I am worried about a great many things
And I want to remove myself from the
Yet my suffrage is a luxury,
An entitlement to freedoms yet lived.
Melodrama, you fool.
Take some advice.
[Edited for content]
That wasn’t advice at all.
There is the current that is our life,
It hides within its waters many false
Truths and perversions of faith.
You wade the waters just the rest of us
Do, wondering why there isn’t
Any true purpose anymore. You greet the
Void before you, and you remember…
The spirit grows, strength is restored by
I used to go to the beach when I
needed change. I’d sit in singular stillness just beyond the threat of
tide. I’d close my eyes and quiet my mind. Once a peaceful state
was achieved, I’d hum the sacred OM,
stating to the Universe my desires on every resonate mmmmmmm sound. The vibration would effervesce deep inside my
body, quaking my mortal core with active intention. Time would pass
without taking notice of me. Then, while traveling through a great darkness
at speeds beyond comprehension, the sound of crashing surf would reach my
consciousness - and I’d think of eternity.
I awoke with faint expectations on this grey morning, a
current of energy running through my mortal frame. Gone now, that surreal haze of the subconscious, spirited
away by some learned awareness. In
its place, a familiar hush - one that I’ve become accustomed to. There were days in the history of this
existence so full of a child’s optimism and unrelenting curiosity that now, on
this faded morning in November, my heart aches to rediscover such fervor for purpose. Trapped now, locked into this transitional
conflict between two infinite poles of absolute purity, I shall remain solely -
the Grey Lizard.
To hold in the palm of my hand such gentle innocence, the
fragile frame of a flying squirrel.
He clings to me now, holding back my fingers, pleading with me to discard
this terrible nonsense and recommence the idle scratching of his crown. Perhaps a fool or simply committed, I
resist his untamed charms. And it
isn’t long before he discovers renewed interest in a glass of wine. I watch as he scales to the rim with
precarious confidence, dangling himself above the sacred juice. He then dips his face into the pool,
and as if by order I follow.
I haven’t left my bed today. At least not for very long. My girlfriend brought me leftover cake for breakfast, and
now tiny crumbs hide like camouflaged ants within the crimson sheets. I push the bedding to the far edge, and
then perform a sweeping motion with my hand like that of a pendulum. While I do not see any progress, certain
sounds do suggest that my goal is being accomplished. Tiny particles rain down onto the hard wood floor below. I continue the violent act, all the
while slowly advancing to where the bedding awaits in a heaped pile.
We stopped at a dive casino in Reno. I had gambled before but never had much
love for it. But fuck it. I was broke. I was thirsty.
And lady luck was coursing through my veins in the form of reckless
abandon. We grabbed an open chair
next to a couple Hispanics. The
game was Blackjack, and the minimum was three bucks.
Give me twenty dollars
worth, we said.
You look a little lost,
No, it’s just been
awhile, we told her.
She was worn looking, with greasy blond hair cascading over
Bets in, she said.
One look down the dirt road was all he needed. The sun had long vanished, leaving in
its wake a procession of dissipating cloud fluff, each wisp broken at some
vital juncture as if the moonlight itself had begun dissolving what purity was
left from the day. The road looked
a dark shade of blue, and far in the distance just a terrible black expanse.
He pivoted on the balls of his feet to face the direction
from which he’d come. He was
greeted by a near identical image, a winding road from nowhere.
He was wary of such loneliness.
There is a self-inflicted wound. It is my body.
Between it and my spirit, a nurtured callus. My partially lived life. To try to understand this union is to fail. To seek peace is to compromise. It wears me, this persona, as if I were
a fitted suit. Set adrift we
eternally collide, imprisoned by our perfect symmetry. Damn you, Creator, cursed Tailor of Fates.
Where did you hide your true
intentions? Beyond the grasp of
mortal men? That’s what I’ve come
to believe, you see, because there’s nothing but empty pockets here, the product
of your infinite imperfection.
A man flees from an invisible demon, unable to shake him. A robed woman prepares explosives for her
three sons. A trout mocks an injured bear at the brook’s edge, making light of
his inadequacies. Nine large bowls sit in the street, each filled with
blood. Traffic stops to ponder the
mystery. Black magic in the form
of weather gives the morning a foreboding gray appearance. Three dogs in Mexico struggle for
survival amidst a changing culture. A child carries his beagle, limp and
lifeless, draped across his arm.
He drops her into the fountain on the hill, then waits.
It’s like the stink of liquor on your breath. I sense this terrible thing from a distance. Like some vapor in the room it
suffocates my patience and compassion.
Time now to gouge out my eyes.
Sheer will, the sticking of a hypodermic needle under my middle finger’s
nail, the gentle extraction of some alter ego who hasn’t the stomach for sustained
initiative. This prolonged state
of neglect hasn’t the legs, either.
There is no pleasant road for a Wolf of the Steppes, just a narrow path
down into a sacred abyss where all of God’s misunderstandings go to die.
Is there nothing positive inside this foul mind of
mine? Desires soaked in wet ash, a
clouded sensation of success sticking to the bottom of a rusted pail like heavy
tar. Bog below, I cannot stomach
this state of being. I am not
sick. I need no medication. I have the will of a thousand mortal
fools. I seethe.
We hear certain things, small trifles during our youth. Axioms, anecdotes, wisdoms…
So repeated they pass through our consciousness, meanings
misplaced by those common senses that make this world tangible. Somewhere a television gleams, insistent
with thoughtlessness. This is
I set myself on the path home sometime after one. As I reached the street I noticed a
lingering sickness in my head, some alter ego bent on soulless violence and
cheap muggary. My girlfriend was
somewhere ahead of me, hobbling in her own way towards the safety of home. Had it not been for the white burrito
truck parked beneath the bar’s neon, perhaps things would’ve played out
differently. Could those idle
minutes spent in that stagnant line have offered me a different fate, one that
didn’t employ the foul charms of officers and the cold steel of handcuffs?
I remember it now.
I had planned on bringing something of nutritional value to that hapless
vagabond sleeping in the doorway of the El Tropical cafe. That is, as I passed the small huddled
mass of blankets while on my way to nurse my own woes, something pinched deep
inside, a sharp reminder in the form of an ancient splinter – perhaps a life
past lived. I thought without
thinking, I must help this
Yet the drink at the fool’s watering hole, the one on the
happy side of Sunset Blvd., aggravated yet another change within me. All was forgotten.
Off for a walk I went, well timed with the departing light
of the day. The sun was warm, and
I strolled in the grip of her reaching brilliance. It was encouraging.
I walked a street named Reno, then sat on some pavement. Once satiated with the purity of
daylight, I crossed through the shadow of an alleyway stained blue by the
crimes of generations passed.
Forward I pushed, over the Troll’s Bridge and then down the embankment
at the far side. Some brief window
watching reminded me that existence is merely a fluke. Then I went home to piss.
You, like so many others, have seen too
much of this life through the bottom of a whiskey glass. One day while
digging blindly into that angry black noise, your rotted imagination, you meet
a Maker. This Guardian, a true manifestation of some greater sense, is
all that keeps your brain from collapsing in upon itself. And so you
talk. You - a representative of man, one against the world, lacking vision
and so deeply committed to some misfortune of the month. Look what you’ve
done. You have tired the Guardian. Now what the fuck are we to do?
Time has run amuck on this day… and there is no
distinguishable reason why that is so.
I am now ready to ascend to the greater realms of existence, even if
only for a handful of hours. I
cherish these minutes, here and now, embracing the certainly of my
surroundings. I am wary, for it’s
only moments now until I give my Self over to the borderlands. And perhaps during some blackened hour
I’ll find myself blindly aloof, pawing at the smooth surface wall where seconds
before there stood a distinct outline of a doorway. And there’ll be no wonder.
Behold, great world, this bright shard of inspiration now
freshly burrowed behind my mind’s eye like a diamond headed spear. I carry it as one would a splinter, both
painfully aware and universally infatuated by its presence. The course of action is simple - one
foot placed in front of the other.
Repeat until victory. Not the
master plan, but rather a stepping block to the next tier of imaginative
I shall nurture this sliver of inspiration, and not only achieve
the goal in due time but greatly profit as well. All this, and without the use of tweezers.
I desire a profession that involves traveling and
writing. The two need not be
directly related, either. I want
to wake to different surroundings every week in strange and forbidden territories
throughout this world. That action
alone would be the source for some compelling writing. I guess I could temporarily satisfy
this scenario with what’s available to me now. I wake in my
bed, most mornings. Why not wake
on the living room couch or the kitchen floor. I could lie amongst the dirty laundry in the “washroom” or
even try slumbering in the bathtub.
Maybe then I’d be happier.
I need to produce a large sum of money as quickly as
possible. I’ve not only my livelihood
at stake but also my physical life – my state of breathing. I’m beginning to understand why some
resort to more daring measures. My
living these past seven years in a cloud of self deception has produced little
of value in the currency of fulfillment. With so little to show for my years of
blind dedication except for crow’s feet and a few new scars, would starting
over be such a disservice? Not
that that’s an option, really, given all my wretched debt.
for bloody revolution. Must be
willing to give life for greater cause.
Some compensation. Must
have outstanding debts with Department of Treasury and an equal or greater
share of resentment for the implied responsibility of that debt. Applicants must be in good physical
shape and possess his/her own firearm.
Must be available on weekends and holidays. Experience in martial arts and guerilla warfare a plus. Freedom loving attitude
encouraged. Please print and
return the following application in a self-addressed envelope. If approved, each new member should
expect to be branded with the appropriate symbol of his/her association.
I am bound to certain
fame and disillusionment in this life of destruction and certain creation.
Though fragmented, the long arch of time remains perceptible if not predictable
(even if only in my dreams).
Through ritual repetition, I am now blind to the repercussions of
inaction (or perhaps I simply haven’t strived to be a cause). This road may look
like any other, but the gravel under foot feels queer. There is more still up ahead. We will find truth. We will feel reality. And they will both be lies. Godless lies.
Love is forever.
Nothing’s forever. Love me
Behold the Spirit Thief. She comes when we sleep. Pulls from our nostrils our most cherished dreams. We awake in the morning feeling hollow
and weak. In place of desire, a
fear based greed.
Behold the Thought Pirate. He sips beer at the bar. With slanted ears he listens, with crooked intentions he
follows. You exit to the street
and trip on some asphalt. You come
to in a bathtub, with a long vicious scar.
Behold the Black Dog.
He sits on the street… a Pooka disguised as a Pooka in need. He will not depart without fresh human
Accolades today, gifted by an expected grey cloud of overall
disapproval. It feels good,
actually. There was great
encouragement in those gentle words, the ones that came after the thunder of failure. The movie has failed, but….
I sometimes wonder about destiny, how impervious it is to
human error. I’d like it to be
true, and grand. On some days I
think there is only potential, subject
to the laws of this physical reality.
You could do so well, but… you could go so far, but…
Life is a series of opportunities. Either that, or it’s a prison of Hell.
I made a list of Fifty
Ways to Improve My Life. Out
in the woods there was little else to do at one in the morning. From within my tent, surrounded by
tiers of healthy cannabis, I thought deeply about my life, but mainly of the
place that I call home. Los Angeles. Far from sight and out of mind, I couldn’t find true
reasoning. No purpose. What pursuits were left so painlessly
behind soon became weightless wisps of time. To be removed is cause for panic, to be displaced offers
piece of mind. If only I had the
Live big. Something I’ve been entertaining
lately. Go broad and push.
There are lessons down here, on this Earth. It’s far too convenient to fall victim to the treachery of
safety, isn’t it? I want the
scars. I’ll take a worthwhile
struggle. Just make it worth my
while. Hunger. It all stems
from hunger. Where are your
Gods? Are you afraid of your
flaws? We know too little about
this world to take things any less serious. We know to little too little about this world to not squeeze
some worth from it, this beautiful fluke.
Show me the magic.
And so the hammer falls. Only to be raised once again, and the next time destined for
you, perhaps? Perhaps not. Someplace
else the sun slowly sets and two figures bask in warm orange light, each
clutching a hopeful appreciation for being. Such adulation for things unknown to
me. Tell me what it is you see out
there upon that cracked horizon?
Does it reflect visions from your soul? Have you seen what might soon be? And what should happen once the light departs, when the
darkness descends? I see. There is a window, and within it a flame burns.
I can hear a drum.
It pounds with the fury of some great end. Its sound, a throbbing reminder of near mortality, can
penetrate the most resilient of hosts.
No one can defy its beckon
call. I have grazed that terrible
place, entertained the Devil’s Muse, and only now do I remember the
encounter. The music persists in
both waking life and the other, and it drives the footsteps of All - every single day. There is no harm in opening your ears
to these tones of supreme sublimity.
These famous notes exist within you now, at this very moment. Hear.
I am not good by
the standards of contemporary morality.
That was a judgment passed long ago by some other personality, one far
less adaptable than what I am now.
Whether to seek pleasure and joy over pain is truly inconsequential to
the path, as just about any sot on Earth can discern right from wrong; just not
that slick gray matter in between.
To look upon the many faces of experience is to enter some primitive
menagerie of original intention… a
place where mirrors cast no false reflections… where the various perversions of
this species can all remain nameless.