Yon and Blither

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Looking for the person of my dreams has become nearly impossible, as it seems I have nearly ceased having dreams. The dreams I do have are empty and riddled with misappropriated fear of impending violence, and lack depth or colorful emotion. Clue me in, mind. 

People, in general, like me well enough it seems, but I don’t know if I feel how it’s supposed to feel when they do. I feel like a collection of meta-data, robotic in my emotions unless the fuzzy feeling wind of intoxicants blows over my mind, as it is wont to do from time-to-time. The weird-ling man without a plan mopes about like a lost dog. Sniffing out something worth anything to his heart and soul, he usually comes up clutching tufts of his own hair.

I was once asked, exactly at the point the collection of my emotional connection to this person didn’t pan out, the fool’s gold, the fool circle, “Who hurt you?”
Shit. She got me. Snatched my tongue from my mouth and disconnected the delicate tendrils that were beginning to grow between it, and my heart, and her.

Thanks, I guess.

I didn’t have an answer. I had a notion. Was it something to do with childhood and broken beds, broken vows? Was my sensuality torn asunder by others’ demons clawing their way out to their own destruction? Could be. Who knows?

The New Style <---All Respect to the Beastie Boys

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Learning to love yourself is hard shit when all you’ve ever felt, at best, was indifference for your corporeal and spiritual bodies. I have found that finding someone who gives a shit about you is almost useless if you don’t give a shit about yourself. I scripted my yesteryears like a psychic retelling of some shitty Lifetime movie made of plastic people that couldn’t even begin crack my emotional code. The shadows in the corners, stock characters really, blow in and out of the frame like so many shuffling ghosts. Elevation of debate, of unholy intellect, of tension became the name of the game to keep this kid from feeling his insides. The macrocosm replaced the microcosm. Inner space had been obliterated by outer space.

A quantum fear of feeling anything at all is now being squashed by the grand unified theory of love. And you know what? The shit hurts. The scars, simmering shimmery with itching madness, line the soul container, crisscrossing their painful patterns from beer to eternity. Crushing clutch. Engage transmission. Vent hostility. Smile. Pull the smile inside. Keep on grooving down the road. Leave the miles behind. Learn to live. Learn to give. The happiness is worth the hurting it may bring.

Debbie Downer

Sometimes, I don’t give a shit anymore. Sometimes, I wouldn’t care if my guts hit the floor. Hey baby, wanna cyber? Lust is blood pumping through my brain supplying it with nutrients made of nothing. My mind is a field outside of the forces it influences. What hurts the most is when I convince myself that I don’t matter. Energized with lies, the disguise manufactured out of smiles and confident guile couldn’t help me hold up the gimmick in the light of day.  Every day is Halloween and I always show up dressed as myself. Fucking fraudulent fallacies. I keep chewing the ice cubes and keep trying to keep cool, even though it all seems to be falling apart. Power to the people! Where are my people? “And where is my family? They've all gone away. Though it's I who have left them.”

Sure as shit, the sun rose up from behind the horizon again today.

Awes Tins Itty Bitty Ditty

Break down the walls. Stretching out like dawn along the border. Yawning in disorder. The anarchy of my lust leaves me empty headed and I don’t care. Silver line designs on some future that doesn’t look bleak. Charlie scored the notches. Blues busted on my belt. Soul hungering, lumbering, through the goods; burrowing in the fleshy folds. Coiled grey matter bathed in splashing colors. Oh! The effluvium, the busted words my mind spake. Funeral sparklers, chewing on cheek, watching/feeling fine as the dark rises to meet the moon, caressed by the borrowed light like a lunar spooning. The muddy angels grab the gold and fan the flames, burning away the debris of me. Texas time flows out from the flatlands. The tears run out along the cracks and crevices. Drought stricken, block writers , knuckle biters inside the ragged red eyes that pierce the blues skies and then the clouds come again. A tumult. A tempest. A tortured man-child with second-sight...gather me the gear and wander off into the brush.  

AnchoresTeem!

I see my tenderness from afar like the swell that becomes a wave in the ocean.

I see my core as something to pick apart and eventually get bored of.

The lock-box, like Davy Jones' locker, appears to be only hackable with the demise of self.

Goddamn it, the horizon always beckons like Hank's places o'er the hill he's just got to see.

Can I not see? I'm a tear that streaks across the land like a river along Earth's face.

I am a fire burning in the sunken eyes of a haggard, high plains drifter.

My calls fade into the distance and diminish into dust.

Time is the champion. Time is King. Time is the thing.  

Shit? Shinola?

Not walking anymore...now I'm floating in a shit gondola.



I Was Drunk At The Pulpit - Bonnie 'Prince' Billie