Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Journal 72 - Pillows and Philosophers

This was the last one of these I wrote for 3 years.

Ants carry their lives on their shoulders aligned and
disciplined like a military outfit of a middle eastern
country, surviving on their obsequious cooperation -
no time for ridicule when the next batch of eggs is
sagging in the queen's ass. I carry nothing but shirts
on my sagging shoulders - separate from the voices of
america I sing the song of the doubting self-doubter
I sing the body corpulent and deteriorated. I co-
habitate with the mice and the roaches watching The
Wire on my two-color TV. Feathers accumulate in
my bedroom from the pillow taking a mild beating
after trying to drown myself in Nietzsche, Wittgenstein
and Rilke - taking a drowning bath I punch the poor
pillow in defeat. The next bottle will comfort my
orgasmicless soul; the next bottle will float my body
electric on the river of Lethe in the valley of Megiddo.


Monday, May 18, 2015

Journal 71 - Naked Bird Biblical Roads

The jungle is out there on the road again, out
there on the naked bird road again tweeting and
twittering like heckles and hydes jeckylling to the
toony bird tune of twelve tones syncopated pride.
The jungle stands with eyes n the trees and limbs,
eyes in the damp light breeze of the voluptuous western
wind, stands with music in its hairy ears and herbs
on its long skinny nose. Scents of backyard shovel built
farts harangue in limp afternoon snorts of another refugee
lost in the traffic of the modern man's man-made jungle -
there stands on the field there, there on the dried-up
football field, tiny footprints made with tiny cleted shoes
trample out-smoked hope and cures. Footprints of faded
feet trails away like an ancient galaxy turning blue in its
lugubrious retreat. Feet of mighty minds and sour men
careening in their circumambulating aimless wonder trodding
over nothing but images of the dawn when Adam first
saw Eve, or thunder when Noah first looked into the
water breathing winds. Faded images of yesterday's bliss
defecate on calculated theses and well-plotted afternoon
plans of life in fifteen well-worked years, well-termed
plans of life in parties and cocktails and morning tea
shooing away the flies and the wiping away the warm
snot from their well-worked clothes. I welcome the tardy
yellow smile from the barber's jungle, welcomed for this
is the apricot year when spirit-charged grouches will
sniffle and cheer with their tin garbage hat on, cheer with
the nose of a reindeer lost in the eyes of the slaven
stars, stick on their forced mathematical course like
sheep about to forget themselves in the neighbor's terminal
cave. The jungle is wet with black flashes of black
shiny light, painted on the side of its face like a big
subway after the circus comes to town. Drops of water
from the chamber pots of the demented evaporate before
touching the living evaporate in this pallid earth before
corrupting the minds of the youth. Beethoven sings strange
songs the poor in the palm pit of the man longed jungle.
Cross the winds with the sign of the Constantinians and
sing a strange song to the rich in the palm pit of their city.


Friday, May 15, 2015

Journal 70 - Drop of Time in the Ocean

Time is a drop of rain water in the middle of the
ocean, tiny ripples of self-same waves dying out and
retreating only to return and fold in upon themselves
in another slow assimilation of vapors. Condensation
is good for time to reveal itself as self and mattered.
Extension into our world, vibrating like a physicist's
wet dream string tossing about in the embers of
cold fusion. Nothing is cold at the moment of death.
Tomorrow closes in like the lungs of a violent asthmatic,
with next week a mere coughing attack brought on by
the light cigar smoke and smog of the present day's shrill
enervations leading t a drink and a thought that
the time to make it all make sense has passed like
the spectacular unknown beauty of the northern lights
or the humpback whale. TV is another leveller and
anti-climatic equalizer. Time is a wooden sailboat
rocking and creaking in the middle of the dock, tied
to the pier with loud croaking rope - a wooden boat with
three tall masts for show - unable to sail anymore these
days, unable to unwind and afford the guy a chance
with the girl. Time is a display of jewelry in the
5th Avenue window sparking in the view of layered
faces or dirty teeth. Dirty teeth are sad in this
veneer world of sycophants. Breath of duck mean pizza
and cheap wine with lemon ice-box squares is the breath
to capture the firefly in the summer evening. Sometimes
time lies in the hammock and stretches its old brittle
bones on those firefly catching evenings with the glowing
jars and flashing faces of unbreakable children. Time stretches
long enough for the kid in the towers to catch a bullet
watching the kewl gun fight down stairs in the piss-
bucket street. Time stretches and yawns like a slightly
inebriated uncle on loan from the probation officer. Eyes
the color of ether and the excitement of a fat tick.
The moon has caught up with the hammock and scoffs
at the laziness of time, scoffs at the unchanging care -
less nonchalance. The moon is young in this game.
The moon shines down its flashlight rays onto the
writhing streets of Earth's concrete back yard with
red eyes.


Sunday, May 10, 2015

Journal 69 - Words, Laughter and Absurdity

The word to sum up the world is degree, no -
perspective. No, it is. The world to accumulate
the dust particles we refer to as birthdays appears
to be non-existent, nothing, impossible, incommunicable.
The word to refer to laughter isn't laughter for that
is absurd. But the word for absurd can't be absurd
for that is laughable. Words it seems are contrived
and disconnected from the world. Words are irrelevant
but alone in the quest to co-habitate. Meaning is
tautology for the mathematician but little bits of
soul for geographically split lovers. Words are without
meaning except when Shakespeare says, "To be or
not to be" or "Shall I compare thee to a summer's
day" or even the abstract, "Let me not to the marriage
of true minds admit impediments." But force is still
equal to mass times acceleration, whatever those ostensive
words mean or allude to. Allusion and probability bubble
up from beneath the foamy pond of universal drying
primordial drivel. A chair is not the word chair
but it is not an anvil either. Unless someone sits
on it. But then it is an anvil being used as a chair.
The signifier is not the signified but it is also not
insignificant. Does the chair require four legs? A back?
Arm rests? Ah, to define precisely the chair. Philosophy 101.
Quien sabe? We still know what a chair is. And that
it's not a word like chair or ______. Justice of
course is the tougher battle. Justice is the dark side
of the moon. Justice is the dark matter of the uni-
verse. justice is an abstract base class, a late-bound
instantiation of a virtual conceit. A reference to a
postulate of another pass in the night debate. Conversation
would be so much easier if meaning really was a
cell-phone abandoned and left on with minutes remaining
on the side of the street of the gutter of last night's
liquor piss and vomit. Laughter is another word for
absurdity while absurdity is another word for on-
the-hook thought. Processes live in shared memory for
a time before the out-of-memory killer trolls along and
kills it for abuse of power and resource management.


Saturday, May 9, 2015

Journal Poem - On Hope

Hope hangs her damaged head like a daisy,
In disbelief that hands could be so cruel -


Hope sits in the corner of the bar silent
with the music and eyes and feet -
pressing along with dirty fingernails and
tight clothes on top of folded skin
waiting for the perfect vacant seat -
On which to seduce another damaged man
With dreams drawn on naked bodies;-
Naked wandering beer glass broken streets
For the true and the real life-loving grin;
Hope stretches her arms and yawns
Searching the alternative choices she pretends
Will charm her when the music quavers and ends.
Big sunglasses can't suppress the out-cry
Of a socially dependant grown-up lie.
I just saw Hope wink from the corner of the bar
At the tattooed convict strumming his guitar.


Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Journal 68 - Language Dried and Wriggling

Language is not a wooden baseball bat you beat
people over the head with, hoping to straighten
them out or convict them. Words are life
preservers thrown out into the wild winter ocean,
necessary for survival but always to be improved upon
and reconstructed like Charlie Brown's red kite now
lost in the waves of the adolescent spitting ocean.
Poseidon is pissed (pun intended for my English friends).
It seems knowledge and facts are hidden underneath
the modals and the simple tenses lost in the distance
between our minds and the "world." The world is a
conglomeration of disjoined perceptions that swarm
like maggot flies inside our material brains searching
for a way out through the ancient tunnel of
meaning but meaning was crippled by the Qoheleth.
For all our random pseudo-intellectual bullshit about
the noose of meaning every day and each minute
we assume words' meaning and communication. I'm
sorry officer I can't be held responsible for that
accusation; your words are meaningless to the context
and daily life I live. Facts are by-products of the
classical physics of Newton and Aristotle - both
wrong and frustrated in our internetized world of
mass information and probabilistic communication. I
live in a constant state of affairs that changes
with each breath I see from the anti-misanthropic
TV. Yes, constant change. If TV weren't anti-
misanthropic perhaps The Wire would have survived
beyond its adolescent years. Sometimes I wonder if
network TV (including FOX) isn't taking over the
role of psychology and the church - a mild analgesic
story to assuage and reconstitute our worries in a
magical framework of justice and the Hook Up
for a manageable construction of the social political
ways of the new secular world order. Religion has
had its hand in this since the beginning - another
topic for another day. The secular world doesn't
seem to be much better off. The world is a
bundle of potentiality and degree and perspective
dried up and wriggling without the water and the spirit.

6.18.09, 2

Friday, May 1, 2015


Friends are spread over the coast
Like lookout fires at wartime
Distant warmth and covered backs

To be rejoined only amid tear-hid
Laughs and clinks of glass
Around the fires of our funerals