Monday, October 22, 2012
Saturday, October 20, 2012
THE WET FIRE OF A PAUSED DREAM
I'm tired of hearing/seeing people whine about their perceived pain.
None of you motherfuckers know how to suffer.
Pain isn't a migraine or death in the family.
It isn't a drug-addicted mommy or childhood of poverty.
Or failing at school or work or love.
Pain is an entirety, the no-memory of stagnate memory.
The eternity of a single emotion.
An unattained understanding with everyone but yourself.
Pain is visiting the terrified face of a smaller version of you from the hours of 6:30-8pm while imprisoned in a psyche ward.
& knowing you've spent the past 4 years strengthening someone who doesn't love you while neglecting the person who does.
Pain is colorectal cancer.
& without health insurance.
& the shit i'll never talk about.
Pain is.
None of you motherfuckers know how to suffer.
Pain isn't a migraine or death in the family.
It isn't a drug-addicted mommy or childhood of poverty.
Or failing at school or work or love.
Pain is an entirety, the no-memory of stagnate memory.
The eternity of a single emotion.
An unattained understanding with everyone but yourself.
Pain is visiting the terrified face of a smaller version of you from the hours of 6:30-8pm while imprisoned in a psyche ward.
& knowing you've spent the past 4 years strengthening someone who doesn't love you while neglecting the person who does.
Pain is colorectal cancer.
& without health insurance.
& the shit i'll never talk about.
Pain is.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
THANK YOU FOR BEING KIND
I'm not doing very well. But I'm pretty much never doing well.
One person I love was released from a psych ward today while another person I love informed me that she didn't love me anymore.
My dog has explosive diarrhea and the apartment smells.
I'm an obligation to everyone I know.
The way a honey bee feels when it's trapped by a child in a small juice jug is how I always feel.
The farthest place I can travel is a destination I walk to.
Have a strong feeling to eat as many heavy opiates as possible then go on a long journey down a side street.
But I can't because I have to keep existing or the person I love who just left the psych ward will lose their mind.
Ultimately my sadness and pain doesn't matter.
Keep thinking "love is bullshit" which may seem frivolous but my entire philosophy is based on the tenant of true love.
Struggling to not lose my mind.
Struggling.
Struggling.
Fucking struggling.
I don't know if or when I'll feel like talking again. And, honestly, i dont know if i believe in talking to anyone anymore.
One person I love was released from a psych ward today while another person I love informed me that she didn't love me anymore.
My dog has explosive diarrhea and the apartment smells.
I'm an obligation to everyone I know.
The way a honey bee feels when it's trapped by a child in a small juice jug is how I always feel.
The farthest place I can travel is a destination I walk to.
Have a strong feeling to eat as many heavy opiates as possible then go on a long journey down a side street.
But I can't because I have to keep existing or the person I love who just left the psych ward will lose their mind.
Ultimately my sadness and pain doesn't matter.
Keep thinking "love is bullshit" which may seem frivolous but my entire philosophy is based on the tenant of true love.
Struggling to not lose my mind.
Struggling.
Struggling.
Fucking struggling.
I don't know if or when I'll feel like talking again. And, honestly, i dont know if i believe in talking to anyone anymore.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Thursday, October 4, 2012
AMERICA'S SOUL IS BURIED IN THE GRAVEYARD OF EXPIRED ENERGY DRINKS
I unearthed a plastic storage container from my closet with some childhood items in it
One of the items is a book I don't remember reading or buying.
The book has a bunch of short stories written in a southern affect.
It seems extremely shitty.
Hidden in the pages of the book was a knife.
So the book isn't so shitty, I guess.
The knife has a serrated edge.
There is a heaviness in it.
Manufactured in Oregon by a company named Gerber.
A triple x (XXX) stamp is on one side of the blade near the hilt.
The last time I carried this thing I was a teenager.
And homeless.
I stole it from a friend.
I felt really bad when I did that.
The kid's name was Wally.
He was the child of divorced parents.
His father owned a business reconstituting pallets.
His mother had large breasts, red hair and missing teeth.
She rarely left her bedroom.
Both were heroin junkies.
I remember one day I stopped by his mother's house in SE Portland.
Tired from walking on the streets.
Just wanting to sleep.
Wally was there smoking weed like he always was.
I think we were both 15 at the time.
He was really excited about something and wanted to show me what it was.
There was a large leather binder resting near his bong.
He opened it.
Inside were 14 knives.
All different styles and shapes lining both sleeves.
They were shiny all in their own right.
A skinhead friend had stolen them from a job site Wally told me.
I asked if I could have a knife.
"No."
He needed them he said.
The binder was closed.
His mother's weak voice came from behind a bedroom door.
She sounded like she hadn't slept in days.
Wally disappeared for a few minutes.
During this time I opened the binder again.
Out of the many I selected the least desirable.
And placed it in my right pocket with the tip pointing upwards.
The silver tab jeans I wore had accomodating pockets.
They were useful for stealing supermarket food and krylon cans.
Something I did frequently during those times.
I closed the binder just before Wally returned.
He said his mother wasn't feeling well and that I should leave.
I was really worried he would suddenly feel nostalgic and inspect the knives again.
He let me take a lungful of medicated smoke instead of saying goodbye.
I walked outside without a known destination
The rain broke my high.
I fell asleep in a park with my back against a handball court.
The knife clutched in my fist.
I still feel bad for taking the weapon.
But feel grateful for having it now.
I think I'll need to carry it once more.
Maybe soon.
One of the items is a book I don't remember reading or buying.
The book has a bunch of short stories written in a southern affect.
It seems extremely shitty.
Hidden in the pages of the book was a knife.
So the book isn't so shitty, I guess.
The knife has a serrated edge.
There is a heaviness in it.
Manufactured in Oregon by a company named Gerber.
A triple x (XXX) stamp is on one side of the blade near the hilt.
The last time I carried this thing I was a teenager.
And homeless.
I stole it from a friend.
I felt really bad when I did that.
The kid's name was Wally.
He was the child of divorced parents.
His father owned a business reconstituting pallets.
His mother had large breasts, red hair and missing teeth.
She rarely left her bedroom.
Both were heroin junkies.
I remember one day I stopped by his mother's house in SE Portland.
Tired from walking on the streets.
Just wanting to sleep.
Wally was there smoking weed like he always was.
I think we were both 15 at the time.
He was really excited about something and wanted to show me what it was.
There was a large leather binder resting near his bong.
He opened it.
Inside were 14 knives.
All different styles and shapes lining both sleeves.
They were shiny all in their own right.
A skinhead friend had stolen them from a job site Wally told me.
I asked if I could have a knife.
"No."
He needed them he said.
The binder was closed.
His mother's weak voice came from behind a bedroom door.
She sounded like she hadn't slept in days.
Wally disappeared for a few minutes.
During this time I opened the binder again.
Out of the many I selected the least desirable.
And placed it in my right pocket with the tip pointing upwards.
The silver tab jeans I wore had accomodating pockets.
They were useful for stealing supermarket food and krylon cans.
Something I did frequently during those times.
I closed the binder just before Wally returned.
He said his mother wasn't feeling well and that I should leave.
I was really worried he would suddenly feel nostalgic and inspect the knives again.
He let me take a lungful of medicated smoke instead of saying goodbye.
I walked outside without a known destination
The rain broke my high.
I fell asleep in a park with my back against a handball court.
The knife clutched in my fist.
I still feel bad for taking the weapon.
But feel grateful for having it now.
I think I'll need to carry it once more.
Maybe soon.
Monday, October 1, 2012
A PANIC BUTTON MADE FROM THE HARD PLASTICS OF FALSE EXPECTATION
I accidentally clicked on a design template and now my blog looks like shit. Blogger doesn't offer an easy way to revert back to the basic layout.
I see why people use wordpress and tumblr now.
I will create a custom layout when I feel motivated enough to do so. Until then enjoy Awesome, Inc.'s interpretation of an awesome blog template.
Bask in its ability to motivate your genitals.
Bask you mother fuckers.
Bask.
I see why people use wordpress and tumblr now.
I will create a custom layout when I feel motivated enough to do so. Until then enjoy Awesome, Inc.'s interpretation of an awesome blog template.
Bask in its ability to motivate your genitals.
Bask you mother fuckers.
Bask.
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