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.
Friday, August 21, 2009
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!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
kerchief
we're going to try something here. i'm going to start typing and try not to stop. though timid i am, and embarrassed by such work, i must persevere and write on. let me start what is so fresh on my mind. a blonde haired beauty that has no respect for it. in other words, lillith. in other words storm-demon riding the wind, blinding the young and castrating the elder. weak suffered, strong suffered. the controlling controlled, and the controlled revolted, only perpetuating the controlling. the other jbr. the cuter one, the one who makes people melt. when jaclyn walks into a room, people notice. but do they notice her, or herself? point taken if point be made. the long red carpet, unrolling and rerolling with every step she takes. jaclyn, belly made beautiful, tribal made triangular. the only thing i can say at this point is that if you see what i see, you would see what i mean.
a windy night in downtown philadelphia. around the corner from the dunkin donuts on the corner of some street and broad. a dark alley decorated by GOD oddly enough to fit the gotham created by Kane. and on this street, there is a relfection of the neon flash as the lights above blink on and off. waste, not waste. and floating above this lucid reflection, there was a piece of the baltimore sun, blowing header over footer in the breeze. but it didn't matter. no one saw this, no one knew, and no one cared. no one cared how the bankrupt newspaper company's final issue came to rest in the city of brotherly love. no one cared nor did it matter.
a windy night in downtown philadelphia. around the corner from the dunkin donuts on the corner of some street and broad. a dark alley decorated by GOD oddly enough to fit the gotham created by Kane. and on this street, there is a relfection of the neon flash as the lights above blink on and off. waste, not waste. and floating above this lucid reflection, there was a piece of the baltimore sun, blowing header over footer in the breeze. but it didn't matter. no one saw this, no one knew, and no one cared. no one cared how the bankrupt newspaper company's final issue came to rest in the city of brotherly love. no one cared nor did it matter.
Friday, July 24, 2009
SDC10608
A flashing series of lights here say go.
Blue, yellow, red, green then go.
Three seconds you count,
six if you want to show mercy.
Feed the fish through the machine,
a blade rises, splitting one whole into three parts.
One part spine, two parts meat.
Icy sockeye salmon minutes before were in big bins,
totes holding thousand or two pounds of fishy a commodity.
Slimy sockeye salmon minutes before were swimming,
befuddled in a pool of filth and blood.
This place is genocide.
Extermination in action,
capitalism at its best.
And I sit and become a drone of the system,
a grunt of the establishment.
A system i try now not to support.
Maybe later the same bureaucracy will create genocide on me,
sell my fleshy and meaty sides to a hungry group of piggies.
Around the world, they will partake in the pleasurable experience.
As salmon is filleted and sculpted into delicacy,
Grim a-la-mode will be served.
Caucasian with rice and a touch of lemon with butter.
A light will blink,
blue, yellow, red, then green and go.
A driver will feed an icy me into a machine,
a mechanism to debone me and remove my innards.
A single slice with split one whole into three;
one part spine, two parts fleshy homo sapien.
Latin for "wise man."
Blue, yellow, red, green then go.
Three seconds you count,
six if you want to show mercy.
Feed the fish through the machine,
a blade rises, splitting one whole into three parts.
One part spine, two parts meat.
Icy sockeye salmon minutes before were in big bins,
totes holding thousand or two pounds of fishy a commodity.
Slimy sockeye salmon minutes before were swimming,
befuddled in a pool of filth and blood.
This place is genocide.
Extermination in action,
capitalism at its best.
And I sit and become a drone of the system,
a grunt of the establishment.
A system i try now not to support.
Maybe later the same bureaucracy will create genocide on me,
sell my fleshy and meaty sides to a hungry group of piggies.
Around the world, they will partake in the pleasurable experience.
As salmon is filleted and sculpted into delicacy,
Grim a-la-mode will be served.
Caucasian with rice and a touch of lemon with butter.
A light will blink,
blue, yellow, red, then green and go.
A driver will feed an icy me into a machine,
a mechanism to debone me and remove my innards.
A single slice with split one whole into three;
one part spine, two parts fleshy homo sapien.
Latin for "wise man."
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
a long time between this and that, but this is this and that was that.
One fish, two fish, red fish, yellow fish. There isn't a single blue fish, and the Doctor would be upset. But when one fish becomes one thousand fish, and that thousand becomes two, and the red fish start to mix with the yellow fish, who could even care?
Wrap the the thumb with two band aids, trust the acetametaphin and ibuprophen, then cut. Stand on the line, stand and ponder eternity, or time, space or even breakfast. Bacon. Eggs. Deluxe. But what is breakfast when the first meal of the day is at midnight and its something like tacos?
Cut one fish, two fish, three hours and five hundred fish have miraculously gone past with two fresh slices taken away from each.
Ponder that sleep deprivation, I know I am as I write this. Think about those around you, critique their cuts as your immortalize your own. "My cut is so grand, his is shit on the bottom of a horseshoe." Watch as they correct the cut you made. Oh, humility. My dad mentioned something about that when we sat about the breakfast table in high school. Tacos for breakfast today/tonight/whenever. Tacos for breakfast/dinner/lunch/whatever.
Think of those plans you made. Better yet, think of the plans your planning when you get this massive paycheck they mentioned. Feel that sudden rush. Cut one fish, two fish, three fish consecutively. Mr. Kazakhstan said he wants to cut more, let him have a few. Cut two more then give him one. Five minutes later, tucker out, give him twelve in a row. Mr. Kazakhstan said he wants you to cut more, let him have a rest.
This is the front line, the line we've no option but to hold, and no one told us to do so except for the natural condition... hive-mind. The bug-condition I call it. Industrialization at its best. Like some early Ford factory, a bunch of migrant workers from various places coming together for one common goal. Management says the fish. We wee folk say the moola. Is the use of my left hand an accountable sacrifice
Wrap the the thumb with two band aids, trust the acetametaphin and ibuprophen, then cut. Stand on the line, stand and ponder eternity, or time, space or even breakfast. Bacon. Eggs. Deluxe. But what is breakfast when the first meal of the day is at midnight and its something like tacos?
Cut one fish, two fish, three hours and five hundred fish have miraculously gone past with two fresh slices taken away from each.
Ponder that sleep deprivation, I know I am as I write this. Think about those around you, critique their cuts as your immortalize your own. "My cut is so grand, his is shit on the bottom of a horseshoe." Watch as they correct the cut you made. Oh, humility. My dad mentioned something about that when we sat about the breakfast table in high school. Tacos for breakfast today/tonight/whenever. Tacos for breakfast/dinner/lunch/whatever.
Think of those plans you made. Better yet, think of the plans your planning when you get this massive paycheck they mentioned. Feel that sudden rush. Cut one fish, two fish, three fish consecutively. Mr. Kazakhstan said he wants to cut more, let him have a few. Cut two more then give him one. Five minutes later, tucker out, give him twelve in a row. Mr. Kazakhstan said he wants you to cut more, let him have a rest.
This is the front line, the line we've no option but to hold, and no one told us to do so except for the natural condition... hive-mind. The bug-condition I call it. Industrialization at its best. Like some early Ford factory, a bunch of migrant workers from various places coming together for one common goal. Management says the fish. We wee folk say the moola. Is the use of my left hand an accountable sacrifice
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