warm as a waterfall in alaska but chiller than ice in the desert

we’re riding bikes to your house cause it’s a party on the 
the west coast
in a wet suit

“I know that I know nothing” –Socrates

         

those white cranes fishing in the marsh

nervousness, anxiety, stress, and heavy things
like something you can't get off your hands, like oil paint.
highly permanent thoughts like billboards, dreams,
and casinos were those white cranes fishing in the marsh.

The feeling that there are only eight thousand whales left in the whole ocean.

baited
we owe nothing to animals
higher intelligence
hated

Like the feeling of terror, who was himself, plus the feeling of terror's brother and his friends.


the feeling of terror tried to do his laundry this morning, but his bare feet felt the cold soaked carpet. the repairman came and supposedly fixed the washing machine yesterday. the feeling told his room mate to call the landlord and say, "we are sitting on top of the mt. kilimanjaro of laundry."

Sun gone come out, it's a long summer


sun gone come out
it's a long summer
for your somehow
for your bummer
rain gone come down
on your lover
sun gone come out
it's a long summer

• Clocks and the concept of time
• When you don't know you have something on you/in your teeth

What will you think?"Just reach up"

Forever resounding waves of sound fill the air and tremble the ground...

pg.2

to no be affected, compromised, misled, undiscovered, quiet,

there is a farm in the country with cows and fields

to accept reality, future, present, past, every dimension

(in my dream i was at a funeral and did something

wrong. i almost grabbed/knocked over this candle

and the person behind me was like "what are you

doing?" i had to touch this thing but i did

it wrong and they made me do it again

God moving over the water. the ocean

peace through meditation, no tobacco, none at all

that strange feeling that never leaves uncle

he's milling around in the melting snow

he's waiting for you to start your car

like life is just taking up space, jams

there is a farm in the country with cows and fields

but no chickens, foxes, or rabbits,

loud noises coming from the workers underground

have you met my pet hamster? he's a Russian dwarf,

enjoys belly dancing and those things that skinny people

commercializing poetry, commercialized nonsense

God moving over the water, the ocean

there is a farm in the country with cows and fields

to not be judged in a condescending manner

a saw sawing, a television, and a Christmas tree

a sticker that says "made in japan"

to not read every word but instead view the whole

that strange feeling that never completely leaves

he's underneath the floor, in the walls, and above the ceiling fan

he's in your living room scanning through "Birds of North America"

to allow things to happen making nothing into something

there is a farm in the country with cows and fields

 I am heating an unusually large cup of coffee. I put half-and-half in it, no sugar. I hope it will cure me. He woke up each day to feelings of __________, _________, and having to take a shit. That’s all he ever did, _______ and took shits. Plus he drank coffee, beer, whiskey, and smoked ____. It sucked. Typing was an activity that felt strange. Typing was like reading, but reading your thoughts. I feel like every sentence is some kind of gimmick. I don’t like what I write. I probably like 10% of what I write. I don’t expect anyone to like what I write. It’s mostly stupid, doom and gloom, bullshit. I find comfort in contradictions though. (wtf am i talking about?) I guess the purpose is to make me feel better. I guess that’s all I really care about and I guess that seems really selfish. But I’m actually a pretty nice person with a lot of potential. Sometimes I forget how happy I should be. He wrote pages of bullshit, stored on his laptop computer, until one day a virus corrupted his hard drive. Nothing was lost, but everything was lost. “It was the best of times, and the worst of times” It is a dream so real that when you wake up, it takes a little while to realize that it never happened. I am almost finished with this cup of coffee and feel a shit coming on. Some of my hobbies include drinking coffee and taking shits. It was very nice to meet you.  I will begin typing a new story:

            Finished cup of coffee.

            “Philosophy is just interesting, hard to understand questions. I would like to see myself as someone who enjoys asking interesting questions.” The other day while driving I thought this. I wanted to write something down then, but I was driving. I texted “I have to go on vacation, type abt the things ive done” Sometimes I am unsure whether or not I ask interesting questions or have done interesting things. I thought I was having interesting thoughts that were interesting enough to be written down.

            If you open all of the drawers on my dresser it will tip over. It doesn’t sound like Sartre, or now that I just smoked, Klosterman, but instead I wouldn’t mind if it sounded like Twain or Brautigan. I hope it sounds like music. This is a mixtape, jj’s Kills. I am listening to this mixtape right now. It sounds like E.E. Cummings. 

It is written in a manner which, when listening, reads better. Itreads instantly the eye meets the screen/page. 


While driving, I also thought about music criticism, partly because I listened to some NPR discussion, and realized I should never write about how much I liked the albums or how good I think they are. Instead, how the music has come into my life, and the permanence of its existence. The process of falling in love with music often begins on a bad note. But over time/listening, things even out enough to make accurate opinions/create strong bonds. Familiar music has more/less memories attached to it. That’s why most music critics... I don’t have a Polaroid camera. I'm not part of the vinyl revolution. Why argue over something like music? Sometimes music culture/criticism gets in the way of the crescendos, bass lines, and 6/4 time, along with guitar solos. Leave them alone. I’m not saying that talent isn’t attached to commercial success, but fuck anyone who ever thought that popularity, commercial success, or “virality” is relevant to the successes of art. I apologize; bad language is a side effect of my inability to creatively describe my emotions. I don't like this tone. This piece of writing may simply be a bumbling tumble of gumballs, spit in a gym locker. 

             I wonder what writer will be the first to publish a novel on a smart phone, or maybe this already happened. But like, the first writer/artist/musician to be known in the future of history as the original. He or She is alive right now. We may never learn his, her, or their names. Is that a correct sentence?


The snow is melting, Notorious B.I.G. is rapping over this jj shit.

One sip of coffee left.

            So the moral of the story is that coffee is delicious, and music is good.

Takes last sip of cold coffee.

            This is a tale of bravery, of choosing the music to have and hold forever. Searching the internet in a quest for the most relatable, rocking, rolling, jamming, melodic, chick singers, band/musicians with original sounds, to be blessed with the flooded-abundance of undiscovered music floating off in the far clouds of the internet. In my experience, some of my favorite music did not sound appealing at first, and that truly enjoying music is part of a process. I do not wish to be a slave to relevancy and seek out new bands just to say I listened to them first. But that does not mean that my opinions cannot stand up to, or be better than those of the most relevant music critic alive I wish to not only listen to the music of my closest friends, but also to seek out music for myself to call my own. I am selfish at times and do not want others listening to my music.   But most of the time I want to be no Johnny, but Songgy Appleseed, to spread enjoyable sounds and unique musical gifts. I will write as if I am the best music critic alive, implying that in order to be the best critic alive, one must believe he is the best musician alive. Last name ever, first name greatest. I am not the greatest rapper alive and neither is/was Lil Wayne.  I don’t know if I should publish this.


on a side note:I’m listening to this song called “I do not care for the winter sun” by Beach House. GvsB loves Beach House.

"The most elegant, visceral, sensual release of the year comes from one of our favorite bands in the history of this blog. Teen Dream was born of a fully evolved vision and the indefatigable connection between Alex Scally and Victoria Legrand, whose voice is quickly becoming an iconic one. And, it has the best songs." -gvsb.

There alright I guess.

didn't even make any lists...maybe next year.

            

On Atlantic City

           The snow fell like a million tiny skydivers without parachutes. Waves were small, but clean. Oceans. The word ocean plural. Atlantic City looked like a cat puking, filled with several hundred drunken existentialists, enemies. The casinos were warm. However, they were not minimal, nor animal. The roads were left unplowed and the cars arms shoveled themselves out. A pull of a lever, a roll of the dice, a ball spinning on a wheel, basically any attempt at making money became overshadowed by the parking garage. It cost a ten and a five to park. We left our cars.
        
            Enter blinking, bleeping, and dinging. Homeless people are not robots that like techno. No, actually, homeless people are pretty cool I guess. People’s eyes were red, not glazed, something creepy. Slowly falling around the building, each snowflake was a parachute for two hydrogen and one oxygen atom. The human body is made up of a high percentage of water, and somewhere, right now the concept of beach houses is drowning. We also require oxygen to breathe. insert: The concept of beach houses. What is that thing called; that. The lapping of brilliance, stupidity caged, on ice. Six dollars for a pitcher, and you are allowed to drink straight from it. They won't kick you out. They didn't kick me out of the average life span of a human being. I believe there is only one ocean.

             This is Atlantic City! It came to me in a revelation, in an elevator, a middle aged woman telling us to be careful. No dreams. Some people say they are afraid of their dreams, but never trust statistics. Does only a fool trust facts?  Remember when people actually used pens and pencils? Not in Atlantic City, no, not there. Or maybe in Atlantic City.Everything will be alright. I’ll walk to the boardwalk; I’ll talk like a salesman, the faces overwhelming, the ocean re-affirming your love, by the water you sound like a dolphin. This is not Atlantic City. If I was a snowflake I would hope to land in the ocean.

On Music

Not any particular songs or bands, but the entire concept of music. Making it, baking it, kneading the dough, and not burning it. Have you ever watched the Food Network with a bag of Doritos glued together, forming a pine tree? Didn’t think so, didn’t even think. It is intrinsically good I guess. Seeing live music is fun, but when people with big egos, or whatever compulsions they have acquired, get drunk they like to make a mess. But not like spilling a gallon of milk, rather, like punching someone in the face or yelling “come at me bro!” Tired, so tired, of the killing, and fighting. Some people just want to have a good time, are you drunk already? Hung over the banister of the fanciest casino in the city, like Borgata or something. Yeah man I'm Donnie T. about to go swimming in my pool filled with malt liqueur. Like some kind of essay or something, but neither an essay nor something, not anything, no never anything. It is the opposite of singing, whatever that sounds like, perhaps a cross between a whisper and a scream. Are there such things as sentences for sentences sake? Worker Bee is my favorite band. ..Warpaint is my favorite band.

           

we made miis for everyone in the room. every detail changed by a signal through the air.
"what if you had a really ugly friend and you were making them? how awkward would that be?"
we laughed at the funny faces. we made a stereotypical black man. we didn't play games and the cat scratched the screen on the window so I let it in.
we gathered around a laptop to watch videos
we watched drinking out of cups because C had never seen it before
it sucks being the last person to find out
when everyone is in on the joke
we repeated words and laughed
no way, not once, not never
we learned by watching Bill Dance outtakes and laughing
we left one by one saying goodbye to each person in the room

calling all agnostics atheists, drunks, and junkies it’s Christmas eve and your families want you in church doesn’t matter if you go cause he knows what you did Santa won’t bring you coal but you’ll be cold and can’t take a shit she said

“we’ll bake her an angel cake

because she’s in heaven”

WITH TIRED EYES, TIRED MINDS, TIRED SOULS, WE SLEPT

This is my aunt’s army jacket. It’s real.
I like that it has a lot of pockets.
The other day I thought to myself, “Imagine how many people died while wearing one of these jackets.” Bullets have probably put holes in every square inch of the fabric.
I thought about soldiers freezing in the snow.
I thought about the collar protecting the back of their necks from wind.
There I was, standing on an American porch, like an idiot, smoking a cigarette.
I put my cell phone, keys, bowl, and wallet
each into a separate pocket, however they were meant for ammunition, grenades, and the essentials of war.
Unlike most outerwear, the zipper begins at my belly button and there is a snap below it, connecting the coat tails.
It is not very heavy.
There is no down stuffing or any type of padding whatsoever.
There are places this jacket has been that I will never see.

(I thought for a second “Is there anything I didn’t do?” and then thought “Yes there are plenty of things I have never done.” After returning from a break it was the one thing that was most important. But then I thought maybe small things held some significance that added up to something.)

My fingers have become enchanted with post rock[1] man, mondo great for writing, or at least the act of writing. “its like the words are yours to write” sounds cheesy, then I thought “the words I write don’t go to this music” and that was it.

In google chrome I’m on behindthename.com. Lagina is a “combination of the popular prefix La with the name Gina.” It is of the English language, African American, and rare. I wonder if the I in Lagina is pronounced ee or ii? I would speculate that it is pronounced both ways, and possibly with higher variation in many different parts of the world. Layton is another cool name for a character. It means “settlement with a leek garden” in Old English.

Oh old, old, old English, Bold English, Bad English, Sloppy English, WooWoo in your face English. You try taunting a bike cop. There are powers superheroes would kill to obtain, wired into his brain. He will say “What’s your name?” and you will be zombified by the sheer amount of auburn flowing hair-chest beard. Zombies! Video Games! Huh.

We are all Roman soldiers wearing U.S. Army Jackets. Drinking Old English and riding bicycles. Old bicycles, like, cool ones. And our hair is too long, and we only care about the present. And its all both bad and good. Bad, Good, Bad, Good, Always the same.

And not knowing which song to put on. Bad enough at a party, but completely alone. Meanwhile, acoustic guitar and the human voice create the most beautiful sound on Earth.

WITH TIRED EYES, TIRED MINDS, TIRED SOULS, WE SLEPT

There is something about songwriters, true one man bands, Dylan, Smith, Sam Beam, and Young. As well as Johnny Cash, and Keller Williams is my dawg. 

“Everyone is a fucking pro and they all got answers from trouble they’ve known and there all gonna say what you should and shouldn’t do, but they don’t have a clue” sang Smith. 

I thought “If I never illegally downloaded music as a teen, I would be retarded right now.” but then thought this idea was unfair to people who were born with any kind of politically correct health condition?

I like the song “When I’m With You” and I’m not afraid to admit it, but it kind of sucks. Best Coast fucking suck. Land of Talk has been so good right now. This Microsoft word document already looks faded, worn, and tattered. It looks like it was printed in an office in New York City in 1988. I’m currently listening to the song “May You Never” by Land of Talk; loving the vocal harmony.

 I’ve told maybe one or two people about what I thought about the army jacket the other day. One of my friends was like “You don’t even know the things I think of” and I said “What?” and he wouldn't tell me anything more. 

WITH TIRED EYES, TIRED MINDS, TIRED SOULS, WE SLEPT

---

doc watson

now that you know
now i dont want to anymore
johnnys on the squeezebox,
something, on the pavement
thinking bout the government
sunglasses sunglasses

oh and barbie girl
in a barbie world down by the river
living in a van oh yeah
something bout the milk smells funny
the sound of water running
im blue aba dee aba die

ginsberg probly sucked his cock
black coffee with sugar
evan williams, vermouth,
and maraschino cherry juice
hmm hmm hmm
the beets, no beats

don't smile, laugh
where you going no
my slip? your slip
stomach, head
looking out the window
thinking bout the government

kurt cobain and that skinny guy from deerhunter
silence, glance, laugh
scratch
thinking bout the government
stream of cronsciousness
down by the river

crunk juice nigga

i'm jealous of bird watching
binoculars
just wanna build a cabin in Alaska
with a saw
and my hands
catching trout
in the lake

poison silver surface
floating over the ocean
burned into the air we breathe

i was a killer
i was a whale
i drank the water
my liver failed

i have a headache
i have a home
what happened to sail boats
they left me alone

and the japanese
are killing us off

I will find a way, no I will find a way

it happens every day,

you think its what you want, 

because forever you will live

don’t take what you give

away away, away from all the piles of hay

I will find a way; no I will find a way

some excuse for, bought some more

we’re fighting a war, 

like a story about the wise and the poor

the cold train rolls summer tide leaves

through the moon's backdoor

I will find a way, no I will find a way
she is the moon

deep inside our warm,

post-rock basement lagoon

I will find a way, no I will find a way

systematically blistering digits,
filling instruments with blood

till the cables all get plugged in

passionately tapping sustenance,

a seriously overworked apathetic,
ashtray forest fire

Explain it all to me 
What you need to be 
To Know every single word 
Riders on the storm

I wanted 
a pen 
but instead 
i got this 
minature 
computer 
with its little 
keyboard 
My fingers are cold 
and I miss 
my handwriting

I could save time by taking a shower in the washing machine 
My whole life ive always wanted to be a bike rack

The beauty of a thousand cool sunny days interupted by indoors ";hit the fuggin thing" serious fuckin cellular realtime communication 
I guess embrace it

To tighten loose strings 
Like to remember your name 
As your calling me out 
Im tying it into your heart

for dying houseplants

we are rain

(we are clouds)

we are leaves

(we are trees)

  

bl

ip   s

m e

l

o

dY,

      s

         t,

           ,e,

               ,l,

                ,l,

              ,y

I g

reatly app

rret

iate

amb

iant,

      ***************

co

mput

ers&

m;u;

s;I;c

al

g

enious.

[deleted post]

This is how I felt this morning and this is how I feel now.

It's raining.

excerpt from Not The Whale

The mouse never could trust weathermen. He thought it was no good to predict rain. The mouse knew that people would often say one thing and do another. He was unsure weather or not you could trust in contradiction, but he trusted the rain would fall.

(name removed), 

[removed]

in watermelon sugar in one sitting
strangely reading nose chopping narrative
quiet like images of rain without falling
no patient reading
taking advantages of quantum physics
every single page is a rat in a room with poison
one page is read and at the same time burning
only learning what we are forgetting about
being drunk in two rooms
with the spins, but in opposite directions
like one of those NASA puke rides
reading multiple words in a single moment
a classroom full of trout debating clouds orally emptying into rivers

six thirty to nine

It's six thirty P.M. while I could be Trout Fishing in America.

I look into the front row, otherwise known as "the art section" at a girl I may or may not be attracted to. Next to her, there is a girl who looks like she is riding a lawnmower. I speculate as to whether or not the professor had ever been Trout Fishing in America. I think to myself, "girls named Samantha are for me" and then I change my mind. I try to pay attention but envision a mad dog floating around my head. All of the flavors are swirling above my head. The Bible as a historical document sounds better than the Bible that inspired people to bomb abortion clinics. I'm not sure whether drinking coffee makes me more or less nervous. I wish I was Trout Fishing in America. I wish I could sleep with a girl that looks like a hummingbird.

She could use her voice in many different ways. Sometimes she would make words, sometimes she would make sounds. You always knew what she meant. She would change words into her own cute way of saying them. She could talk like a little kid and I was jealous of that. She was beautiful, her eyes and her lips, the rest of the features on her face together represented the possibility of perfection.

orange notebook #1

my son my son

the war is won

straight up to heaven

soul into sun

peace relieves my sorrow

victory has come

the war is won

my son my son

excerpt from AP Bio notebook #3

Charlie ruined the hippies
people never change
the search to find the answers
will always stay the same

Now precedes the future
yesterday is old
This gray and beaten walkway
I thought was paved with gold

excerpt from AP Bio notebook #2

You changed the odds
on the existence of
infinite love

You spoke and
I listened
remembered each
word that I spoke

Copied it down
registered ephemeral
emotions filled
up your pages

Esoteria
wrap your arms around me
instill in me infinity

excerpt from AP Bio notebook

Arise bright light from the East
shine on the water, strike the beach
illuminate the sea

Let me glide on down the wave
slide down the face
to the place, to the place
where I can believe
and liquid relief spilling over me

Take in the air appreciate
No hate exists in the sea

there is something about the way that music is processed by the brain
Everyones hearing is different though
Some brains aren't as capable as others
excluding the deaf
However not all blind people prefer listening to music vs. watching movies
Sound; you can't see it, you can only see what is making it!

when i'm sometimes
bite my nails

That Birdsong Sunny Morning

one 

that birdsong sunny morning comes

from a frozen

basement

of the world wandering

into our

backyards

that birdsong sunny morning smiles

in the sunrise

when most

have closed eyes

that birdsong sunny morning lands

and we can

fly again!

two

that birdsong sunny morning comes

to make the wind blow

so we can teach our kids to know

that birdsong sunny morning comes

to grow the grass green

and make our hearts smell clean

that birdsong sunny morning comes

to guide the school bus

that birdsong sunny morning comes

to show us the fool in us

three

that birdsong sunny morning comes

from our neighbors

on the other side of the world

four

that birdsong sunny morning comes

from the winged maestros,

musicians

and minstrels

in our backyards

in our forests

in our cities

because I long for it

so I can appreciate music again

that birdsong sunny morning comes

five

that birdsong sunny morning comes

when we remember going to sleep

that birdsong sunny morning comes

from remembering to go to sleep

six

that birdsong sunny morning comes

in remembrance of those past

for those it came for then

and those it will come for after

seven

that birdsong sunny morning comes

so we don’t have to waste time anymore!

that birdsong sunny morning comes

to chase away trivial things

and trivial thoughts!

eight

that birdsong sunny morning grows

up from the ground on the petal of a rose

that birdsong sunny morning floats

down from heaven to rest on the petal of a tulip

nine

that birdsong sunny morning reflects

off the white spots in the fawn’s new fur,

the stag’s horn

and the mirror in the mother’s eyes

ten

I am awakened by

my friends with

two wings and beaks

singing when 

that birdsong sunny morning comes

like the tortured soul of Jim Morrison
with a mind full of notebooks full of broken language
scared to speak the words of an alien species

if a uterus can be a coffin
then a coffin can be a uterus

class 63

allergic reactions to certain situations scrubbing ducks & otters
watching inside the mind of google on youtube
black high heeled boots in front
the girl they call die-hard just walked in
mobile devices have us in a stranglehold
extrasensory computing is supposedly augmenting our senses
and a lot of people want a miniaturized version of ebay
not my little pony
my cute little ebay
i named my son ebay
soup

In class she nods her head as if she is in church
like some blind agreement
or like a dog wagging it's tail
or like a human being ignoring
the start of another holocaust
If an atomic bomb landed in her lap she would smile and continue to nod

You are your team
You wear their jerseys, hats, socks & underwear
You are their wins and losses
When they win, you win
When they lose, you lose
You share a common bond
You label yourself because you are proud
When people see you they instantly know something about you
because not many people wear [ team name] jerseys by coincidence

library #5

Homeless people are sleeping in the library. You make many attempts to decipher the students from the homeless. The library seems unusually quiet, maybe because there are so many words that aren't worth reading. Perhaps it is the vast amount of written syllables that makes them silent. No matter what, the words are here to stay and there are more words on the way. All of this information is penning itself at the top of a mountain.

There is no snow here, only tables, chairs, people reading, and stairs with ants on mountains. The clouds outside the library window move like a freight train. There is a blonde girl wearing rain galoshes. When people walk or run, the stairs become drums, especially when the mallets are flip flops. It is strange how so many people can sleep in the library. You find it scary. A boy speaking loudly on a cellphone disturbs the thinkers. You find this rude. The homeless don't mind though. Today the library is hungry because the chairs feel like digestion.

The elevator bells are meant to sound pleasing but they are terrifying. You have a feeling of guilt about adding more words to a collection of words that will never be read. It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. Everyone looks dyslexic. There is great trouble deciphering past from present tense. There is heavy emphasis on the word "decipher" and the chairs. They don't look hungry so you think maybe they are all just acting. When you came to this library, you left your sanity at the front desk. The librarians keep everyones sanity in the closet and you can pick it up when you leave.

The homeless check their watches and go back to sleep. Turning the page is like leaving a funeral. A girl is perched on the balcony and looks down like an eagle. She is joined by another eagle, a much fatter male eagle. As you contemplate peripheral vision the speed of your pen on paper seems alarming. A mouse's handwriting is interesting, especially to birds of prey. The eagles are frightening. You are writing as if your hand is a sprinter running a hundred miles at a sprinter's pace. Or like a thief running from police, pages blurring from sheer meaninglessness. The eagles are looking out the window or into your window. Its terrifying. The spelling is terrifying. The consequences of such meaninglessness are terrifying.

You can hear footsteps but there is an odd lack of heartbeats. There is a search for a word that means "information not contained in the brain," as your pen flows like a waterfall obeying gravity, or an officer ordering a soldier to harm innocent people. You notice every silly backpack and a broad range of female handbags. Strange looks are collected in a bin to be handed out to shy people.

The homeless check their watches as the air conditioning keeps their organs fresh; but the architecture of the building withholds the necessary nutrients to keep the comfy chairs well fed. Your terror fades as you contemplate meaninglessness. You forget about the eagles.You forget all about the satisfied homeless. You stop deciphering. As the words you write become tangible, the thoughts return to your conscience, and you become hungry again. The library is where you bring your screaming children to put them to sleep.

library #4

The feeling of terror sat Indian style outside of the library, finishing a 12 pack. The feeling got up, and stumbled towards where it thought it lived, but it had no home. Every night when it slept, the girl it slept next to had scary dreams. She dreamed that the feeling of terror was somebody else and that scared her. The feeling hugged her tighter and told her it was alright.

The feeling of terror loved the girl and wanted her to feel safe around the feeling of terror.

Sometimes the feeling of terror accelerated the feeling of terror when it thought too much. Then it would write inside the library of terror to feel better. Sometimes the feeling of terror would try to distract itself from itself but it never worked. Well, sometimes it worked, but in a very bad way.

Even when the feeling of terror felt happy it was still the feeling of terror. Sometimes it would type the feeling of terror into a word processor. Other times it would write emails of terror to the feeling of terror. But the feeling of terror could never escape the feeling of terror.

library #3

perfect poetry has no purpose
like purple people are silly
and sillyness is the answer to many questions
stupidity equals sanity and insanity equals normality
sometimes fancy words sound dumb
peoples inner thoughts vs. the wax on the floor
unhappiness vs. the Spanish language
obesity vs. the chill of winter
the theory of painting walls yellow
below average vs. Latina woman holding her breasts
the theory of flip flops after summer
an Asian sound of affirmation
glaring into the unity of silence
a face as beautiful as a nuclear reactor
an awkward gait vs. a fading hair color
the theory of athletic people in gym shorts
having a lot of nerdy friends in order to feel socially superior
saying you don't care probly means you do
nonsense to make you feel better

library #2

The feeling was in the pit of your stomach. Unease. The feeling came in through your senses. The feeling traveled like a stream out of your heart and through your arteries. Usually streams are peaceful, but this was a stream of terror. The people in the library sat quietly reading, but they were equally terrifying. The people who wrote the newspaper; they were terrifying too. Most of the books were arsonists or concrete trucks. Some of the books were paramedics. Some were acquaintances and few were friends. The pillars holding up the building were the parents and the couches and tables were the children. None of the people knew what they wanted to be. Some thought they did, but they didn't. There were blonde girls with asses that hung out of their jean shorts. The elevator was an esophagus and the stairs were lungs. Some words would make the bad things go away. A page can be a portal. But most of the time they were no more important than a fast food taco party pack. Or as worthless as a thousand emotionally involved poems.

library #1

burned down like a popsicle stick log cabin
through bushes of curly hair her fingers ran
asleep with eyes focused on two index fingers
her hair sprayed with seeds and on her breasts
my yellow watermelon digesting supplying nutrients
to our bodies (and the creation of new bodies)
a library full of words on pieces of paper
but no one is reading or writing just thinking
exactly how long till the weekend
don't be reading over my shoulder
the structure of poems can look like a
yellow jacket swatted with a newspaper
just words of a suicidal photojournalist
they walk down the hallway like nuts
screwing onto bolts
the thought of air conditioning coinciding
with a jazz professor bassist
the brilliance of Ira Glass vs. stupid
curly haired girls named Madison

jesus the velociraptor 

evolved the love you need in your dinosaur brains 

if you were a brontosaurus and you crushed my toes 

i would hope you would say you're sorry 

he forgave you for stealing his eggs

jesus the velociraptor
told you to say you’re sorry 

to every land dwelling mammal 

the science of saying sorry 

he forgave you for stealing his eggs
like in that movie Jurassic Park

america

political backlash. back scratch cat nap. escape from death in a car crash. burn. turn around a corner, mourners gather around a box, this guys socks don't fit. take a shit. explode. reload and then unload on a chinese buffet. your mom is gay. met her online yesterday. but its ok. you're alive so am i. soon you will fly, high, ride a bike, kiss a dyke, take a nap, wakeup and take a crap. build a bomb. hold out your palm, receive this gift. this shit is perfection in a box. it's not a clock but it tick tocks. it's freedom.

people in this world:
1. those who are oblivious to how bad they have it and
2. those who are oblivious to how good they have it.

broken view escaping your notion
i am through deciding to fall
so are you contempt with emotion
love is due and justice for all
insecure you are reckless
i have heard you're better these days
wanting more your beauty is endless
im not sure in so many ways
we can play life if you want
but i need it to be believable

war = human vs human
personality vs personality
son vs son
great storyteller vs life of the party
never american vs enemy
never soldier vs insurgent
never christian vs islam
never us vs them
it will always be human vs human
no matter how hard anyone tries to tell you different

He'd rather sleep than think of the uncertainty coming his way
She'd rather drink than learn in school every single day
But what they both couldn't control affected them everyday
things moved along and time slipped away

Don't look to me for your potion because all my paths lead straight to the ocean and although last night was like poetry tonight you'll make your go at me and when you forget your fears and inhibitions, when all your dreams are good decisions, we can coexist in that special kind of way; speaking with our actions while forgetting what to say.

It'll never be true
but he'll keep on wishing
And when it's through
he'll continue living

His future laid down
escape passed by
forever tied to this town
to gaze at one sky

Under many stars
alone he sits and waits
passed by many cars
without years, without dates

Without days or nights
no warm, no cold
bereft sounds or sights
not young, not old

Not dead, nor live
instead, there he lie
to gaze at one sky
for the rest of his life

Resound zealous wavelengths of sound!
fill space with an array of color
deny any worldly tethers
become what you will
say what you say
you are sound
you are alive

she dances along to sound
her motions quick, rhythm steady
freedom is found breathing heavy

Between cobblestone walkways
through gardens agrow
there lived a bumblebee
whose mind was his own

Willingly he wished to alter his mind
while substances plentiful did grow
slowly he slipped from upbeat to unkind
rejecting the truth, his mind was slowed

Yet perhaps from above
came understanding and love
drifting down to the bumblebees mind

Long did he search
and finally did he find the key to solve
all of his fears

Because years and years
of wrong life did thrive
All without knowing
he threatened his mind

As it became clear
with purity he earned
sometimes freedom eludes even the clever,
he learned

whats out of my league

floating in a bubble bouncing around

singing unintelligibly in salty water

burned in the chill of an ocean

sung tongues to the sea

Its warm outside/ and everyone is interested /on an ocean or a stream

the trees are green/ the air is clean/ for an airborne predator

the sharpest of eyes/the wind beneath your wings/ looking for some company

the sharpest of claws/ with the feathers on broads that tell no lies

do we want to exist

will you want to exist

thrown into the future

we’re barking from pollen

and just like the cords, electric lines, and endless energy

the speed of the brain is getting faster

the fourth storm

His car died last night out in the cold

His car froze to death on the fourth storm

untitled

the reason I don't talk to you
is not because I don't want to talk to you
sometimes I think "I should get a prescription to xanax"
but then I think of the people I know who take it
and I don't want to be like them

the dreamcatcher manufacturing industry

met Scooby at a house-party

she told me she walked to the party from someplace like Virginia or something

she was an alternative girl

she told me her parents were really strict or fundamentalists or something

she told me she wanted to drink and smoke all that she could drink/smoke now that she was away from her parents

I told her that was not a good idea

she was 18 years old

she asked me for a cigarette and I didn’t have any more

so I gave her my cigarette, she smoked it and gave it back

she wouldn’t tell me her name

she said it was just scoob

the atom

he’s small

but he’s strong

via [readwritethink]

we had a party
I got drunk then I got hungry 
I cooked and made a mess 
I left the dishes dirty then I got drunk again then I got hungry
I cooked and made a mess and left the dishes dirty 
we had a party again 

I got drunk 

then I got hungry 

I cooked and made a mess 

I left the dishes dirty

then I got drunk again 

then I got hungry 

I cooked and made a mess 

I left the dishes dirty 

we had a party again 

I got drunk

then I got hungry 

I cooked and made a mess 

I left the dishes dirty 

then I got drunk again 

then I got hungry 

I cooked and made a mess 

I left the dishes dirty 

we had a party again

praise vs. blame

deweted

Everything is Free Nothing is Real Presents: The Melon & The Melody

The Melon & The Melody


i'm writing it on post it notes

metaphorically speaking.

would like to go to a post-it party where no one talks;

they just write what they wanna say and post-it on themselves.

[deleted post]

I don’t trust smart people

I don’t know what they know

But I can trust a lot of people

Because I know what they know

in blogger afterlife with clouds and sky

a selection from poems for alts

[deleted post]

information is love

Dopamine queen

Caught dancing in the field

Pheremine green

My hope is in the wheel

Satellite lean shot

Sorry Imma spill

Pearly white screen

My hope is in the real

Cellophane brain

Like I know just what to say

Seventeen beauty queens

Curled up by the rain

Every shade of blue

Like I know just what’s the truth

Every way to you

Like I know just what to do

Halfway home telephone

Just numbers on a wheel

All alone monotone

Like I know just what to feel

Everything you do

Like I know just what’s the truth

Every part of you

Like I know just what to do

My hope is in the wheel

Like I know just what to do

My hope is in the real

Like I know just what to feel

I am

If there’s an end and a beginning
What’s outside those two words?

[two words]

If everything is contained in two words
Am I contained in two words?

me, my, and I

shit

two dreams and a story

Once I had a dream three hummingbirds got into my apartment
Through an open window and I couldn’t get them out
I awoke in terror as one flew into my neck

Once I had a dream that there was a curse in the doorway
If my body wasn’t symmetrical or entered at the wrong time
Something terrible would happen

Once I got stung on the neck by a yellow jacket waiting in line to buy a cup of coffee
I felt something crawling and tried to brush it off
Its stinger pumped poison into my blood as I walked to class

Sonnet by Richard Brautigan

the ghost of

The sun does not cooperate

Once I was not a man
I was a body of water
Strayed from the watering can
And hid from the clouds
and dark skies

In a land full of lies
I'll stay inside
Then I forgot to participate
And every atom separate

I slowly did evaporate
From an ocean,
To a puddle,
To a slice of dry space

Never refilled by a pretty face
I wanted to cooperate
But the sun does not cooperate

Porcupines can give hugs too

Porcupines can give hugs too
From the top of this room
I’m at the top of this room
I can’t believe the view
You do what you do
When others are confused
Never needed love
Cause love was always you
Extended your slender hand
To only who you choose
Opened your eyes too wide
Then narrowed your view

Should have been riding this wave

Here Come the Warm Jets

deleted

a selection from a 200 plain sheet writing tablet

somewhere off the coast of New Jersey
theres a plane going down
it's engine is burning
hopefully it gets right over my house
so it can crash through my roof
and into my room
because I'm the pilot
and in distress I never called mayday
one day I'm gonna get what I deserve

listening to music for airports the morning after meeting someone you will love

i could float here forever
you couldn't be better
we'll be together
i couldn't be better

For my birthday party show, I want Duane Allman and Lowell George in my band and I'll be the bassist. As an opening act, Miley Cyrus will appear with Notorious B.I.G. to perform the "party and bullshit" remix of party in the USA and then she will be asked to leave.

if more people were patiently waiting for an album to leak or finish downloading there would be less crime.