Wednesday

A little Yoko baby

It was a Tuesday.

Talk about the baby, it’s her life in their hands. We’ve eaten the same thing for dinner three days in a row. Saint Peter owned eighty kids and they were smoked to success, bonafide coaching and his slurred juvenile speech. Open mouth and unintelligent, we aim to impress. Profiling the young, sixing up to optimize an outside gain. Life lessons with pop and the funny sunglasses. An adolescent fascinated with the unhealthy, chastising for only the wrong way- you must have misspoken and the twisted teeth on an unfortunate elder. Young in no way, too ready to jump the fun. Edgy business in the depth of a weird roll, hush conversations and a warm seat to boot a tale. Show off the goods because we’re representing a nobility. Master in a highway, confusion in the organization. A lapse in validation, we overcome the church- his communion. Ignore your spawn because they’re around to this, olive skin and I am reminded of the old plum of emotional respite. Similarity in profound difference, a hidden sin on your ankle, almost ordained by nature- the newly baptized in the Micvah of real impermanence. The ones own environment, swayed to a nauseous beat of repetition, thrown in the absence, an elaborate flamenco. We are the professionals. In reality this is the real deal but why. In this I miss the flow you took to the apple. Old man, wild and I rant. Chant and intonate something of fluidity. Jealousy when it is unwarranted and whence the tables are turned someone else gets the bee to the knee. Was I not clear, the way the hour goes- something olive in the common. Nothing that shared the name so simply, to the modern a nametag is obsolete, the reality tag- in your face with noted serenity. Inclination and seduction in the smirk of an occupied man- day. Nothing but present with anxiety, know you are a muse, tell it in my eyes- we doubt the judgments.

Wear in the washed to start this new shit. This is an active participation, a place of total serenity in chaos. With a spinal recount we see the opposition in conventional process, but that’s the whole idea for BILL WILL SET YOU FREE. There is too much on the rim of the ear, audibly we’ve been influenced. Only when opened from all sides does the arrival seem legitimate, proliferate something. The line is counter the days of sincerity. A little Yoko baby, stake the claim and mess with something RAW. There is invitation in subtle curiosity. A craving in a bizarro level of estranged comfort, familiarity in connectivity. Turned on by the hand stitched logo of anarchistic maturity. Brushed out tones, manicured with hot enough time to spare, the event for the newly settled. Measured in something of fantasy, your blues are mood indigo- water is a right, the shadow of something offensive. Too much anticipation in inexperience. Fish on the pedestal of a dingy station- the sensibly hand-made suits of navy mundanity. The look is obtrusive and we’re all so convoluted and preoccupied with something of our own movie. The young and the wrong, this is gold so capitalize on something real because the tangible is uncommon. You have to come down because I am master, she says.

The reasons to touch down are diluted by the charming foreigner. The bits do there part and the way you allow the expletive to leave. Dan the church and let the iced brew spill. I want to be in the thing with the way up the tree. There is a telescope in the questions, too much in the point of your chin. Drop the word to allow the small talk to spread internationally. She’s deadly good fun, and be the words too fast. Something overwhelming in its desire, his eye contact- we’re too curious. In a few years some nonsense will be needed- you’ve got to capture the way it’s demonstrated. Solid when people catch on in the anti-populous. Dwarfing the partner in play, this place can’t be overrated if you take it for what it is.

The man with the process was back. Disorientation at the finest with a roll of tin foil and an alien in repose. The faint remainders of a sculpture for reality. Precious movements, life and dreams in the American jungle, a struggle substituted by substance of a new nature. Nothing natural in your demerit. Join the field and the race has lost its direction, speeding on to the usual stops, there is anxiety in the known because the norm leaves such a grim, a stench of intensity with the lack of stimulation. Recess and detest what it is that you can’t grasp. It’s why you look in such a way, on abutting inquiry with no genuine courtesy. Nothing overtly sexy in the way this is carried, nothing in the way of my wears when unboundedly compared to the chicsta down the way. In fact, in comparison it is measured up short in the small of reality. Out movements are removed as things because more noticeably absolute. In length, there is charm but in the immediate there is uprooted intimidation- nothing short of spotty clarification. The connection in the South African arrival caused the departure. A night too well dazed for days. Expletives explain the experience. Expressing more than ever needed for an update. We’re involved and here, evolved. Don’t loose touch because in this interest there is evident inspiration to run the fucking mouth. Nothing can be taught unless you are taut and absorb.

Tuesday

Insidious Femme

Planning the world around this water, plum red and waiting. Playing with the guttural sounds to expand your horizons to make love and warn, zen sucks you dry. It's an affair with an amateur. Blow off all the show offs.
There seems to be no enjoyment in complete satisfaction. We jump in ways so far past the merit found in the genuine action. Real sexiness is comparable to none. The intensity in your curiosity numbs the basic grounded sense of humility. It gets complicated in the order of bizarro finality. Find yourself an alpha femme.

Dens of the China men


[Painting] When I grow up I want to be a little boy, David G Baker.

Beauty saves nothing, and the AA group sings in the shower with grunt of approval. They reach no grounding, but the innocent monkey babes call for a lost disk. It's all about the growing up, and they say it all the time- those who know it all. ALL just let him drop the ball, yet again- they've got twelves years on you only because it sounds good to lie. Around we dance to delirium and hope for something of the sense variety. The gorgeous day promises nothing but everything in a goodbye. Timing near to someone and a rug with holy grandeur, a jump to nothing new and an avoidance of the extra ordinary, the mundane in malpractice. Education is everywhere when you're looking down, a higher bunch in the dens of china men. It smells like the crazy lady from Iowa nowhere and an inappropriate suggestion in her olfactory. Implying the wistful, sort of a cloudy day in the freezer. Make the wrong way, ignore the uniform red- no one likes a communist anyways. Reboot the matrix and think out until you find it, because it hidden in the one hundred-fuckin-fifty buck departed cow, draped on her shoulder with fringe- on the edge of a consumer spiral. Music and removed.
The mother of someone gone, a boy in his wallowing. What is it when the rational get too free, the drink that they done gone and drunk. Stumbling in a sexy sideways alley, nothing but a trash can and being too eager to meet the curious. It's too much for the ant- but as the arthropoda rejects its everyday way we find cliche- not because it's right or true. Babbling in the neurotic ways of a passing by. With a dog and misaimed manners, unable to see the blind and unable to oblige the polite inquiry of the harness, he found himself thrown. Totally out of some basic elements and the walking seems too much. They sit in the grass with dew on the ass and it's all about wondering where they'll be. Clearly now, more so than before- you are beyond the word. The world, the jonesing youth of nothing special. The babies on the run, a totem in tandem bonding pass the necessary. Without power, the lady knocked you out- with diamond in the cunt of something to see, sea and it's nothing remotely me. Too much to play at the YMCA, it's getting tantric on the nose when metal hits the bridge. Do what you will, mutate and rotate until there is something of a curve. In the way the light shines up, we hint towards nothing sort of corrupt.

Monday

Doppelganger Dog

Wake up dreaming, what the fuck, it's off to the stars, Jones- we're backyard dreaming. Chaos in the order of things, Jesus, just try and see bee- pragmatic archery tuning to the fates. The three graces met the hurdy gurdy man and his doppelganger dog, he sang their praises in order, belly dancing plays it last. The old hog. We built the wrong planet for the rocket, so wake up and take the chair outside. It came all the way from his t-shirt, there was no reason to reject such a gentleman way. The storming heavens ain't got nothing on you, laugh because it makes the feathers quake on the lines of deep sea. Sun in an overtly gray place- you say it's too much, but for some reason you're so wrong and it grows exponentially, remarkably. The cops are all busted you fucked the wrong girlfriend. Bring the beach to the 'burbs, and the balls to the wall. They fell to the pavement and the old man picked up the pieces of something grand. Conquistadors supremacy, the buses have nothing on you in the mud mosques of some united place of something. Legalize yourself and education you parents, it's too early for the fresh and smoke would release Nike, the Greek goddess of victory. Sweat shop babies got that thing down, the swoosh charms the dimes that drop. Weather underground, i sweat the spice must flow. It's a give 'n take for the sake of Jake. It's cool to be mad, and not to jive with the know. No. Blow and it all gets cracked- dreaming of the west coast babes and who got played.
Uncle Joe was a softy pre war, do what you will because the man has a set of pipes. Play your sound and let me sway. Modern is stern, yearn. This is karma hacking. Get packing it's all too tedious. From time to time we find ourselves in some old joint. The paper is wrapped too tight and the car never made it back. The kid has to return to buy the beer. God is not dead.

Oboe Jones

It’s not so easy to look before you jump with the cow on the wall. We’re watching those who are easily mobile. Change the shoes before the alarm is sound, run through paint until the privilege withheld. Russell wears the crown in California, anticipation when the sun don’t shine. The idea is to seduce, the job is to manipulate- we wait until the innuendos are made too serious. You want to feel the steel, eliminate the crap and weeds. The trees pull up the lawn, Oscar cries and Frank stares at the tits. Passively visible under the yellow and green, the lawyer is desperate for your removal. Witches on TV and corrupt nominees, Canada sounds damn good. We man this a new cartoon, jokes to jive with and smokes to have on the porch at night. Told to look somewhere whispy, you see the sunset with your dick sucked dry. Canada sounds pretty damn good, and the transitions are shit. Intermittently dissatisfied, restless and beyond a statement of adoring demands. Here’s to the sunniest guy I know, we as you consume. You as me, participate in something disastrous just to be in the throws of something only real. With the tongue out, you opt out- the norm too eccentric.

A shadow, a mirror- two hours and it’s clear, there is salvation on the island in the midst of nothing and premature sustainability. The small world bridges the gap- those who are void of everything have something planted in the first world. A profile and an arch established with the freshly caught persona. Something of a search party, left out to dry with nothing left to apply. We’ve been ready for days, with the goat set free and the dog tied up our business is open for nothing. Oboe Jones.

Sunday

Testing the waters

May 22, 2011- Harvard Sqaure.

I forget she is there. I want to learn how to play, so badly. Just bring a toothbrush and a change of cloths, stay for a week. Trevor said it, I swear. I’m getting off at the next stop. I have so many friends who went to rapture parties last night, I wonder if anyone died. He left the silicon gel in there, man; you’re not supposed to do that. What?! Are you trying to buy weed? I was going to say something about the socks standing straight up. He’s a teacher, well no, he’s not a teacher but, that is why no one wants to be friends with her. It’s Judas’ kiss, they descend down and she puts her grimy hands all over them. He turned to give him a royal once-over and the crabs decided they like me, now. Why can’t she just live here? The center of attention, always- I mean, she made out with my mom. I know! How could the white folk let that fly? His right eye started twitching in the direction of his product-placed faux dirty do swung. The Brit’s head rolled down her arm Thank god Alyssa and Tom work, too.

Tim from MIT, his hair obscurely styled, smelt like shea butter and plastic bags. Joe was a trader and his over compensation was found entirely detrimental to the exasperated male ego. What are you looking at? Let the people off the goddamn train! You think your problems are bad? The next red line train to Alewife, it is now approaching. Rush. No, really he should drive because there are honeycombs on the ceiling.

Got drugs? The old man sees you and sees something in his past. You bring him out of retirement to them shaded aviator days. It’s the white beard with length equivalent to experience.

Look, it’s all about making money, paying the bills. Have a nice day, now. It’s a song I wrote, it’s a little country tune called ‘Someone to Turn To.’ You know, when I am sad, sad and blue. Like, James Madison, the lucky bastard paid for my education. The fiddle sand of the high school refugee and tapped his foot to a different beat all together. And it only costs $10. The round man danced to the best he jived with, clapping his hands all the while with bags at his feet, there is no reason to follow that silly ol’ palpitation. Rollin’. Where is my sunshine? Sing of her, again. Start over because no one is listening. I could ruin everyone’s career, just tell them. Was it everything you would have imagined it would be- trained selective hearing with a heavy German accent and a book of the past to make you look forward thinking? No longer on measure. The hearty laughs of the scantly clad and it is funny when they are going the same exact thing as you, the fiddle itself. When you notice no one else did, not even the flower bearing man. The world is actually all owned up by him, we just don’t realize it. That is where new morality will come- as long as it is not a prime number, we’ll be ok. Teach yourself a lesson. Yellowed teethed smile and a bowler’s hat, the accordion sings alone and silently because I always go unnoticed, depending on how you handle the jet lag. Time is pretty awesome if you go over there. Life, life, living. Except you won’t be going anywhere- so, when do you leave? Damnit, and the bike squeaked. The gay black man, the Asian, and the round man left. There were sirens and a lonely floral. Why do you say professional, isn’t that understood? Because what caught your eye, dear? I mean, it was so crazy, the tune changed with the sun and new occupancy. The truth is there, it is so totally dependant on whether or not we choose to acknowledge. Eastern European shit, until it dropped off because in order to be a pilot you need to be able to play it while he looks at you. It is that royal once over. There is an ever-present illusion, people dig it. I wrote a circus tune, you want to hear it, because it would appear that there is an addition to the crew. The blue man left. The purposeful sour note, jolly. The same bike squeaked- actually. I am orchestrating that, man. Hell be wrapped up in ivy, we are so proud. Come on, I own you, baby. True value. I still pirate all of it, grab me a milk jug and I will play you a diddy- this is awesome, right? I do it more than you; are you seeing the light? We can’t all be slow on the uptake. The blue man danced for the foreign baby, the accordion sang all by itself. Talking, talking, running. Speak with your level of tolerated grime, they approach but divert within instances. The heels, the wealth, they lead their own predestined path. So you have no plans later, want to change and meet up? We’re watching you backwards, so the birds came. By the end of it you won’t even want to play yourself. So, you’ll tell a different story, we’ll revert to the gross displays of unfortunate nostalgia. Sing to yourself, they are following close behind. He played me the Egyptian cotton, Helen, she got to fat and she danced by the Nile. He winked, a look and an invitation, just for baby Ella. Egyptian Ella, fuck a fella. ‘Excuse me, miss, do you know where the Christ Church is?’ I demand that you dance. We’re flying to Miami, have you gotten a shot of the sea?

You’re fucking yourself, you’re a business. I’m protecting my boy, he’s junk sick. You left the car running, I’m too real for you. This is dirty déjà-vu. Free samples, it’s something about the Spanish music and nicotine; you look so tragic and so commercial. A pass by, don’t sell me your product because your judgment leaves me free or burdening denial- thus, appreciated.

The ladies bathroom wall; LIFE is a process. We are a process. The Universe is a process. That’s shit. It’s all a bloody fucking process you profound bullshitter- pat yourself on the back for another motivational original. On the walls of the girls’ bathroom where we pump up each other’s inherently low self-confidence with the smell of warm piss and miss-aimed streams. The girls’ bathroom where we have blown enough coke to kill a man. Get on the red, take the green, get out. Don’t get lost, for heaven sake. It wouldn’t be worth dying. It was supposed to happen, all of it. You fuck the organic with a meaningless arms race. By perpetuating the truth you become and asshole, and only English was heard. Dress in purple there is a film on the wall, we’re so dated. Underestimate by nature. You fuck the organic. Ninety-nine cent white bread- a fuckin’ wonder. Doing a dance by yourself holding the x-rays of a test. It is purposely ironic that the orange flower of success is silk.

I hope he found the church. Look with moderate appreciation out of respect. So proud, you’re ignorant, mocking and you’ve made an ass- out of yourself. The mood undulated, fluctuates- appreciate the shit way, homeward bound ever to the next three steps. A blue beacon of ignorance, in a sea of red. Watch a livelihood be cuffed, booked, and killed- jeer in the faces. We defend the outrageous with discomfort, soothing the forced obsolescence with a uniform. A pack. Trip like we do.

Perpetuate, exfoliate, hallucinate.

Delineate the ego, your voice is so shrill and my patients have walked away. I can’t see, does this go home? He could be your father. Cover your face with your hand, whisper to our man. Be real- femme actualle. Check her out because she looks like everyone else- there is no honor in that lemming. The bike no longer squeaks and the replacement has lost the charm. Do you know where your product was made? Where the tracks were laid- for consumerism. You’d be right at home, and no English was heard. The sky collapsed with my mind attached. Do I look like a comedian? That’s a tall fucking horse, man. Mount.

Saturday

Too Relevant

[Pciture] Nightmare World, Basil Wolverton

This is all too relevant to go unnoticed. I write because I can't find a way to make my visual art accurately represent how I see, or what I see things in front of me. That, and it's hard to find people that will listen to me talk until I am done and in order to alleviate the chronic headaches from compounded ideas unshared- I write it down to rid myself of the constipated mind.
Whatever is found here is writing done by me unless otherwise stated clearly.

The writing stems from a writing experiment I've been playing with on my frequent outings on the on the Boston subway system or when I'm doing whatever sort of loitering happens when I'm left alone in the city. Shit gets weird. What is transcribed are the raw strings of thoughts, written exactly as they come. This is all a snapshot of whatever the hell is happening at any given moment, or whenever I have my notebook. Take it with a grain of salt, or however the saying goes. Just let it jive.

Irene my ass.

Smoking a cigarette under the porch of the house I grew up visiting during the summers. There was company in the bushes, totally cloaked by the absolute darkness and lights suspended themselves in the sky in numbers I haven't seen since Africa.
The family and the girlfriend have spent the weekend in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, hiking in the looming prospect of well-publicized Hurricane Irene- by 11am we were on the ledges of a great mount and by 2 we were washing the hikers sweat off our bodies in the pools of the waterfall on Sullivan St.
There is an apparent cycle in effect this weekend as the days when I have any bearing on what is going on, they are numbered. The last time I was in the house on Mill Brook St. I was young, I was friends with Katy and I held my breath when passing a cigarette smoker on the side of the road. This was 8 years ago, the time before that I was 11, before that I was 'wee'. Now, I'm a beer drinking cigarette smoker heading to college in four days. The next four years of my life start on thursday and I don't even know what that means. With a glass of wine and my therapeutic rain, I can't even be nervous, my mind only on how bad I need a smoke.

Hurricane Irene, my ass. I have other things to worry about and I dig the rain.