A police officer stepped on a black man


Something’s suspicious…


I’m never going to make it. I’m unfocused unmotivated can’t study can’t work, I’ll never amount to anything.

Having said that, my cold-hearted analytical side which some people abhor is actually an asset at this point in time. For it tells me, that, there are meds which can help, once the dose and pharmacy of it is figured out, and with the right therapy, things can improve.

So I suppose I shouldn’t get too despondent.


I don’t even know why I update this anymore.

So anyway, finally convinced I have depression (not emotional gut-wrenching stay in bed all day, but demotivating no pleasure in anything can’t study or work depression) after talking with my therapist. 2nd visit. He’s pretty good. Psychiatrist had me talk with her pharmacist. Not sure if “hers”. Upping the escitalopram and downing the risperdal. Har har. No actually by downing I mean decreasing. They want me on 30 mg (!) abilify! Wowza. I’m on 10 rn. That might be a big change on the horizon right there. I’m not sure what to say.

I’m glad we’re accelerating the process, though.

FYI alcohol + klonopin can kill you. You stop breathing.

Whelp. I bought a bioinformatics textbook and another bioinformatics in R book for my Kindle. So, two books. I have to read a chapter a week. Totally manageable. Right?

You probably all know a lot more about me than I think. Thank you for being observant.

It’s funny that the one thing I almost always… wait… that’s an almost. Yeah. I guess there’s nothing that’s just a surefire activity to participate in when down low. Ugh. Who knows.


As long as the throat of my ex college tennis coach is slit, I don’t much mind what happens. We can talk after that.


I don’t know what to do. The reflexology of the disdain in my gut tells me that–yes–there are many fathers out there. Many angry, abusive fathers.

So it is with daughters. So it is with sons.

I yell at the top of my lungs and still I drown.


Time for some chess.

The invincible 600’s want to yell at me some more.


Sometimes it really seems like the simplest of ants have nukes pointed at my head.


Without remorse the sense that some ought to know more than others ought to bring some to tears while others arears. Not without saying that the frigh to flight to delight of neither never mind is what wins the game. In shame. But I hit without little bits and some say that I should go some way elsewise than whence the flame hit its strewn sun in trundle of my life along its tracks. The tracks are mangled like my body’s mind. It is how it is(, without saying(, without playing(, without wanting(, anything(, at all(, ever)))))).

The guess at my  angle would be that: the architects mega fucked up. Not that they drank too much, my grammar’s still good, so without guild we wouls sit on our stilts and poke eyes out without counting (too high) and that I want to say that [some word] is [something] that [people] [want] is [what exactly?]

Never close your brackets. Leave the sentence open. For in that lack of syntactical syncitial grammar, some are free. Those who you leave left, to be precise. Not that right is but a turn about the room, good friend; not that want to be turned over is anything but marriage in denial. And the children make do. And the children make do.

I’ll hold your amber gel in contempt. Just leave it there, at the table of justice’s hand. I’m sure it will find a home when some older folk tell you they once knew where they lived. Then again, it might not come to fruition. The well-wishers want to know why this never happened again.

I don’t time my words. Like that.

And when some are lost it is hard to go on.

That is my life. The English language that makes itself known to my mind is sometimes not there. The crown and its conspiracies in coexistence, the graffiti artists who make the city lights come to life sky in North Korean territory don’t know of the proxy wars that still rage on between kingdom come and the due forn war torn states that cave with innocent bodies inside.

Strident people. They want none than less to be alive and happy. The likeness to the organisms which I have studied. How well, that they torture one another. And how similar, that they do too. Some say–some don’t–that those who tag along don’t know how to speak for themselves. I suppose arms could be chopped and voices could be silenced but violence is never excusable. There are many fathers on Earth.

So in short: I am not on your side. I still disagree with you. I still want you dead. Your children will be happy without you.

This goes without saying, but that, simple words won’t do. Make way for the pain of acceptable nuance. In crime and technology the little beings stay short of mother and when she haunts, boy, does she know love. It’s not that the losers take the cake–it’s just that they’re fat. Ba-dum-tss.

So I joke about loathsome things. So I do this over and over and over. And still they see to know me, somehow. Yet, they know nothing. This is how it goes. I give them life. I am the necromancer. The bots victimize the war torn. Weaponized psychotropic messages. The vulnerable can’t even talk. When it’s time for the weather, I’m sure someone will sing happy songs. And we think they are loud, when they are not. It is sullen, calm, and idyllic.

Just like the room I once had.

Just like the play of tree shadow on the wall.

Standing there, adorned in my own self-creation, I live with the knowledge that I can never go back. I will never stop trying.

It’s strange, that evil is so strong. I cannot conver. I preach not. It is not my place. If the real religion doesn’t work, it’s only a property of the times, and I know that someday they will recover. Someday the delusion will be real.

Falseties and denial in the cup; some sip it some flip it over. No booze in the poison, it’s all what it is except for the saliva of the known beings who take care of their throats so as to not forsake their blades. No one wants to cut the bush where it makes ugly. No one wants to slut their garden into denial when they too have no companionship. Nobody here just me dot com.

Come on.


Stay healthy, folks; your writing depends on it.


I was young. I was very young.

The ones who took my tongue away also planted seeds inside me.

These seeds, they grew.

But the trees died.

The trees died and caught fire and ignited nearby homes and burnt down neighborhoods and caught farmlands off-guard.

These seeds to these trees to this fire.

This fire inside me.

So I am capable. I almost set a housing complex, under construction, on fire. The stack of palettes nearby brought the fire truck. I walked calmly away, not without seeing some of my work. I was never caught.

I won’t say which city this was in. There’s too many cases for the FBI to solve. They have a heart, too. Everyone’s human. Some have just had the wrong surgeries.

Something like that.

Without remorse, I go, saying: No one will ever catch me for I am the complex inside the house mouse under the floor boards who screw who say that they will ne’er see wonder nor sunlight for the house is too dimly lit. This house. We live in it. So what of us? Who surround ourselves with darkness. To be under the guise of solemnity, albeit forthright, is wanton. Never mind the staid mannerism of darkness signifying negativity. What of the lovely creatures of the night? Why not dance with them? And I do fondly remember taking photographs of the street lamps in the early morning mist. Strictly speaking: before the sun had risen.

The strange drought: The next song in the list, I do not have in the list. My list is the one that plays piano. But withall, so without. So it goes that some knows. I won’t worry wander the ponder. Some say they go another way, stray, too slay staid neighborhoods two two two I said two. So no one knows the recompense without hindrance and other whence we called. That is all, I wonder, if not then not and so won’t it be. Whether be; or whither naught. Caught, at the faucet at the dew in the mist in the morning stricken Christ. Some depressed at the thought of life. Some depressed at the thought of death. Some things never change.

The spirits of many humans harass me. This is my psyche. I don’t will it, it comes. Like Oregon, like the trail, like the roadtrip. Caught with my cat nit, nibbling away the animal I am. Stand in the middle of a tram, on the rails, run over and caught gun slick no wonder he was so thick he didn’t think quick enough to deny the thought that sunshine could burn, so bright, that no one would ever see anything. Ever. Again.

The gold the gold the gold. Some hold no one wants to, so strewn over the sea the land, the liquid sand. Dander and my dad’s hold won’t told me that once I had been great, still am, still abused, still in my own way, he wants to tell me, wants to say. Always does. I never listen. The gold is a dead subject. No one is wealthy. How could it be so.

But in any case, at most times I am not in fact alone. I feel the spirits fold me, I am the paper that is sent through the system to garner knowledge or the otherwise around, talke about through town, sent down, through the floor boars into the spider’s den at dusk at night in the cripit slender doubt of another web through which the foot will never hold. I am lest lesser than the mold which made me. So I stand tall, strewn on the floor, of the basement, with the spiders. We do not clean down here for she loves the locale, and we don’t want to ruin her grudge.

Then there’s the cannibal. He likes us. A lot. But sometimes his brain surgery causes permanent damage–I’m scarred for sure. No knives I’ve known of, his fists and finger twists make me call the numbers to know who he is in the cases at dawn. Till dawn. How did I waste all this time not knowing his whereabouts, without doubt, this is closed. He’ll never be exposed.

So with all criminals and ghouls we are fools. The stock that makes the trundle trew spindle and spew about a bit like the Earth at tilt won’t make lit the cake of fire of candle stick fourth of whatever the day the country was born. One in a million, there will be that day. And when it is, and when more die, the space where corpses are strewn will make me a hero. And so  you’ll know; you’ll know your cat and the die that lent its ear to your gambling addiction, for life, that somehow you knew where you were going. That somehow the flower in the silk of your dress was dead. That somehow the knowing was the pain itself, that questions were answers and cinder causal wayfair made me the one you ought to have doubted in the first place. Fit of fire, make way with the causality. Stay where you are. I’ve got to get a beverage, be right back, and tell you all about it.