August 16, 2015
am not asleep
been awake too damn long and I’m sick of it.
nothing to do with the cup of coffee I just poured myself in one of my Vincent mugs.
I suppose it isn’t that late but I am hungry and looking for my angry fix.
I haven’t been sleeping well.
and the windows have faces that I can’t comprehend.
I put on my goggles and peer out into the darkness of the backyard sitting next to my wife who is equally as perplexed as I am but today I did not forget my medications.
I still feel the world spin and note the stench of cigarettes and dying sunflowers.
better than earlier when I could scent out the unique putrefaction of several birds finding only one feather.
but the couch got moved.
generally enervated and bone pain sick of it.
half-banana moon, toothpicks on the highway, sick of it.
skin falling off and miswriting sin, a lack of croutons in soup, sick of it.
tattoos, assassinating public figures, the FBI comes and visits me at six am, sick of it.
or I am in stir, a padded room with nothing but this white computer and the insatiable need to sleep.
or I am in a wheat field with crows thinking about a .38 special.
or I am in bed, lying prone, ready to fire with a hard-on and magazine dreams.
add a new category.
eleven: forty-six pm – my eye lids are heavy and I am over tired.
goodnight.
goodnight.
goodnight.
August 5, 2015
a monster enters my cell
and I recognize myself from photographs strewn across the internet and placed among my parents things.
the black notebooks sit unused in pockets of jean jackets with Mont Blanc pens attached.
stop world consciousness existed before the medications and stability ruined the mirror image of perplexion.
an ant crawls joyfully on the lattice work of wrought iron patio furniture careful not to upset the balance.
and the dead birds come in droves.
parallels of superable considerations and a fly crawls across the rim of a coffee cup, awake and staggeringly beautiful.
they pray from both ends.
journaling thoughts later for storage into a vat of nothingness and I toughen up.
bleeding hearts are broken by mean looks and stern words spoken abruptly.
I kick the dirt under my walking boots and wonder how many creatures I’ve killed in similar fashion.
fresh page unshaven and unwritten, strands of a broken spine stumble all pencils in the margin.
sado-masochist with aim only for his own conditions tries coke for the first time. gets bitten.
shameful secret is out and we cannot control individual reactions to fake legs and prosthetic fingers.
a hallowed shell – a spent cartridge is still illegal in the right company.
August 4, 2015
enter title here
morning when the slow malaise creeps in. morning when the pain rings true. morning when the noise turns on. morning when the bitter pill is swallowed. morning when the alarms sound that it is the first Tuesday. morning when air brakes are checked and wind is blown. morning when garbage men/women make their rounds collecting our debris and the cast-offs of a rich life. morning when I pretend to understand you. morning when I don’t understand anything. morning when bombs are dropped, lives are lost and America’s most wanted are captured. The warrant always arrives in the morning. morning when the phone rings and I have to take action. morning when the birds get their breakfast and I eat cheerios with blueberries. stab it in the arm with a number two pencil.
the expression changes.
I’m acclimating to this change of lifestyle rather well and have not gone out to brazenly alter my blood sugars/insulin balance/imbalance.
the interviewer brings up black socks and polish-able shoes twice and I tell him that my socks don’t match. I’ve also already told him that I want his job and that I didn’t think it would be that difficult to obtain. but still the interview goes well and I plan on turning down the position if and when it is offered.
I drink coffee with abandon and no care for the lining of my stomach. the phone rings twice in the morning and I wonder where I’ve gone wrong.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 