I've been trying to come to terms for the last couple of weeks with this whole part of my life being a permanent change and not just a temporary diversion. This term-coming has sort of been nudged along by inevitable voyeurism (but c'mon, barely voyeuristic....it's a goddamned newsfeed).

In short, it hasn't been good. I'll be driving to or from work and have a left-field feeling that perfectly mirrors my being lost in Target when I was a kid. A really striking desperation and a complete lack of hope. This is the price of oblivion (?)

Oh also the concept of futility has been hanging around a lot. And hey, fuck it, right? Isn't it shitty being duped into thinking that life *isn't* lived completely alone. And then being pie-faced with the self-discovery that--Hey, it is too! What, did you think two souls converge and float to the sky, now one soul eternal? That's silly. And kind of boring. Oh yeah, and the main problem....what soul?

I can't wait until these spelling suggestions and red-underlines-indicating-either-you-fucked-up-a-word-or-the-name-you're-typing-isn't-popular-enough-to-warrant-inclusion that are now omnipresent turn into things like "bad choice of words" or "a little cliched, don't you think?" or "shit, i can't believe you even thought that, let alone typed it" and eventually systems will just delete stuff for us, and eventually computers will just revise things themselves. and then next logical step: robot dominion. And what good am i in a robot revolution? 85 words a minute. THAT'S what good.

I finally developed a habit that I think is kind of cool and that is tugging on the end of my mustache. Unfortunately it's sort of a faux-stache as I'm incapable of growing anything of note south of nose. Also, I don't know if you heard about this, but I'm losing my hair, like an asshole. It's pretty great. You know those mindless landscape prints of cottages and boring-as-hell waterfalls that are mislabeled "art" and dumped wholesale into suburban living rooms? That's the top of my head! An unnoticeable variation on an unspectacular and wholly depressing theme. If I had left any crumbs of hope that there is such thing as a specialness in humanity (which crumbs didn't, I think, exist by the way), they blew away when I saw the top of my head in a mirror, and cwouldn't have been able to tell it apart from any 36-47 year-old guy anywhere.

I'm going to an Angels game. That's code for a baseballe game. The code is "Angels" because that's the name of the sports team. Owned of course by billionaire Moreno. Man, how great is that to buy a team of people who have gotten together to collectively be good at a sport? And to buy it from Disney! I bet he feels awesome at night. And I"m gonna see them play. The Red Sox. Owned of course by three other rich-as-fuck fucks. I want to be able to own something spellt wrong and still be badass. That would rock. And watch baseball games and think "They are kind-of literally, mine" But of course that doesn't mean the teams *have* to do things for them, like build them shoes, chew their food, or go to war for them. Still. I can't wait to watch baseball from an awesome plastic seat. Or something. I don't really know what it's going to be like. That's how few baseball games I've been to in my life. Slightly more football games, and slightly less than that hockey games. But really to shorten it, you can say that regardless of what the people were doing, I collected with a very large group of people to surround a smaller group, and while my large group didn't really have much required of us (other than to generally face the middle of our collective circle), the smaller group in the middle had more specific and important jobs: to move around and take action which, in itself figuratively revolved around a small object. So really, my large group was physically surrounding this smaller group which figuratively surrounded this object. ANd in two-out-of-three cases, the name of the event came from the object. And for the record, I could get into a sport called puck, but I guess it wasn't to be.

Oh yeah, and that's on Easter Sunday. On which, until this year, I had done something very different. I wonder if all of this would have fit inside of a tweet. I knew the answer to that before I typed it.

So it probably goes without say-typing that I'm going to try and let loose my thought-bowels into this toilet-page, and flush-publish it, releasing it into the internet-sewer, more often than I used to (which was either twice a year, once every two years, or less). I don't know what represents my asshole in that last long analogy. I guess my brain. No, probably my fingers. My brain would be more my intestines. It gets complicated when you literarily change something with a hole into something with no actual hole. You have to be clever. Let's just say my fingers are my asshole.

richard.

losing it all for starved self-satisfaction
in a fakely lit, jingling room

losing a family for jarbled retribution
under a gauzey yellow moon

losing a life along a telegraph, nowhere
outside a modern day saloon

losing sleep, just thinking about
losing time, just worrying
a loser in the making

Dog at large

stifled conjectures; dusty tear trails
peer pressured regret; broken lunch pails
dark, blurry memories; salty sea shells
and a name

experimentation; fly-by-night love
stock pile halloweens and having enough
pubertal provokations; water color stained cuffs
and a face

dogmatic sleep schedules and dangerous dare flips
competitive natures and tentative beer sips
flesh toned filaments; anatomical quips
and a time

fearless friendships; embarassing growth
wandering islands and fumbling on the coast
beguiling bastionary; Odious oaths
a life so far

a timeline precipice: white tips and a bend
decades of melodies, a decrescendo descends
sensing beginnings and experiencing ends
===============

Girls can't falsetto

When the sun swallowed the clouds
I was chewing thoughts like candy

and when the clock pounded those proud
and rounded clicks, i was crying

but all those tears, they did not stray from
those round and pointed corners

they jogged around, polished my stare;
i sat so still, sharing a mirror
with my dumbfounded ear-to-ear;
and still those cartwheeling tears ran
circles around my conscience

when i learned that love was just a somebody's
clear thinking
i was out cold, sweating; the cold sweat pouring, dreaming
about nothing.

Chapter 7

I want my car ceiling to be laden with cigarette burns, nicotine stains, boot scrapes and umbrella punctures. I want these things, or rather what there indications are, but i just say oh well.

However long it takes to take us

London was so small, and like a cartoon
and time didn't move, on the small clock, or in our faces
We got wet and cold from the skyand warm from us
The spotted glass distorted lights, and made them red and blue wet stars
I felt like I was in space with you, walking on a black sky
Main St. had a tree we couldn't even see the top of
We both looked up though, and the sky sprinkled down on us
The boat floated slow, and we were all that was in it
and the smell came strongly, in the place with which we associate it
I thought I had lost you in the huge bright store, and it was late at night
Everything had ears or bills and price tags and smells
and you were looking for something to be a gift and i thought i had lost you
And we escaped paying, and drove past the gate
And I didn't ever mention it, and maybe didn't even think it
but that night was worth the pass
And that night was worth 5 years of waiting
and you were worth 17
and however long it takes to take us

the Chalice of D.C.

This girl walked by me at work, and a wave of her perfume hit me and brought back a vivid memory of a pub in Washington D.C. More specifically, the smell made me think instantly of these cold tin cups we were drinking out of, which gave the soda held within, an odd, floral taste (I didn't understand at the time, nor do I now, how a metal cup, or chalice, more like, could produce a flower-like tinge). I was just langourously walking back to my desk, after washing my hands for the third time since arriving at work (it's a time consumption method thing) and her passing me, with whatever perfume she was wearing (one, I'll add, that I surely haven't smelled in at LEAST 9 years, because I'm confident that, had I smelled it before, I'd have made the same olfactory based connection) singularly triggered me to want, to reach for something. Typically, nothing in this office send off any bells in any part of me. In fact, the loudest symbolic noise I experience while here is usually a silent scream to be out of here. How refreshing it was, then, to be knocked out of my usual stupor of repetition. I lost the scent now. And by that, I mean the memory of what it smelled like. It was that kind of thing where your mind has an experience on its own, and pretty much leaves you out it. You're just a spectator, and once it's gone, it's gone. I didn't have a part in the nostalgic connection, it happened without my assistence or acceptance, and it's left me in a similar fashion. It did, however, pull me to click Start > All Programs > Accessories > Notepad, and type these words.

Oh yeah.......forgot

Yeah, these are also poems I wrote while I was away from this place. I might modify a few as i read through, cause you know:



a cuckold's dream


let his brow fall, and settle over his eyes
let his mouth bend and weave into a scowl
let him sit still, making fists and shaking
or let him go out, to make pretend
and to forget
or try to

let his mind wander, and his laughter shiver
let his eyes wither; and with her let him ponder
let him make suggestions and spit out complaints
while her arm snakes around his waist
and her fingers grip
and her lips slip wet kisses

let her pasty face in, to nuzzle through
let her reflexiveness dominate sin
let out fictional feinting; sound a horn
and all the while
let affectations sigh out
and settle in

let a lingering bounce bounce a jaunty rhythm
let a stifling tap overwhelm a beat
let a settled brow release; a bent, beaten mouth breath
but all with suggestions, and a face turned away
but kept along
and held within

in a casual trot, there's a stomp that screams
in a conclusive embrace, an uncertain smudge leaps
through a series of fucks, much of nothing is changed
but the conscious return of a cuckold's old dream


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dance, dance

festivity flows around furtive glances
surreptitious fellness follows flimsy bedfellows
the party's crescendos
blasts of color - oranges of fire and blues of ice
explosions of music - horns, yelps and sloppy percussion
and clandestine love, lingering loud

brims are lowered over eyes, straws and toothpicks chomped to pieces
eyes dart 'round the room like jets at war
smoke covers it all; makes their suspicion a show
a cloudy setting for murky thinking

trust is with elves and unicorns here
it's a joke
laughter here would be a foreign tongue
a babble - misunderstood - mispronounced

when the punch is passed around
the men drink with volition
pulsing throats and sticky chins - as if trying to prove something by it
and the cups - imploded - disappearing in fists
a capper to the display

the afro-cuban noise blare drowns out the thoughts that circle the place
a closed in, stifling, uncomfortable place
with shut in thoughts

when the dancing starts, the music stops
so does the part
new explosions repalce the congas. the trumpets
greasy explosions, muffled explosions
the explosions of human fists, human knees
the yelps turn to screams
and ripping dresses, snapping heels

a high school dance turned and twisted
like balloons in wind
oranges of fire
and blues of ice

Here I am, rock me like a doo-da-dee-doo

I'm going to start making myself write a poem every day. 
that's WRITE, i said everysingleday. 
they might be awful (like th-mphh mm hmm hmm hmm) or they might be decent. 
or brilliant.  regardless, they'll be here.  every day.  goodbye.


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O white paper dove
Don't smudge yourself on the ink or in the mud
O sheet-white sand-paper dove
Don't crush yourself under stapler or love



Across the way is a noise
That travels in waver and squalor
It hits me like water torture
Repeating like a week repeats
A month repeats



O crow
Don't tear yourself from it
O glistening black crow
Don't stop for me



Instead of sleep every night
I get 8 hours of ticks and
Nervous tocks
And end it with a ringing clock that can't be answered
Or ended



O brilliant blue
Don't fade out for the light
O bastard bright blue
Don't let the dark eat it's way out again