the communal support of chronic addictions, mans dance around morality,

mans fence staked out in mortality, let us break bread together pretending

we have never done this before, coming to the table to define purpose

as a collective, ghosts upon a tapestry trying to tear holes into gods intracacies.

the flame of exposures, the present tense burns me, i pale at each moments death,

knowing i will not be able to carry my friends to the finish, at least we began on foot

where others drove, at least these young grey hairs came with experience,

i may be suffocated by the sands of time by morning, i may be locked out

from participating from my dreams, but i will paint with the tints of laughter,

and not make excuses for nature but reasons for my time, with the love of labour

to try and arrest this environment for outputting some resources of my own,

dreaming with spotlights and spinning a web of all trivial informaton ive collected,

i fit time in a tight pocket, and escape into outside entertainments reinforcing

everything i should possess in order to be better off without a foundation of who i am.

the nature of mankind building sickly machines to bruise children,

a contagious man catching himself from repeating the mix of antidotes,

the loss of blood requires replacing mans hand with a hammer,

salvation in holding hands with aching machines, a new nature

involving self-controlled actions in black and white dreams,

dont wait for the world to decide you are right, dont wait

for someone to hem the flesh for your machine, just work the magic

on conversions from mind to matter, and stir the solo spirit of self

to bend with artistic persuations.

i sat out in the backlot, blue shadows flicker in tandem,

a neighborhood of low-income tvs, streetlights bronzing crack-crazy minds

caught in a paranoid sunset, this city block mapped out with fences,

carved asphalt acne, humming 60hz halogen lamps capture events

which jump in and out as human sparks, grey-chambered emotions, no gauge

of saturation. the machine holding this pen, its gears choked in 20-something fears,

the intersection is an oil painting without the pass of cars,

only pedestrians hustling to their poisons, the hunch of a slave

by repeated talk of becoming masters one day, monologues which continue

after the bars close at 2am. life, this glass of lukewarm water

thrown too late upon scattered red coals, life, as a tight gauze around the head,

the backlot, where in each doorframe more mysteries than certainties sleep.

a man on the verge of absolute success or suicide, of which i could not decide,

the perfect balance of prescriptions, i too became addicted to, his words

spoken without crossed ts and dotted is, pupils seeming trapped between lids,

the weight of sleep pulling the kittens to the bottom of the lake, ominpotent bandaid,

spirits dancing backstage, songbirds arriving at the nest all at once, some days

he flickers, other times his words leave shadows, a spiders-spun thought process,

thinkings far ahead enough to think through through the death of every idea,

death as a verb, death used as an adjective, death held high as the subject,

the reclining motion of sharing friendships when knowing there lies the end,

open palmed, blazing eyes, anxious lips and quiet volumes written on each moment.

two fingers as tight scissors, tearing the paper out and overstuffing it, a smoke of 7 minutes,

watching foreigners from within their own environment, enraptly drinking too many coffees,

excitedly zipping like a gnat through the fleamarket along the canal, a strofoam coffee my only heater,

i come to rest on a giant stone toe of a 1400 cathedral, my thoughts twitching of so much to do,

but always, always the coffee and a pastry.

in a concrete canyon i kneel, crayons unboxed, preserving absolutes in 32 hues,

using dotted lines to tune my unity of emotions, facing open fluttering curtains,

a copper sharded moth-bitten sun flaunting its strength through them,

with a dry mouth i find ways to read the graffiti underfoot, only with glasses off

can i ever see blood. i move to the window, soft streaked headlights, i pinch the sun,

and go back to finding ways to capture the day.

a rainbows holocast stripping me into 9 spectrums, a blanket is all i need,

the naked body cupping a portable bonfire, fingers striking a light on the sky,

thick fold of northern mountains piled and sprinkled with 17 stars, my prayers

all given in pairs, the stripping of each action down to core goods and bads,

too many rainbows keep drying my eyes.

the dead dont write, the fear of living mind, too poor for therapy or religion,

the mood without the swing, the demons weight crushing the one seed she carries,

she speaks words but theres silence in each letter, her expressions dont divide,

dont convince, the stars moved away from her temples, and now in darkness,

i cannot find my way to her, the trial of so many denials, now overweighted,

she testily wonders if all which is dead within her will make it out alive.

a computer in every home and room does not bring on an era of enlightenment,

it means we will lose some things in order to gain others,

when a person works with menus and icons to decide their fate,

when their opinions become based on thumbing thru websites,

when mans reality instincts meets virtual inconsistencies,

and relationships and careers form without ever the initial eye-to-eye,

it will be the death of true perception, and even that has not fully been exposed,

our curiousities be dependant on the internet and not the beauty outside windows,

we will be sanding down the angles of the american jigsaw puzzle, fitting

homogeneous circles in the single square with many empty holes between.

where all is measured on medians and absolutes, and creativity

means installing the batteries first, and entertainment

means grasping a gamepad, our minds will starve

for nutritional value, but we wont have the time to notice what withers away.

soil will be called dirt, outdoor animals will be called wild,

what man cannot control will be broken down and consumed to extinction,

and what positive realitys cannot be planted will be for sale

in virtual gardens, as man in these coming decades will loose his foothold

to earth.

stringing along the ornaments which decorate ones life, endearing obstacles,

a weak-wristed pulse, magnifying the energies that make no motions,

living in a cosmos before conception, and soft words spoken as slow hammer to the nail.

this first week of november, i make a promise to myself, to travel, at any cost,

all effort focused on this singularity, after the new years income tax check,

i will pack and go alone on thin roads between small cities.

i am finding no redemption in careers which put money in my employers pocket

while i am shortchanged on my value, and selling someone elses product

just makes me a gear wrapped in flesh. i want to know how much time it takes

to find my natural sense of contemplation without anyones stopwatch,

who am i without my career, my possessions, and where is my nerve, my neurosis,

my pinpoint on pleasure, who am i when driving in the direction of nature unfolding,

time unwinding, and blind faith that any road i choose leads to yet another story.

this week i begin planning what i need for this, how much items cost, how far

i can travel on the cheapest means and least stresses, and with these plans,

perhaps i will head to the coast of cali, 2500 miles is enough hours to find my song,

in cali i could visit monterey and my old military base, resolving lost wits

there in pacific grove, the salt, stones, seagulls, sourdough, seacows, seaweed,

the perfect bicycling days i spent in foggy weekends some years ago, id like to find

those grassy paths, without signals and signposts, only a compass of candybars

and a thermos of tea and sleeping bag, i want to leave without knowing

what there is to return to, to leave the excuses and reasons as broken shackles,

at 23 i should not feel so locked into lifes maintenances, the pain of anchors,

the doctors to consult when freedom falls ill, the overabundance of choices

which cause the muscles to ache, too many selections for peanut butter and shampoo,

the brute grip of quantity over the delicate touch of quality,

all the decorations on lifes white walls try to delay me

from ever leaving this comfort zone of mediocre career and the home to return to.

the world seems to be children growing old working off the burdens of their parents neglect,

their eyes never as sparkling as could be, their speech never punctuated by goosepimples,

their hearts never quite bared and open, isolationalists building protections with perfections

of their opinions equated as facts, if someones in love with one they will pass love on to all,

and if that spread it would choke the economies built in the opposite of it, the truth of money

is the hope of improving a self-ordained weakness. the world seems to be purchasing parts to build

humanity, to define it with mechanizations put on payment plans and not philosphies to share,

the holiday turkeys glazed eyes, children tied up with string, the abundance of america,

overwhelmed over guilt over violence oversexed, always underpowered to love, always perfectly

matched competition between a humans self-awareness and a humans need-for-acceptance,

the index of money and material, but its what i am given to work with on this planet, so

i will tread lightly on all souls.

my little baubles and computations, my small-scale examples of humanity,

my ink releasing less than 1% of my flow, the majesty of life, so thick to bottle,

these parametric symbols on flattened dried wood pulp, the tender bridge,

words giving only a paint-by-numbers where emotions must be colored in.

an overtightened heart string, my struggle of which to master and which to serve,

my meditations travel without axles, left hand curling awkwardly around a pen,

i am now sitting downtown, amongst uncaged children in central park,

the sky dripping upon sundays festivities, spineless breezes down the neck,

children reach with tickling fingers for fresh popped corn

which excitedly spits from the kettle, native families mill about with beer cans

and baby bottles, a stunted pony on a rope has formed a line for rides,

the girl on a red-hatted pony looks as though she has bitten on a spicy panic,

this is florida sunday on a bun, life is a bitch but with high humidity,

a sudden flashback to monday, a job with the interest of a girl

you know youll never marry but you still take to dinner, dreams can fertilize the soul,

but the sun drains the strength of all seeds that should attempt to take root,

a birthday party by one table, everyone with photo-camera and video-camera

up to their eyes, noones actually experiencing the moment, so when exactly

does this moment happen?

drawing as a direct method to communicate with god,

letting the circle and line unfurl to our personal sense of beauty,

no measure of the limit of perception, sitting outside, staring in the distance,

waiting for life to develop language through my warm hands, a numb vessel,

slowly bleeding out these engrossed curves and loose scratches,

its forever only the first time around, the signature of a flash of perception,

the strength in vulnerability, the thin membrane between art and artist.

in school when creativity becomes a obligation, there becomes a 'correctness'

that now drives one to create, the perception of shapes change, logic

tries to dig in, but is cast aside for the meditations between pencil and paper,

scribbling out a new language in one artwork, fingers rushing to catch the blood,

overwhelming truths sprouting from the evolution of ink and water, panoramic leaves,

roots in any direction which dares to bare itself, the aroma of rich soil upturned,

secrets laid in song upon the pulp of cotton in long strokes, creations rarely

coincide with calculations, there is no textbook circle, the closest to becoming one

is the art by which one sews. god gives each animal their sixth sense, ours being art,

stripped of symbol and language, the poem the picture the love left behind in the form

the memorial for the shed concious, a glimpse at gods canvas with a brush of my potential,

capturing life by turning it inside out and drawing the core, art is only complete

when the transferrence has run out of current, a polaroid soul left to dry,

vulnerable, dangerous, twin stars invisible, life without manuals

and days which start and end in dreams concieved and achieved.

a day in winter, a hill in a park, a bandshell beside me under construction and a breeze of 63,

concrete blocks hauled by big black men moving them in marching order, a man tossing rednerf footballs

with 3 children, one cries and walks off the invisible lines of the game, a dog runs into flowerbeds,

his leash mulching the fresh woodchips, the racing winds through the palm trees like traveling by sail,

a teen boy and mate rollerblading in tandem and a couple in their 50s with matching pants,

unseen child repeating sit sit sit to unseen dog, a 10 year old girl demonstrating the magic of cartwheels,

lands on her knees and claps, laughing at the clouds for watching her part in the play, a jet

streaming through the clouds leaving a misty zipper, a truck overloaded with lumber banging away

as its stumbles over the hill, crying boy kicks a soccerball whos sound takes 3 seconds to reach me

the ball keeps rolling back to him and he knocks it repeatedly back up the hill, ant dash across

this notebook page trying to find a single crumb from my cookie, he discovers it is only a period

and dashes back away for cover, i cant tell if hes blushing because hes black, elderly woman

in mossgreen jogging getup with a tiredleashed greydirty poodle, another woman in deadgrass slacks

walks with cocker spaniel, the dogs notice each other but women pass with no heed, a mere inch

from rubbing wet noses, its the life of one minute sitting here in the construction of the park.

how little people see around them, for without any threats to force awareness,

without any banners for sales and oversatured colors, so small the curiousity,

i watch the commuters, i recognize all senses and limbs sharpened as efficienct navigation tools,

all their movements only existing to serve the purpose of getting from A to B, parking meter,

curb, door, curb, ticker, turn left, stairs, a moderated life of repetition of muscular coordinations,

a top ten list of most repeated conversations, a life of silent ambience and little interventions,

a vision which decrees if i see buildings i am in a city, if i see trees i am in the woods,

if i see people around then i exist. how little people notice structural details of historic buildings,

or the bark of native trees, orthe thoughts of random passersby, only the minimum of information

and automation needed to make the shortest safe passsage from y to z.

photostatic death, a bulletproof trademark like a bee caught in the head, a postmarked sentiment,

the mockery of a generation coming with overhead electronic dashboards and tattoed

temple to temple, inkstained shirts, a binary scepter of digital enlightenment,

collapsed in front of a microphone, every thought has a dozen camera angles to capture

the masturbatory shivers of the afterthoughts, the railroad tracks are being laid

to bring the tons of media sugar to every homes curb, the men sing songs of labor

as the transparency of a ziplocked mind will put poison into the open-ended lives,

i smile and nod at my own illusions, well-chewed laughter at religious flotsam,

the masquerade of the over-emotional-and-evermore-needy, i see her as the generation which laid her.

afraid to watch tv, to have god curse me for not spending life wisely,

as if all outside were not worthy to deserve my attentions, that i must insult

my invitation to life as i clutch this battery operated device, pushing neccessary buttons

to skip through the dozens of witless null voids, this bird born without wings,

crippling me from seeing the skies, attention to consumption and not aspirations,

certainly anything outside is better spent than these 25-inch images crippling

my spiritual backbone, i take a melatonin for quick flight, dissolution of awareness,

waiting, sitting, lying, scratching, flipping for conciousness, watching skeletons

of other lives piled on plates.

clickclickclickclick the empty days, missing rounds in the revolver,

seven keys on babies first typewriter, the blindtap of cane across roadway,

days of the revolution unwound like yarn, thoughts with serrated edges,

fragmented desires not quite defined and none stemmed from education,

a memory built on intermissions which advertise a happiness it claims you lost,

so many explosives in each minute, cautious handshakes and benedictions,

does god wait to break me to pieces, or do i pass in one shape, wearing shoes and fantasy,

unaware of what will keepme busy after death, i cling to the pendulum and rip out

calendar pages, trying to balance life between paid and promised, my eyes

trying to find the lowest voice in the crowds,trying to see how deep these hands can dig

without tools, trying to find the deepest facts i cannot swallow, seeing if every nightdive

must include a surface, if one can love that which does not respond. i am coping

with conversations about playing chess between heavens and hells, i would end the games

if i found the players hand without prints.

gods sea anchored upon this gravity of sleep, i drift into goodnights i can fit my head into,

i begin prayers i know i will not finish, my words to god sprinkling into fragment dreams,

centipedes whos rocks i am too weak to lift, with age comes morelove and scenery

which reminds me i am alive, awakening to the same day to make it different through choices.

silhouetted against stained glass, the contrast of this lineated shadow against artistic grain,

the calm pace of unencrypted observations, holy in passive verbs,

i maintain focus on the light, thin stream of glory blazing from the breath,

tethered from lips, the obstacles in construction of time,

past which defines, future which directs, and this present left to defend the nobility of the two.

the mortality of even my indecencies, the fragility of my one candle on the podium,

the key element of my anxiety is that there exists no defining lock,

only the thought of a key, and in silence, i stop trying to form its structure.

meeting leg in leg, tumbling from a dream and into the gates

you so sparkingly shaved, the afterthought of entrance, a hole in the fence,

a relief or shame when kneeled to the floor whispering to self,

rafting upon the upswell of deep springs, the splinters sticking to the lips,

the decorative key when the lock lays in darkness, a framed satisfaction,

an apples eye to the worm, waking up to the mouth on its skin.

the unfocused dance of gods theater, his trademark stamp upon my mechanics,

i am redeemed by throttling my senses, the melodical notions that i could dance along,

the center of 'i' in each frequency, the beauty of indecisions, listening solo,

the charm is never rewound or repeated, i continue watching gods stage not guessing,

until harmonies are drifting away, stripped of notes, until a flat duotone drowns the rest,

and the solo singing operatic atom takes my stage, and i am put to sleep offstage.

where has gone, the spirit, why is life all certainty and no mystery,

cant you remember how we were rich in curiosities and challenge,

why has all your terms for what is taken the saturation from your words,

now the days you live for, are the ones you call 'off', and your mind

fills with the instructions of the worlds youve laid out in the highest definition.

every night at 11pm i go online and play a game called barren realms, an online multiplayer game that just requires 5 minutes a night to play. each player gets their own planet in this universe, and once a day you go online and you control the basics of what happens on your planet. defense spending, food spending, taxes, birth control and a couple dozen choices you go through selecting what you believe tobe best based on your current statistics of your planet, plus also how your planet is not just working on its own but also how it is trading with other players planets and warring as well. obviously the ai of the game is to keep controlling greater amounts of wealth and of power. i have been playing for only two months, and there is about 120 players with their planets in this universe we dial into each day. while players all fight and steal and destroy, i just daily build up defense and build up my planet, not going to war with anyone and only defending myself when attacked. so after two months without any offense measures i am already the second biggest player of them all, which honestly wouldnt happen in real life. now it is only where every day i login just to defend myself against the biggest player in the universe, who attacks me only because as he says 'why else would we play?'. i guess that generally defines life around here, where it cannot just be good people helping good people, it is where everything is to better up yourself and leave with a greater share from each greeting. in games there is no sharing of the ball, it is the icon which represents one group against another, people are restless without competition, they only find boredom where creativitys open skies are blinding, they do not step back from country and career for one moment just to reestimate oneself and know exactly how they fit in.

exhaustion rakes the body clean of sense, the rooted synapse collapsing,

spider webs fill the lungs, the silk of heavy sleep, dreams of electric mint suburbs,

a thin stream babbling between the blisters of wet stones, a cloud of hummingbirds

blocking out the sun. a breeze pets the nerves, a spectrum of deliverance,

allegiance to the center of man, a music of mathmatical gates clanging against emotions.

my words, all manholes, into the tunnel of my dreams.

memorial day 94 in a irish pool pub, striped planets colliding under flourescent,

felted pavements with chalky stains, a conjugation of woodworks and brass,

beer and pretzels twisted together in philosophies, intoxicated analog tongues

connected by the crosstalk of too many conversations, unburdening old relationships

or other pains in lifes procession. soft words bring the hammer to the nail,

old intentions hide behind new purposes, dribbling fools gold, here in this holiday,

i study everyone with gloves, and promise not to touch.

cannot stop talking about themself, even when listening, theyre just internally prioritizing,

comparing the lightness of my words against the depth and gravity of their own,

goal-oriented, non-relationship bound, they understand the terms and language

of their surroundings, but nothing of the energy which binds them.

attempting to lift their sails in the social order, talking more and more

thinking this is the only way to make them the leader, well god has not said one word yet,

and he still manages to make us believe, no words need be spoken for justifications,

we are jigsaws of flaws, it is what holds us together, these empty shapes dont need

to be filled up with the attentions from another.

age, this clock within the self, habitually clothing, feeding, and pushing this body,

a box to draw my circles in, the dangers of persistence, the hesitation of development,

a single seed of mine on the scales, motivation against devotions, consumption

versus regulations, how much to grow and how far to stretch to the source of my soul,

the sun, a pinprick of which i wrap my roots around.

i dont understand the familiarity most people crave so,

with life being a finite scope of time and bodies being finite in an infinite universe.

the limited fractionof of life challenges them

to attain some certainties to polish to perfection,all the securities gathered

must be bled and skinned, and in doing so they create a stage

with one actor for an audience of one, with little attention to the expanses around them.

'the more i live and work in this spot, the more i will be firmly rooted and stable',

and when not open to new potentials and experiences outside the home base,

they settle between the in and out box, and the 9 to 5, attempting to master efficiency

in order to gain idle time or to be promoted. plopping down upon the couch,

grabbing the remote to flip through finite channels to find a repeat already watched,

as if time were a loop and not short line. vacationing not to jump in the car and wander,

but to spend weeks making reservations and plotting schedules and plotting

wild nature within disney potted walls, no hidden corners but a perfect tourist.

a life always lived within the confines of a valid ID, fenced with demographics,

herded by statistics in trifold, piegraphs consumed and recooked,

the producers equal the consumers, production never satisfies consumption

and when it does the trends change by media blitz, loose token minds,

never needing to know what peels back when defacing the tv and radio.

the lowest denominators are the common rule, we all must live

with the drive of technology only though image-means and not by whats actually best,

we move ahead by keeping the kids at home and making the man feel like king of his country

as long as he foots the bill, keep them delving into the virtual realities of media at home,

impress them that in doing less you can then see more, keep them captivated

and not motivated with self-creations, and relieve the guilt from wasting daily-lifes previous minutes.

lying in the woods, my honing of an unskilled song, its in my nature to dance dizzy alone,

a moonlit companion, rocks in the river, climbing in the shadows to try and hold the light,

vulnerable to an open sky and too many stars to count, the random display which is my life,

adds to my weight on the grass. a harp too tightly strung, the meditation of dirt, gods axles

grinding gears in the heavy heart, the sterility of grace, a nightsky mirrored across the stream,

black as ants each star, the whispering turnstile of dead leaves breezed, wind thru toes,

what visions commence when nature itself breastfeeds, this drug without captions, the silence

from mans mechanics which requires disciplined engineering and definitions from nano to pano,

the clouds contours pass random majestic, universal river i swim under,

it is not plaster which roofs me, but the sky and those who fly by.

creation is the sand caught between the waist of the hourglass, grass between toes of the machine,

a sneaking ghost suspicion dressed with leaves, cut out from the fat off sacrifice we make

in daily faith of a god who knows us by name.

chocolate pills and sleeping milk, goodnight prayers of an unaccomplished man

who trade a life in for a couple of good dreams, a typewriter with one purpose

a diary fit forboth god and child, proof of existence in tying their knots,

there is little to comment upon as i race through gods veins, my lack of communication

is because there is little left i could improve upon as life causes me to offer

silent adoration, no desparation for security, no need to break out of the easter shell,

no need to call my skin naked when it is just a mortal cloth covering this spirit

whos resonance matches the barefoot earth.

i lie in bed, splitting lifes sections into that which is black and white,

and that which is shades of grey. how we jump from square to square on the board,

choosing the side which happens to work for the moment, trying not to confuse oneself

with the truth that all extends in greyscale combinations. i appear numb without laughter

without crying, i only nod, only grin, painting in my areas with black or white entrapments,

a grey defined monkey, swinging the branches without reservations, grey with compassions,

bleached of all struggle, alive without magic but a science of perceptions

creating conflict but only within self. on tv right now they say it was 25 years ago

when man first stepped his sole on the moon, i was not alive to verify, most everything

i take the word of others and trust it to be truth. i grew up in christain school

so i spent most of my life thus far hearing the truth from a group which separates itself

from the rest of the world with some definitions of what their personal definitions

of truth is. this is why i must ensure the rest of life is spent learning and living

upon what my own beliefs are as far as who is telling the truth when it comes

to every aspect of life and which parts of it i partake. the older i get

the fewer judgements i pass, for the worst of them just suffer ignorance in their opinions

and i can't sit around picking at their scabs which never heal. today is july 20 94,

i am 24 years old and as of right now this week i do not have a job, i am spending time

with the chemistry of self, to sit here quietly and await what direction i will take,

this is the saddest time, turning off computer and tv and falling asleep in silence,

it is only self awareness which separates sleep from death, it is hard to sleep w/o tv,

soon i will break that habit, to peel away from owning a tv, to find my own thoughts

as means to entertainment, the sixth sense of recreation, winding into thoughts

about which of lifes mysteries should be chased in one lifetime. and will someone else

be there to join me. my parents leave tomorrow for a cruise,

i live over 30 minutes in the woods and know few who would drive this deep to see me,

anything i could offer is stained in rust colored water,

my mind drifts to my current found weakness of not knowing someones truth from a lie,

i cannot tell if people are giving me what they believe, what they want me to believe,

or what they themselves would like to believe, one of these three ways of communicating,

i do not want to revolve around someones little lies which signal greater issues ahead,

it does tire me to keep second guessing someone once i know they've lied once.

the tv speaks of our exporting of global freedom, we offer wages of a nickel a week over there,

the delicate balance of personal satisfaction versus workplace efficiency, the mental challenge

just to make each day different in some small way, there is no such existence called boredom,

for with each second we have two less.

'i used to do it you know, i used to write much more. i went out more often than now,

and i used to have more feathers than fingers', g scribbled into his notebooks,

while sitting alongside the palm beach intracoastal on a slight grassy hill,

a left hand curling awkwardly around a streaky blue pen, an uncomfortable friend,

a spineless breeze draped up against his light skin of sweat, a kettle of popcorn

bursts its seams in a distance and it took up the attention of some children,

kernels lifting out of the pot, into a striped wax bag, and into the hands

of clambering kids as fast as their parents can pay. the native buttered families,

milling about with amber beer bottles and turqiouse baby bottles, a plastic white fence

pens in a temporary holding bay for a small mule in a red drawstring felt hat,

dolefully looking at the next customer who just entered the crooked fence,

thickly padded humans moving with tendons and slow-reaction mechanics,

the midst of 700 ghosts, dreaming is easier than moving on, a minnows skeleton,

the spice of garys life being salt from a dried-up river of life.

wake up at 1030am, be to work, walking there, within 10 minutes of waking,

sit for 7 hours without a lunch, at a computer with 21 inches, go home at 6,

put dinner on its bun by 615, sit in front of his own computer till 1am,

take a shower and by 2am is slipping under the covers next to a muttering girlfriend

who has begged for hours for the computer to be off. then begins

deep stumbling through quickframed dreams, all without rehearsal or memory,

and then to wake up in 8 hours to begin the cycle all over again, all

to stave off starvation, to hold up the roof, to maintain base securities.

a year of the life, compounding daily the $5000 spent on building his new system,

a car which just cost over $3000 to replace a blown transmission, compounding is

the repetition of gary saying hes going to pay it all off and head straight to colorado,

just to stretch out in the sun and pull the stake out of his heart.

how much to spend how much to save how much to sell, the plan of balance,

so that this $25 an hour freelance life can not make money but spaces,

but initiatives are a bitch in high humidity, and is this job a filler or a future career,

gary has fears of what hes locked into and what he cant grasp, he doesnt know

anyone who has moved to colorado, or more beautiful places other than big cities,

he remembers, i was only last month he was driving through colorado himself,

thrown into the salvation of being from from any human symbols,abandonment into forces

which come only by air and sea, following the random arterial flow of asphalts

which stitch this country together, reading the braille of sunrise and sunset.

it will happen, he repeats, dreams,once sucklings on a holiday greasepan,

now burn away as blistered aspirations, and time tick making all sounds unrecognizable,

dreams, the fertilizers which make human compost, now compacting to moist coal

with no interuptions to set them ablaze.

this set of time known as the mid-20s, and my thoughts tonight are that now in november,

the first cool front pours down the street with those first few smoky breezes on the roof,

and the first time a bright blue sky lights up the day,not the haze of autumns humidity,

there is a old car show on the street tomorrow, where dozens will line up the street

and the kneehigh socked old men will bend over the engines and look back at their wives

who patiently look down the street in a gaze, noticing jewelry which catches her eye

worn by younger women, the men sometimes snapping a photo of a car which will sit unnoticed

in an album, all of us capturing events that it begins taking away from 'be there' enjoyment,

when we become so busy saving the moments, then who are the ones making the moment happen?

for all i save i know it ends in someboxes, those boxes combed through, then most of it thrown

into the recycling bins of whats-it-matter-anymore.

this sector of life, now clearly cut and separated at both ends from the rest of life, all i have done has been consistently viewed and reviewed until i realize i could not possibly contain all i take in and comprehend. my past education are eroded shores, many dreams have been stripped from my shoulders, some promises have gone silent forever, and i have escaped the arrest of hostile women. i have taken the rainbow and broke each emotion into its respective hue, place, and purpose. backing up far enough to be able to look at death with both eyes without crossing, close enough to make out the stream of stars which rush by as life is ever-closing up its zipper, all the while keeping up with politics of people who assume they themselves are meant to live forever based on how deep they punctuate their initials on the wall. wisdom, which fools speak of as a possession or destination, a construction without location, drifting without opinions, all nerves attentive to confronting realitys needles, all emotions exposed with eager nakedness, walking in the city as if an unnamed animal in the wilderness. walking barefoot on the mirror of dreams, undoing times sailors knot, a reflection of the past with every new relationship, pollinating goals with positive words, choosing only the ripest endeavors to pull from the bush. the unconcious compass, every answer is a greater direction of questions, all organizations cannot offer up the emulation of holding a lovers hand. the incoherent madness of self-realization that must be endured with pains until a human pushes out the other side, assured of self, accepting all of lifes transactions, lessening prejudices and jealousies, picking off all parasites of the spirit, to one day attain the single law of truth though to each man his own. we all share the desire to be loved, we bleed privately, we recognize systems greater than our inner clockwork and make the effort to fit in properly. the narcotic daydreaming lapses of time, laughing, pinning hands on the clock, trying to guess gods name, candlelit expectations, the success of happiness lies in process, not in completion. i do what i desire and not just to get it done. all which takes my attention is tied together with the same single thread, i carefully weave each second together cautiously, yet knowing lifes cloth will one day drop my spool, and all of which is me will unwind.

i am about to move into my own place alone, so i must begin eating right,

get away from the canned and the frozen, and perhaps no meat, well, sometimes,

i will spend less time on my computer if im not accomplishing real work,

i will not install any games, i will not get on the internet except for work and research.

i will also begin saving up for some small property on the west coast,

i will spend a couple minutes each day planning some small portion

of the type of place id like to live in, i will return to reading and writing,

music and painting, and try to express myself always more creatively.

i will try not to be an information machine or funny token or loan-machine

for people who call me their friend, i will try always to be less biased or opinionated,

i will love god and earth and maintain all of humanity is exactly equal to the other,

and i will get away from soda and coffee and tend to just water or tea.

i will never be predictable in my happiness, and always remember time

is too precious to sell, and i will still not wear real shoes or underwear.

engineering with a purpose, the presumption of god the designer,

giving me experience in the experiment, the focus to recompartmentalize the changes

within and without me, the ineffectiveness of infinite evolution, i will not have the abilities

to wrap my mind and mortal shell around every science, the power i possess

is the math of multiplying experiences and dividing the meanings between them,

the circle this stick man walks on, it holds no good nor evil, for once past

the one dimension of time and body, my sum only ever totalled the zero of possession.

i have changed my path, to drop religion, and move towards spirituality,

everything in life, my life, tends to prove yes there is a god, but no,

he does not make threats, he has not created a hell, unless of course he is human.

i do not believe in chance and coincidence, i believe in faith and purpose,

i believe by god not revealing himself, only his creations, leaves us,

his most wonderful of creations, to come to grips, each on his own,

with the awe of it all. for the atheist who sees random events, random objects,

random chance gluing us all together, he is more likely to see machines

as a path to enlightenment, and to see more of the animal in man than spirit.

as technology progreses, there will be more of a division between

spirituality and religion, between atheism and all else, for coming quick

is this manmade tool which educates, entertains, and mediates from a position

where god once stood, and there can only be a single faith for each heart,

but too fast are men thinking that future hope is plugged in.

im going to amsterdam, or am i?

today is saturday, i am at an event called 'earth fest', selling my necklaces to teens frocked in their best berry-stained new t-shirts, commercial commemorations of what was once known as the hand-made tie-dye. i have been granted two cafeteria tables and two chairs for twenty dollars, for sunshine and i to sell our necklaces. on these two melamine fold-outs are the racks i made out of wood and dowels, hanging from them are a couple hundred necklaces which take about 45 minutes each to make. i spray painted the racks green and stained some cherry or teak. i havent made any necklaces though for almost two years though, and i still have pounds of hundreds of types of beads and clays still in storage at my friend shannons garage. will i make any more necklaces, considering i still have hundreds of dollars worth of supplies, and thousands of free hours before me? well, probably not, theres no room where i am living now, on clematis street, with 'A' (whos been an on and off friend of mine for 11 years now) and 'B' (who i really dont know but he does pay a portion of the rent), and this is the sloppiest, most offensive place i have ever resided in thus far ever. but god has delivered some news, as it seems now 'A' is leaving to try living down in miami. he puts out a magazine and the whole house is his desk; photos sandwich crusts business cards old chicken skin notes numbers bricbrac musical notes, everything bears the scratching of an artists explosion of half thoughts and quarter notions. anyways. so the necklaces im selling for only $7 are the remnants of the last night i ever made necklaces, for days on end that stretch i sat on the floor of my room, silently threading away under 3 candles and some fishing filament to spin my choice of beads together like musical notes, while i listen to rem on repeat. i only stopped to eat when i knew the sun had risen, id awake mid-afternoon to the sound of my dads lawnmower, it was great to have privacy back then be able to flush my mind out in solitude, and meditate without constrictions....

ok, i am now on the plane headed to amsterdam a day later, the plane is sliding along this height i call blind faith, while people around me talk excitedly in a couple different languages. everyone just finished up their kittykat plate of chicken and a salad, drank their 10 tablespoons of wine, and are carefully unfolding their toilet paper blankets for fear of tearing it in half. many people have lounged back to watch 'speechless' on the monitors above us, but since its all in dutch its actually 'de kleinhiest' im watching without sound. i think god blesses america, but he lives in europe most of the year.