Journal 75 - Clouds and Life on a Sunday Afternoon

The dark side of the moon lives in the corner of my
eye, snuggled like  a ripe sty waiting for its day to burst
into my lonesome field of view and misappropriate the
light for its sinister dealings - misanthropic principles fill
my body with gory scenes of fake horror blood on fake
horror smiles. I am fake when I smile red-faced and
cool in the air-conditioned luxury of these hot torpid
days, I am fake with my books and my notes, my second-
hand ideas regurgitated from a 16th century fool who
claimed to beset the language's Bard. My ideas float through
my mind like a newspaper dropped on the ground
in a busy subway, the wind of the times and the
rides carrying each thought through the maze of
various perceptions, trying to attract like electrons some
meaningful bond of covalent minds - covered with the
words written by someone else on a tight schedule but
still more depth than I as I tip-toe into the shallow
end, the warm shallow end where the children gather
to reflect their parents' shiny ways of living in this
rainbow killed world. The drizzling of the clouds on
a Sunday afternoon says we live, we live, we live today
in reverse anti-matter undecay of smiles over buck-
toothed bright dismay. We live another sunny rainy day.


7.19.12

Journal 74 - Living in Cloudy White Balance

I want to live in cloudy white balance, warm and
yellow in my smiling caricature of our human exchange
of emotional and vain ideas. I am drunk and unashamed.
I've had the sweet pleasure of water and tubes
and acrobatic knees on acrobatic wakes. I can
fool ten thousand smiles at the local ephemeral
bar wrapped in its own glimpse of ecstasy and musical
joy. I am starved and thus (man?) inducted into this
lightweight ring of Kentucky-infused inebriated
blurred eye-twitching and double-centered novel
revolving around the gravitational center fo*
this God-induced single spaced single stepped simple
Gas-caddie broken image of our self-aggrandized
image. I love you all and I am seriously not kidding
AT ALL.


7.15.12

* - not a typo; that's how I wrote it in my journal. You shouldn't
    find it too surprising given the rest of the completely
    non-sensical drivel in this one.

Journal 73 - Marinated Thoughts Dying Like Roaches

After a three year drought, I began again with these silly songs.

Once it seems I noted each and every thought that
floundered in my brain, marinating for a day or a
second - no matter. I still recorded the lame
limping ideas like a dutiful stenographer. These thoughts,
these plaster thoughts are now cracked and broken,
wide like a drying lake in need of rain and
dry proof caulk. Only they receive liquid in the
form of wine, blood red wine fit for a two-
cent vampire. There is no restorative power lurking
in the foot-stamped vine. Ideas dry up, leaving deep
caverns that tempt but yield nothing but dry air,
hot dry air, choking and claustrophobic - stuck
in the dry cracked caverns of my alcohol dehydrated
mind. No flame burns for me; there is no ember
slowly glowing in the bottom of my soul - I am
drenched in wine and tears and mine and mine,
not yours. Hope dawns they say in the waking
moments of each day, granting us another trial to
reconstruct and reattach the broken bones of what
we de-throned & deconstructed in the previous
cilantro day. Many mouths are cleaned and purged
with the testament that is cilantro - I need a
cilantro bath for my gorgonzola soul. My thoughts
are dying roaches, on their broken backs wriggling
and eliciting pity in your kind saucy souls - striving
for one more attempt at impressing you with their
resiliency - to economic mildewed mattresses, to children
and their ever present selves, bundles of unbridled
regurgitation of their small world, their brilliant
colorful small world, impressing you with their unnatural
ability to soothe you when quiet and absent. Quiet
absence is the seduction of the daemonic voice inscribed
on your dehydrated cortex. This wine is dry and
cheap, but there is a bottle. It feels good to drink
again, even in the sights of my executioner. I have
a hole in my heart, carved recently through the
attempt to make my strange heart plain. I welcome
dry, decayed thoughts as notes from an antique violin -
lifting my insecure world from its misappropriated sin.


7.9.12