author/photographer, i'll link to his or her page.

My visit to the doctor's office

Today I visited the general practioner, Dr. Edward Riceberg. He's a swinger- funny, hip, and tuned in to the cultural zeitgeist.

I'd injured myself playing baseball Saturday night, getting bashed with a pitch when trying to bunt. Needless to say, I struck out. For the fourth time that night. But I did play the last half of the inning at first, making a terrible play and costing us two runs. But I digress.

My thumb was swollen up like a puffer fish filled with blood, and it needed desperate release. The drugs were working up to a point, but I wanted to bend my thumb again soon, due to the fact that various tasks required the use of opposable thumbs. I'd had x-rays that turned up negative- no fractures or breaks. But the doc wanted to see me anyway.

After some inspection, it was determined that my thumb would need to be drained. This didn't sound joyful, but I could take it. I reasoned that it wouldn't kill me.

The doc prepared a very high tech tool- a bit of needle taped to a tongue depressor, which he heated up with a Bic lighter. After the needle reached maximum heat, he pressed it gently against my thumbnail, informing me that I wouldn't feel any pain since the nail was simply dead tissue.

Ah, the smell of burning dead tissue. I love it, morning, noon, and night. And the pain...no pain at all, until the needle burned through to the soft tissue underneath the nail. That hurt. Blood burst up in a small nuclear blast, soaking the doctor's cuff and the tissue paper covering the shelf my hand rested on. Another squeeze of my thumb brought out more dark blood and matter. No matter, for I was still alive.

Now I have a band aid. After all this, it simply looks like I cut myself. Hurray for injuries.

Seems reasonable.

pen

Beshitted by a skinful of cheap red wine, I grinned slyly at the window and contemplated the moon. i have wanted to let you know i have lots of cool friends in the movies and on TV. i go to parties with the famous people and we cavort and caper in the gardens of fancy homes on mountains overlooking the sea and the rabble living down in the valleys. we are much better than those folk, whose names we won't mention, but go by the names like "..." and "*38." various people have also commented that i resemble a large rabbit. i don't believe this, although when the mescaline and sunrays hit me in the proper fashion i could be led to believe anything.

This doesn’t matter currently. I have wanted to tell this story for ages but have only now found my voice. Perhaps I speak in a language you cannot understand. It doesn’t matter. You will vaguely follow the arcs of my passage no matter what. I speak in a universal tongue.

I’m trying to find the best way to tell this, in this place, at this time. I would write freehand, but my hand doesn’t always agree with what my mind thinks and seems to go off on its own. This is fine- perhaps my hand has its own story to tell. But the one I wish to tell now is locked up tight in my head- has been for years- and now needs to get out. Out, up, away…so I can feel free again. So where to begin? With the dreams, I suppose…with the dreams.

1. dream one, 17 years old.

This dream is almost always the same. There is a house sitting old and neglected in the middle of the Nevada desert. Mountains rise up on all sides of a long valley like old mansions, haunted and alone. Majestic purple thunderheads roll in from all sides, the apotheosis of all storms meeting at the beginning of time before men- before anything- walked the trails. There is no rain…yet. The air is huge and pregnant with the thoughts and ideas of one million years, a prehistoric knowledge that dreams will never end.

Running along one side of this old decrepit house is a fenced in dog pen. The feeling here is always one of incredible, indelible sadness, tinged with a small ray of hope that never dies. Sometimes there is one dog here, sometimes two. Sometimes the dogs are running free through the sage brushes under that boiling sky. Sometimes the gate is open, sometimes it is closed. The water bowl changes shapes and colors and is usually empty. I know I’m making progress toward my true spiritual evolution when I come to this dream-house and the bowl is full of clear, cool water. I know that I still have work to do, but I can stop the charade, stop running. I inevitably cry at some point.

When I come to this place and the bowl is empty, I have to take it and journey inside the haunted house. In through the wasp and spider ridden laundry room with shadows and shapes in all the corners, hiding obscenities better left unsaid. In through the door to the kitchen which smells of dust and memories and dreams left to rot in the cupboards. Over to the kitchen sink to turn the tap and hope that all that pours out is water, and to hope it is clean and pure. Hoping while I wait for the bowl to fill up that nothing comes out of the dark hallway, from the old empty bedrooms at the end of the house, lurching and shambling towards me, grinning an empty faced, empty brained grin, the shitfaced grin of a drunk, of a corpse with nothing helpful to pass on to anyone. Hoping this old terrible memory won’t lay its decaying hand on my shoulder while I wait, while the clouds dance and shout outside, while the air becomes heavier and more urgent.

Sometimes I make it back out to the dog pen with the bowl of water. Sometimes I don’t.


2. dream two, 7 years old.

I’m being pushed along a hallway. Thick red curtains cover walls on both sides, old Victorian era curtains, heavy like menstrual blood. I think there may be something lurking along on the other side of these curtains, but I certainly don’t want to see it. I don’t know who is pushing me along, if it’s a person or a creature or my own mind doing it. I know I’m in some sort of antique chair which I believe has gold legs and framing and a red cushion. I’m always being pushed towards an open window through which a stiff wind blows back the red curtains framing it. I am completely, absolutely terrified because I know that when I get to that window, all things will end. There is something ancient- something that has no concept of time- waiting on the other side of that window with a sickly smile and a dead heart.


3. dream three, 25 years old.

This is the dream I’ve only had once, but once was enough. It has sunk into my bones and blood, sails along my bone marrow like a haunted ship on a strange sea. I hope to god I don’t pass it on to my children. Can dreams pass through DNA?

I’m on an island somewhere…alone. In dreams I am almost always alone. There are mountains to the left of me and an endless blue ocean to my right. The air smells of a salty tang almost unnatural in its immediacy. I could be the only person in the universe.

Have fun!

Have fun!

Older,

insides taking longer to react
and to repair.
brain sometimes feels rotted,
like the garden carrots
back behind Angela's house-
the garden we tore apart
for some impulsive reason
when we were eight.
got a night in the basement for that one-
heart already dying,
even then.

But these guys
they're my new favorite band.
They've been around
a few years or so, from up north somewhere-
I need to find their album.
makes me feel a bit younger.
A little more realistic about my abilities
and my appearance.
At least I have no spare tire,
except the one in the trunk
of my car.

i'm drifting down
with this sad snowfall,
thinking:
Ever feel kind of disjointed,
like in your limbs?
Your writing flails
from everywhere to nowhere
and nothing makes much sense?

You want narrative thrust,
but the best you can manage
is to get out of bed
and find the rest of last night's bourbon.
Then you realize there's none left,
and that's where this hangover
is ringing you from.

we struggle through our days
doing menial tasks for other people
and remember when we thought we'd run the world.

these days go on forever.

4

You’re going away
You can’t do this here you’re going away.
This toaster doesn’t work right
So what do you say
The phone isn’t ringing
It’s so yesterday.
Caterpillars are just as cool
As butterflies
And blue tinged gnats
The kind that live in caves
In Venezuela.
When we go to parties
We act like it’s 1985
The drugs work
I don’t care what they say
The phone isn’t ringing anymore
At least not today
My kitchen’s a mess
My head is my only house
It never rains.

Answer the poll.

Win a prize!*



*You will not win a prize.

What a crazy son of a bitch.

Check this out

Watch this video while it's still available. It's over four years old, but I agree with Ben Cohen. Bush isn't just stupid and religified. He's completely delusion. And he's gotten worse. With the just signed into reality FISA laws, stories abound about how he was happier than a fucking clam to sign them, giving corporations complete immunity while spying on us all.

Add to that the fact that Obama caved on FISA and is now strictly in the middle, and I'm a tad depressed about the future. Jesus. Really.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ben-cohen/bushs-banned-interview-an_b_111804.html

This is exactly why I love the internet.