this is a weird feeling,
a sort of impasse.
the acknowledgement of the impossibility
to make things just work out,
although it's what's on my mind.
ideas on how to make things work,
rationalizations on how to patch things up.
look to the left, inspect the problem areas with
some tools and a magnifying glass.
a little tuning here,
making the flower smell a wee bit more fragrant and
vois-la~
a broken connection rekindled.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
umph
wake up and smoke.
an eight milligram buzz.
it leaves a taste in my mouth,
a hole in my face acts as a vent,
blowing out hot air and stench.
wake up, got that part down.
waking up not in pain,
not so good at that part.
so, i wake up and smoke.
today i cant say i woke up well,
a quick roll, and i forget my invincibility left.
a feeing of mortality.
sciatic plant meltdown.
dammit, i'm only a little one,
still too young to worry about this.
how old will i be,
when i fall over and cant get up?
twenty-two.
an eight milligram buzz.
it leaves a taste in my mouth,
a hole in my face acts as a vent,
blowing out hot air and stench.
wake up, got that part down.
waking up not in pain,
not so good at that part.
so, i wake up and smoke.
today i cant say i woke up well,
a quick roll, and i forget my invincibility left.
a feeing of mortality.
sciatic plant meltdown.
dammit, i'm only a little one,
still too young to worry about this.
how old will i be,
when i fall over and cant get up?
twenty-two.
Friday, August 21, 2009
My Girl
My girl.
She's strung out. The kind of girl you find some strange erotic fantasy playing out with. The girl who's wrecked by a world. Disillusioned. Living life not with a care, but a care-less attitude. Falling forward, knee locking then bending then locking every hammering step onward. Neck held higher than her head. My girl, with her brown hair still wet and knotted. She doesn't make plans, but loves having some. They get her out of bed in the morning, add filler to the time between eating and REM. She wears little clothing. She is little, so they fit. My girl with her fair skin and occasional mole. Colored black and purple, dressed in white and lavender. She smells of eucalyptus. Her shoulders stay back, bosom stays at attention. This girl i call my own, the one living within these words and no where beyond, my intangible valkyrie, her hands run across the outside of my fingers when i type. My girl. My deep black bags hammocked beneath her eyes. Milia and green. Oil based painted on face. She smokes cigarettes and makes me cough. My virtual sidekick. Mine. My girl.
She's strung out. The kind of girl you find some strange erotic fantasy playing out with. The girl who's wrecked by a world. Disillusioned. Living life not with a care, but a care-less attitude. Falling forward, knee locking then bending then locking every hammering step onward. Neck held higher than her head. My girl, with her brown hair still wet and knotted. She doesn't make plans, but loves having some. They get her out of bed in the morning, add filler to the time between eating and REM. She wears little clothing. She is little, so they fit. My girl with her fair skin and occasional mole. Colored black and purple, dressed in white and lavender. She smells of eucalyptus. Her shoulders stay back, bosom stays at attention. This girl i call my own, the one living within these words and no where beyond, my intangible valkyrie, her hands run across the outside of my fingers when i type. My girl. My deep black bags hammocked beneath her eyes. Milia and green. Oil based painted on face. She smokes cigarettes and makes me cough. My virtual sidekick. Mine. My girl.
Monday, August 17, 2009
why so mr. zen
writing. writing is an act of immortality.
the way a word is said, from moment to moment varies, but a written word will remain written the same, unless of course language changes. but even of the classical english translated, the meanings are understood.
writing is an act of selfish immortality. my words are better than yours, and in my elitist skill i develop, i will just show you and everyone else.
in writing i may create, recreate or destroy. i may categorize or i may debunk. it's my freewill, and as long as i decide to holster this gun, i will remain better than you.
with writing comes the ability to be classical, or to be romantic. i can break down my meaning, word for word, reading between the lines. as an artist would paint, i'll write letter after letter, stroke for stroke, and really see what it all means. i can be lazy with my prose though and look only at what i've done, not what i've come from. the ability to see the meaning, or the it.
i've waved no rights to sit here and proclaim beauty in this, nor have i surrendered any freedom to describe its underlying form. i just sit. inside or outside, the ten thousand things in front of me or behind. i just sit, and i just write.
the way a word is said, from moment to moment varies, but a written word will remain written the same, unless of course language changes. but even of the classical english translated, the meanings are understood.
writing is an act of selfish immortality. my words are better than yours, and in my elitist skill i develop, i will just show you and everyone else.
in writing i may create, recreate or destroy. i may categorize or i may debunk. it's my freewill, and as long as i decide to holster this gun, i will remain better than you.
with writing comes the ability to be classical, or to be romantic. i can break down my meaning, word for word, reading between the lines. as an artist would paint, i'll write letter after letter, stroke for stroke, and really see what it all means. i can be lazy with my prose though and look only at what i've done, not what i've come from. the ability to see the meaning, or the it.
i've waved no rights to sit here and proclaim beauty in this, nor have i surrendered any freedom to describe its underlying form. i just sit. inside or outside, the ten thousand things in front of me or behind. i just sit, and i just write.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
要不要？可能没有用
i need coffee. i need one million endogenous free-flying jets relaying signals to small synapse in the brain. i really need that jolt, that sidewinder impact, blowing rock debris and later on heart failure right at me. so i take a sip.
i need that big bank account, the 3.4% interest, and AIG insuring my life savings. i need that three mortgage, big house, two car garage, yacht and beloved children going off to school. i really need that grey hair, ten extra pounds and soon cumulative heart failure [possibly diabetes] to kill me at the age of 55, so i get a loan for school.
i need a big ship to get somewhere. i need it now. i need humility and a big yellow rug. yellow turns to brown over time, and even an off-grey. i really need a clue. but with my jumping from place, i've yet to find one.
we run around, like dogs. even the said so cats run around like dogs. like some black lab dalmatian mutt or something. i see these things now. these people who do as they want (the cats) and those who need to be commanded (dogs). scratching at that, digging a bone and pissing on a fire hydrant here or there, just for later, a scratch scratch and rescratch find us some familiarity.
allow me to explain myself. of course... period. i need that stimulant rush in the morning. my buzz, my fix, the vex that invigorates. i dont feel the urge to go on without.
i need that big bank account really, as much as i need hardees or arby's for that matter. the quaint carl's jr. tall hat and star combo. but i need it, or else i won't be able to buy my fancy things on my credit card. my fifty-two inch plasma flat screen. BOOM
i need that big bank account, the 3.4% interest, and AIG insuring my life savings. i need that three mortgage, big house, two car garage, yacht and beloved children going off to school. i really need that grey hair, ten extra pounds and soon cumulative heart failure [possibly diabetes] to kill me at the age of 55, so i get a loan for school.
i need a big ship to get somewhere. i need it now. i need humility and a big yellow rug. yellow turns to brown over time, and even an off-grey. i really need a clue. but with my jumping from place, i've yet to find one.
we run around, like dogs. even the said so cats run around like dogs. like some black lab dalmatian mutt or something. i see these things now. these people who do as they want (the cats) and those who need to be commanded (dogs). scratching at that, digging a bone and pissing on a fire hydrant here or there, just for later, a scratch scratch and rescratch find us some familiarity.
allow me to explain myself. of course... period. i need that stimulant rush in the morning. my buzz, my fix, the vex that invigorates. i dont feel the urge to go on without.
i need that big bank account really, as much as i need hardees or arby's for that matter. the quaint carl's jr. tall hat and star combo. but i need it, or else i won't be able to buy my fancy things on my credit card. my fifty-two inch plasma flat screen. BOOM
Monday, August 3, 2009
i really don't know where this piece goes.
"The lady on the end over there... do you see her?"
"Excuse me?" A pause, a quick glimpse to the right and an umm. "Which one?"
This gentlemen next to me wore a brown suit. So 1950's. So why are you talking to me older freaky man. Who is he? God, his mustache looks horrible.
"Over there, there is a woman, wearing red and black. Do you see, she has a huge handbag?"
All i saw was the hobo at the end of the aisle, he had a red and black grocery bag. The new kind of grocery bags you get, where you pay two dollars to have some fabric that will be used for only grocery use over and over. It was black with a red logo. GR Beebee's. The black was faded, holes scattered here and there, but the red was as crisp as ever.
"She's a hottie right?"
I look over at this guy, his bushy mustache. His bad teeth and scrubbily facial hair. Obviously a vagrant. Nice clothing though, but not so nice hygiene. Ever get some Christmas gift with a really nice looking wrap-job around it - shiny blue glistening wrapping paper kind of thing - and you open it up to find a dollar store gift card? Same thing.
"God, please help me," he says, "she's got my blood boiling." He reaches over and pats my knee as he laughs. He's really starting to trip me out over here. He leans back over to he side of the aisle and fiddles with a broken cellphone. When I got a glimpse of his eye, i saw his pupils were huge. Big black balls sitting on top of some hazel green rings. My stop is soon, but not soon enough. He leans back forward, signalling he wants to speak again. I lean in.
"You don't think she's gorgeous?"
"Umm, I'm not seeing it."
The hobo at the end shifts around a little, and notice us gawking at him. It's not alright to stare, and I lean back and put my chin to my chest. Incoming sigh and exhale.
From the other end of the car comes a shout and the hobo stands up. The guy across from me flinches and balls into a fetal position on his subway seat. The few heads still in the car look over at this guy sitting across from me, but not at the hobo.
"Compliments to a pretty lady!" he yells back. "I just thought she was pretty," he smirked and curled his head into his protective ball.
Finally my stop arrives and the guy at the other end of the car, with his black and red tote exit to the right.
---------------------------------
I can't believe some people. If I were a woman as pretty as her, I'd love the attention. I fidget, it's normal. Thinking thinking think. Thought! Oh, he was a nice boy. I should've given him my number before he got of the train. Where is this train going? I don't understand though, why didn't he think that lady was pretty. I mean, I can understand that the handbag was a little gaudy, but that woman was fine. Bet she can cook too. Where's my stop? Logan, Wyoming, Hunting Park. 1, to the 3, four five and Fairmount! Seven more stops. The floor is amusing. Speckled gum and rubber shoes streaks. I gotta get off this train. This train. Trains. Samuel L. Jackson, god I love black people!
"Excuse me?" A pause, a quick glimpse to the right and an umm. "Which one?"
This gentlemen next to me wore a brown suit. So 1950's. So why are you talking to me older freaky man. Who is he? God, his mustache looks horrible.
"Over there, there is a woman, wearing red and black. Do you see, she has a huge handbag?"
All i saw was the hobo at the end of the aisle, he had a red and black grocery bag. The new kind of grocery bags you get, where you pay two dollars to have some fabric that will be used for only grocery use over and over. It was black with a red logo. GR Beebee's. The black was faded, holes scattered here and there, but the red was as crisp as ever.
"She's a hottie right?"
I look over at this guy, his bushy mustache. His bad teeth and scrubbily facial hair. Obviously a vagrant. Nice clothing though, but not so nice hygiene. Ever get some Christmas gift with a really nice looking wrap-job around it - shiny blue glistening wrapping paper kind of thing - and you open it up to find a dollar store gift card? Same thing.
"God, please help me," he says, "she's got my blood boiling." He reaches over and pats my knee as he laughs. He's really starting to trip me out over here. He leans back over to he side of the aisle and fiddles with a broken cellphone. When I got a glimpse of his eye, i saw his pupils were huge. Big black balls sitting on top of some hazel green rings. My stop is soon, but not soon enough. He leans back forward, signalling he wants to speak again. I lean in.
"You don't think she's gorgeous?"
"Umm, I'm not seeing it."
The hobo at the end shifts around a little, and notice us gawking at him. It's not alright to stare, and I lean back and put my chin to my chest. Incoming sigh and exhale.
From the other end of the car comes a shout and the hobo stands up. The guy across from me flinches and balls into a fetal position on his subway seat. The few heads still in the car look over at this guy sitting across from me, but not at the hobo.
"Compliments to a pretty lady!" he yells back. "I just thought she was pretty," he smirked and curled his head into his protective ball.
Finally my stop arrives and the guy at the other end of the car, with his black and red tote exit to the right.
---------------------------------
I can't believe some people. If I were a woman as pretty as her, I'd love the attention. I fidget, it's normal. Thinking thinking think. Thought! Oh, he was a nice boy. I should've given him my number before he got of the train. Where is this train going? I don't understand though, why didn't he think that lady was pretty. I mean, I can understand that the handbag was a little gaudy, but that woman was fine. Bet she can cook too. Where's my stop? Logan, Wyoming, Hunting Park. 1, to the 3, four five and Fairmount! Seven more stops. The floor is amusing. Speckled gum and rubber shoes streaks. I gotta get off this train. This train. Trains. Samuel L. Jackson, god I love black people!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
