Bill Will Set You Free

Bricks Laid

2011-11-10T00:05:00.001-08:00

Look at your hands, see what they’ve done,

Look at the wall, see what you’ve made.

Look at their faces and see what they don’t understand.

Benign confusion.

Liberation,

Containment, and rhyme.

We become the paradigm.

Look at your hands, see what they’ve done,

Look at the wall, see what you’ve made.

Look at their faces and see what they see.

An ambiguous game,

With no real aim, but for fame.

Look at your hands, see what they’ve done,

Look at your wall, see what you’ve made.

Look at their faces and see how they run.

We’re broke,

And all we needed was a smoke.

Look at your hands, see what they’ve done,

Look at your wall, see what you’ve made.

Look at their faces and see how they learn.

Allow me to play,

Because I've never really had anything to say.

Look at your hands, see what they’ve done,

Look at your wall, see what you’ve made.

Look at their faces and see how they think.

Take note of where we’re at

There is no such thing as a dirty rat- so scat.

Broke and in Need of Butts

2011-11-09T22:39:00.000-08:00

Breast pocket piggy bank,

Out of smokes and he damn new chokes.

Don’t you folks see the gravity?

Down town to feed modestly off the tragedy-

Blues funk junky play a hollow melody,

Yelling, “Don’t make fun of me!”

We’re ten-feet deep,

A golden heap of litter-

Airy movements to ignore the way we smell.

Don’t tell Mama,

There are no eyes here for her drama.

Let the chickie dance,

It’s her one last chance to throw down.

Pray to God we don’t drown in feasting waves,

Don’t behave for my sake, baby-

I’m not that kind of kid who hid her eyes.

We’re all caught in disguise some time.

Breast pocket piggy bank,

Stucco mask hands over an empty.

Thrown on the ground,

I told you not to make one damned sound.

Wake the love before the doves fly…

We’re in it now.

Lazy and lost on the same road,

But no one ever told you how to hold nothing,

Live for nothing, but that spot in the sky.

Compromise to gain the fame of the timeless run,

Because she is insatiable for the fun her hun dished out.

No doubt he’s loosing the harmony.

Breast pocket piggy bank,

Don’t lie to me!

We have so much more to see before we leave.

Mama wouldn’t believe the law between these lines.

You don’t need to find them too far behind,

She begged to drop the trail of dimes.

“A chime to wake up,” and we’re there.

Impossible to get cold when you’re so far in.

Look left and see right-

Running with all our clothes, despite-

You.

Get on your knees and pray for nothing.

We’re playing.

Wrapped up in you and someone must have a clue-

With no idea what to do

It’s all understood to be for the Greater Good.

Cigarette butts in the rug,

And with a shrug put on your grungy wear and scram.

Breast pocket piggy bank,

Coming up short every time-

Child, get in line for this routine.

And, his smoke provokes her.

She spoke and it broke the wall…

Bricks gone in the moment her eyes closed.

Wind, Wind.

Whoa.

Did blues boy find his blow?

Loose the control never gained,

An’ baby will feel no pain.

We win.

Start of a Bad Joke

2011-10-08T13:01:00.001-07:00

It feels like Tokyo. My pockets empty and any other patron is silent, heads held higher than the average stance, hoggish air space violated by such inflation. Swine in rewind while the tender looks around. He passes me something in a glass, three ice cubes- the usual. I sit down at the usual table and my mask dips down. The usual neon glare, and it could easily be only after noon. The usual farce.

Fuck, I need a drink and I move my chair- it’s mocking me in the way the ladies down the aisle are. I make a tremendous noise on the tile. Always a little over zealous, my show is interrupted by the sneering of strangers. They’re all staring, looking through my stucco-stone visage, fuck. Why is it so hard to sit with the same composure you walked in with?

They’re all staring and I’m looking so hard at the third cube in the glass, fuck, it might get a hole in it. Stir. Stare. Ah, that sound is so fucking nice. Like that girl outside, her shoulder showing. Chick’s got daddy-issues and, shit, smoking a cigarette- too young. She’s staring. Fuck, now I have instantly become ‘that guy.’ I should get up; this show isn’t working for me right now.

I should leave- but I’ve got my usual spot and this drink. Too many ice cubes, that bar guy is new and he’s hitting on my usual waitress. I don’t blame him; I’ve been working on her thighs for two weeks. Every Wednesday. Fuck, I should drink this. The damned thing is mostly water now- too many ice cubes, the ratio was off, amateur.

I’m a start to a bad joke, aren’t I? A middle age man walked into a bar. Fuck, I need another drink. The usual. There is a woman at the table behind me. I saw her when I turned around because I was uncomfortable- they’re all staring. Well, they were. She wasn’t, and she won’t- I can tell. She’s got the thighs of the waitress and the shoulders of the girl outside, and she’s got a drink with third fucking cubes. She should love me.

The floor is stickier than usual. At this usual chair and my usual table, this is shit. I’m already drunk and I haven’t touched the stuff in front. I’m acting like a child, fuck. This lady is staring at the back of my head; I can feel it like the ice. I could think twice, but I always do. There is something about the vices I already know I’ve got- I’ve lived this shit long enough. Alone, per usual. I would kick myself, if I could. I’m being a child.

I don’t know, fuck. The windows are letting in way more light than usual. How may times can I look out- too many people catch my eye. But, only when I’m being a voyeur- so it fucking goes.

Oh- wait, the thighs from behind, with their shoulders so cutely there- so not Freud’s wet dream- I can do this, I can follow them. Oh- and she looking back. What, at the fucking window? Is she being coy? That’s so good, too good.

Wait, fuck. Is this a test, all I wanted to do was rest. Work was a bitch and if I have to report one more- ah no, she’s lagging at the door down the hall. Chick knows her stuff. The bathroom- cheers, lady that better be an invitation. I could go for it. They dared me before I left the office that I couldn’t mack tonight, bet I would wack tonight. Alright.

The chair-on-tile is a crash, as I get up to assert myself in some lady’s kitten in the bathroom. We’re all left with the mutilated metal mentally resting on the side of rt. 128 at rush hour. I cough to cover up some of my awkwardness, but tell me when that has ever worked for anyone- they’re all staring. The waitress- the bartender. He should make me another drink while I traverse the joint. This is too much, I would laugh at me, too.

I ordered a beer and it’s probably the only words I’ve said out loud since I’ve been in, today. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, the prick- bastard. I just want my beer. I order what’s on tap, assuming that makes me look cool to these kids. I wink at the waitress with the thighs- Ill received, duly noted.

Stare. Two minutes. Drink quick. I get to wallow here for a moment, and I realize after about two beers that I forgot about the bathroom puss. Fuck. It’s remarkable how right people can be about you- Fuck. I owe the boys in the office a round.

Forty-Year-Old Man

2011-10-05T21:24:00.000-07:00

I'm working on this short story for a solid bud. I want to read it out loud and only aloud, but we'll see how it goes. I've been working on in through out the week, between piles of work and Gogol readings. Maybe that's too much of an influence. I hope this is what it's like to be a forty-year-old guy. Maybe I will finish it tomorrow.

Not trying to impress

2011-09-26T22:09:00.000-07:00

It's around the base of a tree and I expect you to meditate on it. That’s what the dig was for, you’re hair is too long and there is temptation a little past the normal DRIVE. Sick and conquer.

The train was a vehicle, dumbfounded by your basic understanding of physics; I ask how far the trajectory will take us- out of the bubble, that’s the idea. When you’re only calendar is from 1985, there is only so much confusion you can legally project onto my lack of grasp. You both pulled me into something you don’t even know about and to watch the product in a bizarro experience of racial outpost, you brought me to the roof and nothing will ever be so good. But in the whiskey driven quips, I see what I’m conflicted with and the old man is a challenge I might have not been ready to accept. The looks of clear profiling, scanning and appeal- we’re blind to it out of a universal benefit, but again, only human and sort of out there. Things happen. Told to tie it together, but that seems the most daunting. The sage burned so nice when he told me there was maybe a real thing, but the jolly Joe blinds a little girl with grandeur and expectations. Things only placed by her nativity. We have no idea what you know and to be on the streets with real things, buy an outcast, you better start minding the gap.

Paint

2011-09-23T01:03:00.001-07:00

[picture credit- Kevin Crouse]

Hank’s old man tin can played on the sounds of a looping similarity. Honey in the veins of nothing close to sleeping, chaos and inquiry- some times too curious. Moments of indecent silence and a want for company in the meek morning maybe dream. Flags bearing some prior historical significance are a fashion statement for posed tolerance. You dig it because it is politically incorrect, misjudged amplitude of reason. Treason in the breaking down, showing through opacity reaching maximum capacity. Deviation from the prose, receiving only what you asked for because it’s your time now- damp dawn with some fucked up song of old remorse. It’s an awareness for repetition; join the coalition, lost in some static voice. Here by choice, the shoreline isn’t a viable option. Wanting to share a craft, daft in the way you show broad interest. He’s here only to narrow some interest and be that man gravity favored. Orbiting something fierce, we’ll see how long it lasts.

Watching it kick your ass

2011-09-19T21:47:00.001-07:00

The way they fall and kiss the sand. Totally consumed by this amorous adventure, hidden away in something intangible. There is wilderness in the most archaic sense just outside the walls of Eden. We read the Russians, ogling at her glorious superiority, melancholy so handsome we are reached universally. Jive baby and hear the sounds in your head, from a past life, from an old place. Flitting, fleeting in such organics- a shit label to boost consumption. Sound is caught on the bricks being sold on the fourth floor, whiskey in the drains and you’re bare ass it in the wind. HEY! You are desired, you are required and I am acquitting you. The devil is far-gone from here, the temptation will be here until the morning, every morning only to return for due seduction in the elemental reduction. Your mind, it is another and it is nothing. Repeat yourself and make the real shit a joke, it’s easier and we are laughing. Always, laughing. The birds are busy in the face of such joyous repentance. Here for rebirth and receiving, instead, the eternal post-here. Pseudo-reality, post-neo classics, make love to the tree. Make love to the thing; be ever-there and never totally here. It is too impossible for us to imagine that, grasp that. I implore you to only play with the game you have got- watching the cogs do their sound. Green in nothing, totally removed and totally enthralled in what is so over my head. Blow what I’ve got, that is why you are here. Absorb something.

Some Icke shit

2011-09-14T23:13:00.001-07:00

Shit is so good and the moon is so fine.

Made love to the thing

2011-09-14T21:02:00.001-07:00

This is beyond safety. This is beyond reality. Sell yourself to something else and see how well the world puts out. My body, the body- it’s on fire. Corporeal, unreal, jiving to something completely different, removed from what there was at that time- present in what there is right now. Coursing, the seven sins. Confusion and absolution- animalistic down to the intrinsic value, I put forth nothing but what I am. Fundamental, intellectual- pseudo being and the lunar baby, scary beautiful. Silence baby, it’s a commodity. We’re all absorbing, my name is Casa Nova. Unreal because it is SO real, I am shaking and I am loving something heavy. You’ve brought music with you, it is in me and a smile so strung out. Green in places it’s been before and color where it ain’t never gone. Let me bounce off you, it’s jeering- we’re jovial it’s juvenile. It should always be right now, right now, right now. Right now. This is cohesive and no one is coherent, totally in awe of this very moment, this very right now thing. It’s in my fucking hands, it’s seeping through and running down my back. It’s a perfectly human flaw, contentment. That’s why the moon is so- you can see the flaws, they’re right there and you can touch them. They are all consuming and ever present. EVER PRESENT. Your sound is stuck in my head, it’s reverberating off all the wells, cinderblocks and brick. Deafening, total vexation in the midst of your sex. What have you got to give to her, they’re putting on a show for you and can’t you see the insecurity. That- that is ever present and it shows through their façade, leaking in the way my moment is running down my back like sweat. Decay doing something cool to my living, it’s breathing in a new sense- we’ve died and returned, rejected by the light and retreating to the night. Sound everywhere. Voice everywhere. Being everywhere, many times at once- many things at once.

Blooma

2011-09-10T23:08:00.001-07:00

Bill will set you free. He will, dear Bill- the boy with all the marbles and nothing in his head but lysergic bliss. Acid, opium and beer.

Opium Den

2011-09-10T23:04:00.000-07:00

It’s some serious shit around here. Idyllic absolution in total disorientation. Unfamiliar territory but old grown essentials. Supremely beautiful, dwarfed in comparison and beyond any explanation. A glowing, an embodiment of everything erotic, sensual; drawn away to fawn over something misconstrued- we all know curiosity killed the cat. Wrapping, setting something free with your rapping. Opinions mean nothing and intrinsic value is lost in serious vexation- awe in the place with the thing. What are you doing? Confusing in the break down, jiving to conclusions far past the original intentions. Pure are heart and organic as fuck, we suck the very last bit, ducking into the womb of something exotic. Totally into and totally lost with more direction that we’ve ever seen together. A collection of producers, masons and holy-grail mavericks.

Shine on

2011-09-07T19:43:00.001-07:00

We’re in this thing, a new age of prosthetics. Ride the pig towards a bending of their rule. Plato is probably rolling in his grave, saying fuck you. Some things are just making so much sense. I am overwhelmed the possibility of the totally certain. Every part, on fire- this is serious business and I can’t stand straight. Minutes blink in the eyes of a connoisseur- French spit on the lettered trays. Not even conscious, it’s killing every moment of the days, with a concept of time there is so much well in the womb. A congested corrugation in the cliffs of the diluted- caught in the transitions of worlds. Walkways and beaten muses, there are leaps to something concrete. Poetic in nature, the novels write their way to a repeat- sheltered joys. Something cute in the reverb.

Clothing Optional Hall

2011-09-04T22:46:00.001-07:00

It’s embarrassing how dumbstruck I am, we are the sons of man. Beyond the basic interpretation, things are reaching so past anything conceivable. There is something so serious in the practice of inexperience and serious dumbification. Multiplication in the anxieties, beautiful among all the rest. The euphoric test, a fairy and the base. Send me a line and drop in another. Into the trees it’s turning and through field of organized crop. Something remotely primal, disrupt everything and make the balance.

X on the left hand

2011-09-02T22:49:00.000-07:00

We're running on fumes, locks mean nothing and the company glows. It's jiving to a whole new beat and there is so much at the meeting place. I guess we're running and it's going to have to happen. Aches and pain in the post-summer rain. Glancing at the gingers in a domesticated dream, it's friendly and charming- I dig the brain. All encompassing nonsense and mutual dissociative relations. Nowhere grounded, but nothing in shame. Bearing it all, preparing for something of good fortune. Jumping at it's finest.

Palm for beer, a full circle act with continues ramifications. Open to all, we're testing the waters. Dosing the police and running from ramifications, all just jolly and in control. Of nothing. Junky, baby- we're in the falling apart. It's old and relaxed, a comfort-level too much in imagination. Procreation blocked by the skateboard. All night, it's a dream place.

Ya dig, aye gid.

2011-09-01T21:12:00.001-07:00

The drones of something in celebration, windows of airless progression deliver a note behind hilarity. Locked doors in the short run. What can’t, we’re going and it’s polishing something into some translatable beef. Walking to places, it’s beyond the sporadic ways of dialing James. Anticipation and it beams us past congenial byproduct A wasteland and near departing into the convoluted and prophetic. Doors and boots, hand me the way to the fire. It’s lost in something folk, surrounded by something included in too many books. Reality in natural recreation. Optimize the real reasons and numb into something that was always that thing. The way of a juvenile, giddy and blown out to the resource, the sweet knot in the maintenance.. Say hat, too far back we’re too young of known action. Weird patterns and total Grandma’s best. It’s babe, it’s unfamiliar and sensual. Sex to the beat, thin walls and too much mentality. It’s all in the head and the voice is there.

A little Yoko baby

2011-08-31T19:54:00.000-07:00

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.

Insidious Femme

2011-08-30T11:12:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-30T10:25:00.000-07:00

[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.

Doppelganger Dog

2011-08-29T22:22:00.001-07:00

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

2011-08-29T20:32:00.000-07:00

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.

Testing the waters

2011-08-28T05:50:00.000-07:00

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.

Too Relevant

2011-08-27T19:48:00.000-07:00

[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.

Sweat Shop(pe) Nostalgia

2011-08-27T19:29:00.000-07:00

Camp has been over for two weeks. So, we went to Ben's house to pick up a eight. We did the thing and watched the Purina Dog Show for several hours in his living room.

Irene my ass.

2011-08-27T18:20:00.000-07:00

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.