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.


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.


See You Coming

This isn’t going to go the direction I want it to:


Has a habit of over-tightening things. Finger tight is too tight, for his fingers held a tennis racquet his whole life. He has strong fingers. Wonder where they’ve been? Just across the street, crossing red lights and pale orange lanterns. The buzz from the high from the falling down from the tree killed him once or twice. He is Phoenix, Arizona, and to halt all staid misdemeanor (accusations) won’t do all too much. Not all too much.

But that’s not to say that it won’t do anything (at all).

We forget, but, that’s alright. Just, taxonomically, we’re related. So, screw your cousin; and fuck you too! : )

Lust. The prime epidigm. Well wishers got nothing on my stuffy jacket. The going paradigm is, if you’re in a hole, stop digging. Me, I bust out the powerdrill and find my way through steel and mantle to the other side of the Earth. It’s deep. Oh, the yearning. No one yawns when the sun is blacked out.

We shout, “Hey! Fatso! Where’s yo mamma at!” and he cries because his mother died of dementia when he was young. He watched her brain scramble right in front of his eyes and the stress of the situation leads him to push the button on the igniter. The building comes down, all 55 floors, and people remember. They remember the scars.

Whoa, hold your own hands. I’m too jaded to whet my own thirst. My water bottle carries urine from dinosaurs and sometimes I wonder if they even existed. We’ve got genotyping conundra and I’ll say that not all knowledge is cut clean. Cut clean like the Axe (R) that mowed down Saint Victoria the thirteenth. Unlucky, buster. But someone’s got to be numb… sometime.

Sails unfurled, the diamond at the bottom of the trench right beneath them was found undetected, and some say there may have even been a monster. Not to hit and run, hunny bun, but we all love. It’s just crushed from the drugs, the disease, the disease… the disease…

Crush dance, smile at yourself. You love you.

Mama screams with the baby in the bathwater, “Oh–the brainzzz!!” and fell asleep right there dead on the carpet floor. Baby’s fine, just a lung collapsed. Never breathed right again. Homeless at 22, went on a journey to find his soul. Some say they needed it. No wonder; the youth in their global neighborhood stood firmly on the ground and tunneled so finely no one saw it coming.

Tired. More later.



Time to fuss things up.

My mind is a soup and I must fish out the ideas with the metaphorical fish hooks in my mouth. They have been there for very long. Ferry lonk tiem, sirdame.

I ask for reprieve; they send me a payday loan. I wonder of stardome; they tell me my heart is black. The risk factor is atrocious, but I play roulette with gum in the gears anyway. Some time I sink, some time I float. But all the time is mine to do with it what I will, and for that I am overjoyed.

You know me too well, sirdame. I fake credit score, I lust over tiny things; then some one tells me, “PANIC” and I obey. I am obedient, at the least, so reward me once in a while, sirdame. I love you, baby. You’re my heart of egg shells, and I crunch on you so hard with my foot fungus foot. Cream not involved. I swears upon thy grave.

Well in do haste I must make my make up so I lose no haste and… and and and the candy man states, “CREDIT” but the journey is lost. All yours, disco bamba, the Sally Show was lovely but now it is over, so see through your lens into the astros and tell me, “Was it divine?”

I’m all about the lust that one man can feel for another. I’m not gay. Fag. Isn’t that the thing they put in your teeth at the dentist before they start drilling? I used to smoke, so, I know. But that’s too slow to reach the pointe. En garde! Riposte! Cameo cameo cameo–miss take! All aboard the heaven slut train. We’re going nowhere–fast–and I have so many things to tell you…

Seeing as we see through the seems most of the time, I won’t nay nay or wine-o about the crevices in the fences between the yards in the back end (oh my!) off the housey wousey where the mousey wibb and we fin’ more stationery to lust over. On top of the hill we can see to San Ramon but maybe the valley is still perturbed. I lost my harmonica in those hills, but my brother saved me in a baby field of dry grass atop ’em. Piano practice at 10’o. and I’m lost. That’s it; I’m lost.

Wayward hoes make diggin’ a fin’ danse up on the hills. We stare at crass bress and sink, “Who did ‘is? Who may’ke’n me up’on all o’er ‘gen ‘n’ shin’ gian’t hill side where we wok’ up’n biscuit feud… for once?” It’s no riddle. To see that we are lost in the molehills of human trash on This The Human (h)Earth is cataclysm in a bucket. Spray it with deodorant and flush it down the drain. In the chemical plant. Recycled water. Wash/rinse the gard’n’say’you’love’me’again…

I’m no nigger for romance, but I do say, hate is the strongest synonym for stupidity I can muster. Mr., oh, well, it can lead you places, but the soup! The soup! Never forget.

Stupidity, crass, elbows. Pick’d at the joints ‘n’ now a’m bleedin’. No rush no rush. Juss, who can? Who can see my eyes when they’re shut, and then where will goes the door to my soul? It’s sealed, Suagelok and all. I’m tired of this accent. Free my mind, Will Leiter, send me to abyss and back and maybe you will get your treat of liquid cash in the mail. If you play nice. Just say you will.

I remember lost days, fonder moments, days–fonder days, er, um–and it was grand. We all know, to one extent or another, that love is the spite of the evil lost ones. So deranged! lol But I won’t go there. He/she knows me, bebe, and it’s a party rockin on the meteorite up in the heavens. The music too loud? Blah blah blah blah blah blah Next noise violation. I said and still say that the sheriff’s county jail is a luxury hotel compared to my home. I miss the cops looking up my ass to scope out for smuggled drugs. Not sure what they were lookin for exactly. EXACTLY. What precise telescopes (read: fleshlights lul) from those asinine crass fools. “DO EXACTLY AS I SAY OR I WILL SMASH YOUR SKULL INTO THIS COUNTER.” That man was so direct and gentle, I miss interacting with him. All I had to do was be myself. I had already gotten out my fury earlier by fwapping (kyty kat) the one who approached me initially on Iron Horse Trail, after about 6/24 Steel Reserves (tossed a few cans at a nearby parked car–did they leave any dent?), so it was easy to OBEY. H e d i d n ‘ t s m a s h m y s k u l l a g a i n s t t h e c o u n t e r a n d s o I a m c o n c u s s i o n – f r e e . Hooray! Heat sink heat sink, remember the universe is ending… slowly. One quibit at a time.

It’s never a good time to stop. I’ll have to taper. I mean, I am. Tapering, that is. I smoke. “Eum, by the way, did you know?… He smokes.” “He does not smoke!” The children are always shocked I’m still alive. I’ll leave you at it. Think on this. Ponder on the dust in yr room for once, instead of annihilating it. The libraries of hold were clean, btw. So don’t listen to me. Leave your lacy underwear somewhere public for the next jenk to skank off on it. I bet he’ll feel awesome. You’ll have done a service. These lowlifes have hearse too, u no. But I’ll leave you at it. Tapering. Slowly, gradually, declining into the underether. But.alas, no one knows the troulbes I(‘ve) been through/thru. So the song goes. Ho hum~ Go gum~

Silly, to think that I would leave you just like that. But remember: You’ve got a friend in me. Riddled music with bullet hell snipers, I’m lost. It’s time for a nap. No! No one’s dying. Just in the end, silly until then. Sleep, rest, forget. Remember to slay your demons one-by-one. Relax. Silly moments like these don’t come often. In dubious qualms do we still find a way to be hipsters. Well wishers and all. Sound momentum. All hard edges. It’s me. Jagged psyche. Well, I better be off. Rest. Reprieve. Relaxation. A moment to myself.

And to you?

… So it goes …


Stasis Trap




I’m still here. A misfit. A quiet obedient misfit. i wish I could call myself a writer but stamina issues. Can’t do it for long enough, as with reading, work, and most everything. I can vape nonstop. That’s easy. But I won’t get paid for that unless I’m a star, and who wants stardom. I’ll read Kurt Vonnegut on vacation in Hawaii. You still don’t know who I am. Goodbye (for now).

Time to go be harassed by strangers at the gym.


Am I the lust in the sandwich. The cross-ant legacy of another dilly-dallier. They wait, and they go on. I know I must. It is scent, scene, cross-hatching. The neighbors do their laundry. I am still. I am always still. Frozen in panic. That’s me. Normal me. Good ol’ normal me: Frozen in panic.


My rumination a thoughtless gesture

To stymy and sting and sing the songs oft lesson-made oft left behind weighed in

The slang for correction

I guess

And so does my mother

We are well

To swill is from lightness

I guess and  no one cares

To doubt

That is the faucet

There’s no error in it



Me impulsively jotting things down. I need to cut my fingernails.


I have nothing to do. This nest is rigged. Rigged the the stuffing fulls. It’s an explosive to go off in about an hour. Not to panic anyone. there’s no explosive. It’s a lie. then there’s the dandelions. I nest in the dandelions and I am stained in my room with red paint. The T-shirt is red, there’s decision in it. I lament your lost soul. Then there’s the tenderness. Point-to-point it’s exact, it’s good. Good. Is good.


Well, I’m here, and I have nothing to say, as usual. Nothing is happening and there’s no nothing yeah nothing.

So it goes.
What do I do?

I don’t know you. How long have you been here? What’s it like?

I’m perverse, and the nutritional supplements are expired. There’s tenderness in a net somewhere, weighing in at the kilos and they will chop their brains up and sell it for soup in China. Where the government suppresses people and teachers are abusive.


No discussion needed.
This is a remark. And this is a raemarque. See the difference?

Get flusty. Get busty. It’s the snap cat hatter on the loo. It’s the distance between you and I. Altogether flimsy but some sort of bust on it, too, and busted but not in good rhythm and chance. A flattering damsel, no doubt, but I have no hither so there’s time left to still. This ringing is absurd. There’s neckties and I wonder wander no shift. No grist to the meal. The mealy substance in my belly. All that chalk. Chalked up… to…?


Who exactly?


It’s the rhythm. There’s decay. I stymy. There’s pressure in between. Noise. And fault. I’ll go for now.