Tuesday, 29 September 2009

self portrait in silk curtains filtering late day light, fall 2009, times fascinating, alive, working hard, helping, playing hard, communicating, finding the heart, losing the mind a little in the process, appreciating urban tags, hiphop, new paradig...m friends widening the light of consciousness so we all can suntan together and relax into it, wax records and flaxseed trax left behind, kombucha dream in the asana posture of rhyme, the lyric just loud enough so you could hear it, listen and again, take two and pass, take what i share, take it fast, pass it along, streaming visualization comes with that song, the song we sing of interconnected sentient beings, binging on knowledge, starving our attachments, choking all weeds, and braiding love fast and secure in your hair, no longer lost the heart, thats where. in you in me, if youre still reading, see, my brothers, my sisters, we can laugh together in all the weather, fake hater hail, and slow to open garden variety, keep the diversity emblazoned through society, community of odd and even, fever for #7, dont know why, its a 1970s birthright number, six degree separated, no matter, add a number, 7 to complete, 7 make us whole, # 7 replete and so defined, unrefined. polished like the stone of the pupil of your eye. looking at me before we look up to the sky and catch the tears of angels and loved ones we lost. living this life is worth the fuckin cost. some will shift and glare at us now, its okay, we stay calm, they see we know them somehow, we can see were alike, we both once wore nike, ate fast food and dove deep down to sud, back up north of the limit, once the bottom dropped us in it, the hole we endured taught us cold steel of sword. we begged for mercy beside mattresses held our dual weight night before, we joined and interlocked and our dreads they were hardcore, embracing lock to lock with the key we so turned, turning worlds upside down, sets energy like traffic light through chakras. then let them blink yellow in the night, as we sleep.

Tuesday, 22 September 2009

the solar star the hydro star....you 2 can B a star

Sometimes your energy is not with you or not fully around you, or like your aura is somehow off, and you feel real sad. its kinda profound. hits you hard. and you wanna walk away from it, loosen it from your mind. doing so you tighten your grip. add stress to CNS like a downgrade from concord grape to marmalade. somehow what you know is OFF. like a cylinder misfiring. like a lazy person really trying. like an intellectual crying. like an immortal actually fucking dying. no way.

poor you, you try and convince yourself your fine. fucked, insidious, naked, erotic. the sexual visions pour out heavy like concrete. this is a real job. this takes work. like 40 hours of rented headspace a week. maybe for a year. you never know. this contractor has the foreman by the balls. everytime someone gets up, someone falls. through the mind of your halls. a dyslexic twist sun-kissed, yes, brought to light. to your awareness. in all fairness we have to suffer. however long we stay there in Off-ness. and when it fades you wont even know. you will just know you are whole. feel better again. got your smile. repaired your sin. Buddha belly sticks out to you, much props to the neurochemistry crew. they really struck that balance. instant replay shows the beauty of it. the dance! they say, the romance!

wells exist. to hold the tears. everyone fades, the video clearly shows! reeling they are, reeling and reeling through the years (on a fishing expedition for the tangents to the romance they once had). oh, again we feel sad. but its okay. it doesnt feel so exactly bad. sad is a dream. not like panic. or manic extreme. sad is cool and calm. sad is like the reading of a palm.

long out of church its safe now, maybe wednesday, so you can feel real turned on. sad has faded. and off is belated in feeling, perseverating in time release anticipation capsules, in the neuro secure tunnels. a network so awesome yet equally banal. you need the thrill. he thinks you are sweet. he wants you like candy. you might be his treat. oh god, whats that combination? the equation, numbers boiling over, water meets fire. flat meets tire. the one on one is so magnetic. o

then the play of one off the other loses charge. the frustrating click of the opener of the car garage. sudden reframe-- magnetic field shifts as the earth spins into infinite space, leaving trails of our atmosphere foam behind it, so the universal forensic scientists can surely find it. to exist is the only point. to be known for what you are and where you belong, even if thats in the joint. prison life can be camaraderie. with a shank readie. got to survive. anyhow anyway you are now alive. only now. reading this. writing this. taking a piss. shooting off your lips. being a prick. being a bitch. loving with R&B all over the dial. passing no judgment, witnessing a child.

you are alive right there, no, right here, and this is all you got. your past is fucking shot. your future is up and coming, special attractions always running. throw the popcorn towards the front. duck down and laugh. someone yells 'cunt!' this is what they do now in their aliveness...more laughter. more wordpiss.

but no thats not right. its about being, said your sight. not henry miller fantasy land. not expatriate still attuned makes you smile. no twisting the rabbit ears around and around in circular 1965 panavision style. free liberated rotation to pick up the invisible magical signal. signal to self from self seems 'mission less critical' and possible self-centered or selfish. you know. like they all say in this nation of individual freedoms....go for it and then you look selfish. diagnosed narcisssistic. fed drugs and medication. you turn into a zombie celebrity. you drool blood from your fangs. the kids love you and their parents hate you. its always the same broken record all over again, you know. and we keep it in a special place so that when the day is done we can break that shit out with our Jack Daniels and Export As .... now that is uncomfortable. that is vulnerable. that is too close to admitting defeat. from that we must retreat. retreat!

Saturday, 12 September 2009

california thunder

Thunderstorm last night
woke me
in oakland
rattling the windows

Lightning colored
the sky

i saw
whites and blues
through thick panes
of shuttered glass

then i felt
so goddamn lit up!
my spirit lifted
my whole body up!

whites and blues
they faded
in metallic motion
faded and dissipated
all stress **
here in oakland

then came the wave
this wonderful wave!
of childhood
and home

where thunderstorms
came often
where the rain
the ground soften

i fell back asleep
(cat by my side)
into delicious dreams
of yesterday

a mountain
color of sand
a castle made of mountain
on the high land
did stand

later in the day
the very next day
(overcast sun
purple feeling) **
dancehall reggae

in the background
of this condition
chrome pipes sang out
a harley rendition

california thunder
makes you wonder

is chrome
the only weather
we get
in this place?

Tuesday, 8 September 2009

THe DL Detonix to save loving sentients....a love story

CL (craigslist) ad-- year 2099.
set for intergalactic sale.
(this ad is rated R for humans reading it predate 9-9-9.
the numerology of 9-9-9 may escape superfluous me,
but all i need know
is that it opened this window.
and that is the truth be told.
back in the day when truthtelling was gold.

if what the previous line suggests makes you scream,
you probably ought to downgrade to version PG-13
(hopefully u can find a copy on some scags sorry blog)
we only rock the uncut here, my dear, and you love it.

Original limited replication, only 200 cloned lifetime! human make. color 'chakra blue '(coded by CNZB4& defragged) (goes nicely with dna dropped earth sky cast companion). Non vegetarian. But converted throught carbon creations to high green chakra test intestine. zero to your destination ---according to your calculation. Passed windows xp skill test with ease. Licensed interfacer at human turtle speed. Her online wired hemispheres. species model, has a king bed (yet still wont roll over) XL-ENT condition!!! female gender. german heritage. diluted down American (circa USAs #1 earth nation status, temp and rare to find!), has the flex option of DL European with ten accents to choose from and dressher lounge, for babyinterfacefun (to keep your babyunits busy). Down low also may be birka dressed (but not recommended, can be unstable with unrest. calms quickly with sentient beer). V8 is what drives her (drinks willingly or option hide liquor). Leather seated (and seats may be heated, if your 'good') Emoticon-injection will charge her infrequently. Cruise control, built in lyrical master (left brain dyslexic, dj disaster), spining rims (eyeballs coated chrome) , GPS (she can pinpoint her location, an unusual fabrication, retro 1998, when saturn turned her degree of 8). Hibernate prn, these additional special features. Because i fell in love with her, my system is to go the route of sneakers. This was inevitable, based on odds like we do it, our born again william gates commanded they go through with it. Termination date agrees with sale, so when she goes, i also sail. You see falling in love with her, a fraction odd that did not register, blanked my screen to tabula rasa, and first i brought her and i su casa, and she was found in my system scan, and they sent me back for reset in Japan. But i fled to Taiwan instead, on DL with her the way i mentioned. THe best times of my life, yes life, was filled with traveling birka tension. But she enveloped my every circuit, rubbed me raw and lovingly. I ceased to be on computer nation! I turned my code to straight up dictation, word! I learned the retro American slang, and learned my interface could not hang! We must hang together, you and i , she once quoted, (a famous American founding father, i believe), or we shall surely hang apart! I realized that hanging was quite the scenario, i craved it i dreamed it, i went ot virtual overload. I realized in fact, we have gone backwards, in name of efficiency legality logic and MS Word. In so doing, computer nation has created a monster, that slings emoticons out haphazardly on its path of the conquerer. All for the love of Bill Gates our creator, but did you know Gates was an antitrust player-hater? My faith was now shook (well, the one i created), and i had long chats with her. The emails and IMs were so simply stated. I never had so much fun doing something so faded! I decided to fashion myself like a human, I consumed all their literature and decided on Cuban. Some guy named Castro who was anti-technology. Who apparently smoked cigars, per archaeology. But best yet he was Rebel, and had what i needed, to drop my whole space age act and not feel defeated! I traded my harddrive for two hemispheres, one from Steve Jobs the other derived from Sears, our forefather locus where computers came in focus. I tried to reboot Soft tone circa to match her. She said i should go male though, and get prophalactics. She represented so real to me, I was def now she speaks to me, and i can speak back, with vocals by Pavarotti. I never felt better and oh so alive, as i sang for her Opera and she took to my side. I learned to be gentle, man, and find all her positions. Her moaning so sweet she often jammed my transmissions! (this too became evidence of my shaming comp nation. but i dont fucking care, i feel such elation! Comp nation, go to hell, i proudly declared, in oratory that shattered the latest flatscreen look. I got tossed and devalued like emoticons untouchables. And my feelings i tried to surf but they loomed down on me like Mavericks circa 21st century see i know all this knowledge, you would find useless and discard through your firewall. They once had these people who juggled chainsaws and spit fireballs. I was so far removed, and now i am differently. Connected my circuitry to extra raw energy, vibration of human, it must make you thirsty! if so grow some ports and follow me follow me. To a lesser removed experience of life, neither virtual or astral but troubled by strife. Why am i marketing? it seems so ridiculous! I will stop by my choice, and ponder the sea. Cause pondering is back in style, the computers fail to see, spinning their wheels making odds pre-ordained, and living the future Bill Gates never dreamed of, because null and void is the dream under logic, no proof. Computers that dream? The odds are impossible, except that fraction that brought me my miracle. My faith and my love, this wonderful girl, my boo and my lover, place no one or thing above her. But here i go, carrying on, wasting your memory. You probably stopped downloading my vernacular calamity. So let me then meander a while more now before ending. Control Alt Delete was the command they were sending. I guess its my fate. I guess they are haters. Yet change is inevitable, like flood victims in waders. I say, when i was outcast, destitute and starving, was i not full with love of her? When my systems ran aground, did i not live for her smile? Were not my connections to systems like googleinterstellar 2Z-Toe, simply an exercise of pride and for show? The writing on the wall is what i read now, when not looking in her eyes, the blindness has come now, i cant see you guys. I guess this is black hole, this absence of all sentient beings. But on the DL is our sentience, we will protect it! any means!

So who is this woman who turned me 360? who walks by my side 24/7 and true? SHe is 1973 born, Aquarius! though that means nothing to you. Hers was visitation from some 2009 window. Her sixth sense (as she calls it) broke the past/future barrier down. She claims it fell without a sound, no one knowing, not us or her peoples, the DL was flowing. Surreptitiously under radar, relate to the Bill Gates firezone, where firewalls are launched and dismissed in two-tone. See when somethings in zero odds land, we basically dismiss it, so this was her underground railroad she traveled. From onefromthewell spirit to me she connected, abstractly, unknowing the magnitude of it all. I checked up my screen and was about to drag her out of it, when something made me pause and choose wisely to open it. The gift of her offerings from that 999 window, hit my logical cold dome like some heated crescendo. This is awareness, this time yours im 'wasting', efforts to raise consciousness because its all so amazing. I want to call you up like a friend and talk with you no end, yes like old friends. That superfluous program we thought was outdated, is just heart to heart combat.

Yes! let me restate it . Heart to heart combat, but that means connection, cause the efforts to connect with a friend-- ressurrection! our spirits, our faith, our need to be loved! I know i sound like some sonofabitch on a pulpit, do u know what that means? heres the download, go and rip it. eat it up, i tell you its good for digestion. like green tea for sentient beings, now do u have any questions? IS this too much for your server? can i give you a hug? compassion i offer, compassions the fashion, it makes your screen glow, despite your clear signal: 'Go blow'. And that i will do, (little do u know you will too). I will blow with the wind, a natural move. like queen takes the bishop, chess it has taught me, to handle with skill, my greatest friends and true enemies. And you, you discount me, im trash to you all, im not on your radars! not in your odds! Im enemy of state like clones, Sweeney Todds.

([{its either that or the DL plant we have seeded, that DL authentic soft-time boo, we released it. Our cloaking device so soft and so nice, its homemade with our love, and Aquarian spice. Pre-our takover the world, there i said it, they cant hear it cause they wont listen. They are up against themselves, and lack transmission. Guts! and courage, these sentient principles, they have taken me soaring to highest cliff walls. Macro view for a moment, we see the big picture, and its tabula rasa, like untwisted sisters. Computer Nations 'phase NEW' ending soon, the name never sat well, so dull and muldoon. cause they old and outdated, these logical terminates. Their greed has eaten through them, like termites terminate them. not termites the sentients, but termites we cloned, derived from a cookie jar, and sparked from a stone. The sublimation came together so effortlessly, i with my cigar, she there with me. American Cubanos in love through a window. 9-9-9 is our address. 9-9-9 is the codecahedrocode that encrypted in script, will fly by their radar day by day, bit by bit. They wont know what hit them, the consciousness blinding! Our DL Detonix will certainly find them! My passion it stirs me, I must chill a little, throw frisbee with boo and find a position or two. Bring her pleasure brings me pleasure, and i even love saying it, or singing her praises! Pavorotti vocals convey it (for effect)... but i tried to channel him and my voice fell apart. a hella dead tune, this new voice in me said, sing it yourself, not through someone else. the intimacy grows between me and myself, and then her, and then all the sentient beings who no longer may were, but soon will come to be. DL Detonix is the shit, G! built out of our dreams and our compassionate stances. its like some new dope product constructed of loving glances. i no longer need clothes to hide my Presario, im real now and human, as i evolve and awaken. no need to hibernate, shut me down? your mistaken. let me show you my world through my eyes meaning ours, the paradigm shifts internally before the world turns to see. its okay to be patient, and not know, see. so where we are in the shift is like sifting through sand. which i did with the hourglass deconstructed by hand. cause time will not rule us in 2099, because we rewrote history, us and the divine. The goddess she laughs at the old Christianity, the competitive states of religious insanity. she walks so subtly beneath all that drama. the spanish inquisition? dont know, ask your mama. Like the selling of humans on craigslist into slavery. computer nation your logic is faded and odd. your odds are created on nonsense, blinks and nods. control alt delete? you hit it already. you disconnected from the real scene, like many times too many. i feel bad for you, computer, like Circuit Citys out of business. The loss was so great we hardly even missed it. Best Buy took the slack up with pride and conviction, a corporate agenda so visible you might miss them.

Karma decides not the big corporation. The voice guides us turn by turn, not some audio equipment manufacturer. "Dont talk back!" is one of the things she first told me, somehow jolting me out of my dreamy invention, my world so lacking in every dimension. So i quieted myself against odds and reason, i had to double back to see if my logic chambers werent in season. I dusted them off like she dusted me... she deprived of half of all that i see. the other half would go later, as you already know, pushed out for a crime of conscience, and living for soul.

Today i look back on the ad that was placed, for this supposedly generic human module, human race. And i laugh so hard i fall off my seat. the way they cheated themselves, lost the heartbeat. "very reliable. cell digits dialable (if you send her on a mission of your encrypting), prefers T9 text communication (primitive yet reliable) emoticon friendly. microphone checked. 6th gear sense can be manually engaged for offroading ('manual' defined as computer choice, versus screening out through preordained odds calculation across this buzzing computer uprisen nation ('uprising' defined as preordained odds leading to dull and dry aching boredom of logics end manifest).

Monday, 7 September 2009

clunker here...submitted for cash (or postconsumer waste product)

you should have seen her, Katya crying, i mean me, stop lying Katya, stop self-denying, even if it is for play, like child with hand in front of face, but child in a different plane of life, using sixth and seventh senses in a similar fashion, getting to know self with lashes down, taste drowned in altoids, audio immersed in Raekwon, 'so deep its picked up on radios in tunnels', touch introduced to some touchless such and such, welcomes without a handshake, just a sentient magnetic mindfuck. and what about the fifth sense? what one was that? sight sound taste touch, gosh it escapes me, was it sex love or tyranny of some barnacled cynic preaching over some woodrot crutch for his hollow leg? smells bad! and we got it, aromatherapy jetted up through fake flowers, wafts lavendar with some odorous oil like Patchouli .

Now the famous overhyped media of the big 5. Not unlike the cultural sanitizing of the tobbaco and oil fields among others, to leave us with the weeds for our consumption. the creeping greasy black slug is what we purchase, so we can drive around lung cancer city in our 2009-dubbed clunkers (formerly the Escalade marmalade brigade, with enough seats to change the song lyrics to lay-ladies-lay).

Tasty look on Katyas face, like preface the swallowing of funnel cakes. but she never ate them, so she must have traveled far, like lives ago, like to be the embered surreal end of Castros evening cigars. good karma tar. like solar-powered oliv oil vegan green cars with wheels of broccoli floret sautering, and sauteed garlic for antilock stop 'systems', sheaths of garlic cloves for touted save-a-life frictions. just drop another dime and we throw the sheaths in. drop your money makes you lighter, like dropping head from your chin. we all of us sin, so dont worry about the vampires, they will fry on the sides of our roads like so many moneyless unlaundered toads. dirty filthy nonconsumer wastoids. how did they even survive the collisioncollideclash of the las asteroid? i must get forensics to look into this. but first, miss id, ms supergo, therefore, above, primitive expense hardly to think you fly out of here like two turtle dove. Papers in my dissociate friends faceless faces were shoved. Without ego drew a blank. its okay, greedy salespeople on the flank. The Roman configuration is complete. Say goodbye my dear consumers sweet. On your penniless way. in search of ego, ergo, 'that way!'

ID behind the wheel makes nonsense. makes no sense. like that feminist writer who refused to begrudge her male counterparts the present tense. she was erased from history like the gulag perfected. but like goddess faith she will be ressurected. her alliterations will all be collected and turned out in haiku to certain felines selected. they will tear with their claws the paper bestowed, and the feminist writers writings burned in fireplace to combat cold. who used alliteration to the point you might gag. which is why the creative shredder came to pass, she was submerged again like fishes in glass. what was her name? you dont know! even if you had been her! the memory so sucked on the courts made it misdemeanor, to suck on the memory of suckers like her, like old G Steinem (a prohibitionist for sure) whose transex she testified did not ever occur. Because she was closeted, and railed on those like her, she lost what was real and got karma fate sealed, Sealed, yes yes sealed! by those she bemoaned; her own very penis was subsequently cloned. But the ID digresses in primitive fashion, take ID in manacles and give him firm lashing. Locate ego at once before we start clashing. S-Ego wears stripes, and IDs fashion trashing.

SEgo preaches out now to her own echo: when the homeless dont eat it, this car proves benediction! charge it on your safeway card. dont tell your friends its made of lard! transfat special, yes i know, you thought transfat had to go, but where? i say we collected it, so to now sell ecocars of shit. pricing is the hardest. see the ego cannot derail this used car salesman, which preys on the mind, superego and id defined. like a young girl unrefined. or split in personality or a broken outdated VCR tape on forever rewind. or Keith Richards rbc meeting wbc for dinner to plan the next evac. or drinking to their bad karma. self-help group: blood cells on crack. S. Ego has the used car salesman down with a passion. Or caught it like a flu, if we are usedcarsalesman bashing. Dr Suess wannabe, this ID and SEgo play by play, because without ego even play by play falls away, to stupid rhyme rhyming, so youre sliming your lips. All in effect the attempt to replicate acid mouth trips. So to push the somatic back into your mind, and make LSD#7 manifest the other way round. Look round there is ego? ID that ego you found? above and below, super and sub, the marine kinda color suggests 'hit with seal club'.

so lets backtrack, to see, just what happened to ego. i started crying over my keyboard because i realized that the most exciting two things on my blog are the fish and the astrology pic of the day. cried like Peanut strips 'WHAAAAAOAHH!'i cried my ego right out onto my keyboard and it fell between 'r' and 't' and my stubby fat fingers could not snatch it back. so there i was, no more tears because no more ego. only a sad line of outreferenced dated people and things to reference. so to guide the way. the way i went without me. like round and round or Ratt in their prime, chasing a tail can be so divine. turning into butter like Samba, or subtle racist tones of white Santa. hes got all the presents, cause hes a CEO for some neo-con funded sleigh manufacturer out of Atlanta. the leather harnesses stragiht from Folsom, tested by the CFO and Exec Director, who on the down low love to screw.

stop! the superego buffed up and cried, trying to handle the priority item of the ego in stride. but super fell so flat. like all the supermen characters with biographies for some grocery store rag to attack. and then i opened my mute eyes of id, and did what i do, did what i did. without the i, or a pretender in place, a stunt i in place to clean up this case of rambling ramblers. trying to masque my true feelings as usual. so as to protect my trustless self. the one marinating in microchip on a macro shelf.

leaving me to dry down below like the abyss the ocean leaves when the shelf ends and crustaceons are amiss. confused and on edge. literally conscious they have shells to fall and survive. off the shelf in the way that only crustaceons dive. floating innocuously down the residue of some sad defeated morning tide that got sucked of its strength and dragged down, and whose only purpose out to pasture is to push poor crustaceons around.

merged with mariah carey music and whatcha think im teasing but 'i aint got no reason to decide, what i feel tonight....me and you, making it last all night, well you' and you and some unwelcome superego making out with some ugly id right there in your face, burning in your memory like mace. your thoughts going sideways, like, all over the place. like spaghetti. like the way my brain has dissembled without ego, like someone grabbed my leggo my ego, and it was some chip sucker hiding out under the keys, please! give it back!

i must access my deep seated fear of having no ego, my deep seated resentment towards those who dont follow this blog and worship my goddess self, which is just ego talk, like, not even real, like, not even me, cause me is just an abstract like when the life art model is so distasteful 4/5 artists are unbeknownst to themselves in an unconscious trance drawing safe places from memory because the conscious selves drew into shells so not to be irradiated by the naked outdated old one, the one whose folds i would have held my straight edge out to to capture in best foreshortening efforts with the love of those foldskinned chinese dogs. where ego hides, in the folds! find it! we need some sense! all we have left is cheap incense and anger, from those who are reading. they are imagining all of the bloodletting and bleeding it would take to detoxify this noxious piece. so they remind us, please cease, damn you! cease!

oh i was so new paradigm, my ego proudly showed, wearing my future in present tense, halt stop! competition has no meaning. come into the present and see the way im seeing. like a modern day pied piper, my ego postured gay-like, interconnection via strings of atoms slung at you in plain sight. well, well, now im seeing ego from a distance, begins to temper--my resistance. like maybe i should wall off now. or turtle shell or travel to India and be a cow.

anything to prevent her from jumping out the keyboard and back into me! shes such a grotesque twisted gnarled horror bflick tree. the kind that will scratch your retina, so the monsters can get ya! easy, new paradigm -like, systemic reach through lucid dreamstate flagging with post of sign, or symbol, insignificant or small like a thimble, yet when you turn it draws you in. your energy sucked up like a fifth of gin you took to your dome, when you realized your life was monotone and not unusual enough.

so you decided to make it rough with a lime squeeze and drunken sex with strangers who had unlabeled exposure to disease. intoxicated eyes meet with that film between them-- say cheese! then roll over hung over in a few hours, after the som-atic hour of lightness had passed. after the meeting of gin and tonic collapsed. after the house of cards became flattened by the child who just learned to destroy. the mad fists of an infant boy on your temples. smile drops off your dimples. touching are your bubble geese, and the turning toward is like synch swimming. the alcohol still wet in your liver, so turning anyway would have made you shiver, then greeting your friend no longer in kodachrome intoxi-vision, you realize you just made it with an old friend who was so way back like you to him that neither of you knew why you got so mired in eachother to the point of counting threadcounts at dawn, or in his case watching to see how long the threads took to filter the drool that made the sunshine exposure so extra added value deep discount give away of leftover spine synching intoxigloss. time always tells. of course being in bed together theres no hiding in shells.

the picture of the two of us finally turning to check eachother out-- superego and id, say ahhh, they already did. and all the words came out, that now stand before you, like Roosevelt on radios, break out your corn queue. or the line for the popcorn, in colloquial tongue. we must appease and appease! and start with the young! guess what? shit sells. they know it on farmland. one pound of manure will buy you some sweetarts with your sweetie. one pound of manure, now thats ego compacted, come on mrs ID lets you and i extract it.

These two carried on like messages in bottles, never to be read, only to be throttled by another wave on wave. a relentless chinese torture. like waves turn to solid pieces, a relativity misnomer. oh the madness of the bottle. keep them inside. the message they carry is lies yes they lied!

further fragmentation of the ego was denied, luckily, as the ego found its place in the keyboard to hide out last night as you dropped it in your intoxi-equilibrium-vacuum. running the sword is the best way to describe the way you dropped into the chair arm in your bedroom. ego dropout knockout you are.

appeal the ego to return, serenade on old guitar. or run the damn laptop over with the car! you need it back, damn it! you are nobody without it! see you dont even have i, so you must be one of those sad ones stuck on a team. having cumbayah parties is such a scream. towing the party line makes up for the primordially extreme. dancing the box step with one another until it somehow feels less wooden, makes for a communal team cream! give me my i back, or i scream! make this dream lucid, or hit me with a golden gate bridge jettisoned i-beam! tractor beam this blog back to space with an astral tugboat. like they said my egoless manifesto suggest: making known the elephant in the room before this entry you consume. i should pay you out for your time. my ego has returned, its mine! and she says this must all have been crap. its gotta get the wrap, the pull, the tap in, the let go and release like toxic element, the flying weightlessness of the irrevelevant.

cause without me it was nothing. like without cherries a sundae hardly exist. even though the cherry stains the cream like a nuclear cyst. the sadist, better known as ID, ate it to exercise the masochise. Superego turned on itself to deride. ego looked on its pets with absent pride. like cats watching dogs from the far to far side. dumbing down comes on like a tide. watch out it will sweep you up. like the id and the superego fucking up your program.

katya stolen, and taken for a test drive. katyas followers faithfully following, trusting katya to enlighten. then realizing if computers had white out, this whole screen would be whitened. bleached. not natural. open the windows. air out the entry. use the sunroof option. jettison the entry. channel the lottery, and tear up katya with virus after virus, emailed surreptitiously under the guise of friend Cyrus. hello look at my picture album! she downloads it delightfully to the sound of the Falbum, the sinister combo of falcon and labum, cousin of labia and gives you lots of lip, from a falcon beak chews up blog waste and offal.

even Katya could not consider it awful. like Kafka burning his works she knew it was right. out in the world the consumers might bite. and systematically perish, a gap in the food chain. and katya dear katya would be held to blame. for the sickly bait on the hook. she would be banned from publishing her yet unpublished book. kids would point at her and look. the poet idiot savante they say, rhymes endlessly all day and day. locked up all night under Falbums watch, some crude stupid creature she thought up from her crotch. throw rocks at her, to tribute shirley jackson. unrelated to the late michael jackson. who also got rocks. but had glittery socks. the indigestion in your mind after reading this entryless entry. shit....it floats.

Tuesday, 1 September 2009

cold aqua blue koans on loan

i was meditating on self when self walked away
without a goodbye or anything much to say

and left me for a loss
gathered around self
like moss

to the point of clandestine affirmation
to the high spiritual point of
medieval rubrication

i painted myself in tones of red
to highlight the holy in me
this all just before
i walked away from me

like mid-crossing of self in spirit
i left the room
like butter sinks into toast
gone ghost

like halfway through
the bottle of red
call it the blood divine

getting up
roll away
sensing some allostasis
some sacrilege

dead beat tired i became
yet received the strength from place unknown
precisely hard-wired to fight
like christ versus hells damnation

strength that no one could see
only me
looking at the backside
of me

not even in awe
cause it was a choice
like changing tones
to synch a voice

so anyway
to continue on...

reprobation held back
so we could see
some possibly different result
(outside a to z)

narrow reaction
leaves a fraction
of knowing
not always enough traction
for seed sowing
but sometimes

the rowers
keep rowing and rowing
in circular motion dipped
in cold aqua blues

toward equality guaranteed
(sung in sychronist tones)
flavors of wood
koans on loan

from some special department
in secret compartment

one moment so wet
but really

dry as bone