In the mouth of the wolf...

kill that wolf.

oh fuck I just want to see you for 3 seconds to tell you I'm proud of you, k?

I'm proud of you

0

you start to ebb away from me
the light begins to fade
and I find myself grasping for glowing remnants

words
tokens

I stuff them into sealed jars hidden beneath the mattress like a hoarder.

But I sit tall at our dusk
praying for our dawn

I dream a highway back to you

and learn the discipline of the mute 

x

life lesson #8457243957263452405

sometimes people just really, really need to be told they're not crazy.

YOU'RE NOT CRAZY

and everything is going to be alright. I promise.  

this film is still haunting me days later

Ray Charles, on being a heroin addict for 20 years

I don't regret a damn thing 
amen mister

burning in water drowning in flame

everything is inverted

flip flopping

opposite

Mister I'm struggling to stay calm


x

Hunter S. Thompson says

Walk tall, kick ass, learn to speak Arabic, love music and never forget you come from a long line of truth seekers, lovers and warriors 

and don't you forget it babies 

o mon petit coeur

how do I keep coming back to this? 

blood is moving fast, mean reds coming on, walls making me lonely, head down, keeping busy, trying not to yell, making tasks to not think, late november is hard for me, plagued with missing, can't say no to memory-demons, grey green off-white dingy diner feel of my old apartment reminding me of then and them, triggers multiply and shout at me, everyone wants to be remembered even if for the worse

(you came you saw you sawed her brain, you cut out all the parts that held your stain x)

leave house

roam roam roam + make make make + know know know

(room room room)+ (fake fake fake) + (no no no)

NO ROOM FOR FAKES

caribou knows

x

(today we saw caribou bones)

You died 41 years ago today...

But we are still listening Jack

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house
4. Be in love with yr life
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
19. Accept loss forever
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
29. You're a Genius all the time
30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

cremation

when I woke up early this morning, and ( ) had left a few hours before to drive the oceanside highway home (he's probably a good man most of the time, and shows up to work in the mountains when he should), and there was a bag of nectarines hanging on my door, and there was a half empty bottle of bourbon on my kitchen table, and it was cloudy, and the power was out, I knew.

today was the day.

so I tied my hair back with a black scarf, poured a big glass of ( )'s forgotten whiskey, smoked two cigarettes and burnt the tips of my fingers lighting X's love letters on fire.

they burnt slow and I got a bit drunk, tuesday morning and what do I have to show for it? a jar of ashes and a good man's care who will never get in, really.

happy summer

Weekend Work:

Weekday Work:

Rivers-Beds-Prairies-Plane Rides-Hotels-Motels-Trains-Fields-Highways-Mountains-Beaches-Cars-Boats-Lakes-Floor Sleeps-Oceans-

I had to give you up, for now.

(Summer's best spent on the highway and in various bodies of water)
(Living in coyote barks and hopes for a hot July)

I love you forever, I'll see you in the autumn time.

might as well....

end of semester turns me into a zombie

a serious not-thinking not-breathing half dead walking the earth for all eternity corpse-girl, and I dont wanna write another paper. I dont wanna read another book. I dont wanna be in the library ever again. End of semester seriously eats half my brains and makes me want to curl up and die and not write my papers and throw away the entire semester (fuck it, right?). Or chain smoke the night away and have a nice old bottle o' jack to take away that deadline pressure. Yes brothers things are hard and getting harder, there's not a lotta love left to be found and I sure as hell don't have any love left in me, smiles to give, sweet things to say, kind thoughts to think ohhhh noo my brothers that time as come and passed with the brutal reality of the last week of school.

I. AM. DONE.

get. fucked. everyone.

I. NEED. SPACE.

and much. more. freedom.

or else I shall surely die!

again! for I am the end-of-semester-zombie

ya well i been writin' songs too okay? you're not the only musician not-here

gotta do some leavin' of my own
gotta sneak out the backest door-
gotta not call no one
gotta not name no one
gotta not feel no one

gotta gotta gotta lotta lotta nothin nothin
gotta gotta gotta give ya give ya nothin nothin
gotta gotta gotta say we're nothin nothin
gotta gotta gotta lotta lotta nothin nothin

The Not-Thing

I forget myself and remember you
not mine! not mine! not mine!
and your name flashes in my mouth for a second before choked down
I can’t even touch your hand in public
and the name, your name, snaps my brain around an image
Don’t wake me when you leave
and I am sick with the wanting and the suppressing and the forgetting and the de-claiming and the covering and the distracting
You make me see Morocco

I’ll be sad when the bruises you left on me start to fade.

Your name feels like the cocaine blues.
I’m too tired to fuck.
Too restless to sleep.

And waiting, patiently, for the nothing pretending not to know the word carefully aloof at the mention of your name. Promise. Of course. Promise. Of course. Of course.

I am here, forgetting my place. Promise. Of course.

Of course. Not mine.