at times i wish that i could display the interior of my brain
to the world
and show them how great it is
but right now, i am so glad it's only mine
i'm glad i can be so secretive
my inner dialogue is a friend
i talk to myself
so i guess i'm never alone.


Irrational ridiculous
Melancholic misery

******************************************** * **

I have so much to say.
And no way to communicate it.

More often I feel
My self-indulgent rantings mean so little.
I question the points and reasons
Knowing I’ll always line up letters
In an attempt to do something or

I wouldn’t say that I feel sorry for myself
And maybe that’s because I’m just stupid
I feel diseased
I feel crooked and confused
Always by this two-timing thought process
There’s the ignition
A match that lights the wick
Which is only inches long
Patience isn’t necessarily important
It has nothing to do with sparking brainwaves
I should avoid fire altogether

So here’s the rationale;
The raison d'être:

Well I can’t think of it right now
I had an idea, but forgot

Oh shit.

It seems I’ve done it again

******************************************** *

blah blah and blah.
I'm having a really hard time.


i've taken to staying in bed. i've taken to sleeping while the sun is out. and it begins to rear its ugly head around seven o'clock in the morning. i don't really know what my deal is. i've lost a lot of desire for things in life. and in order to maintain the most significant affections i have requires me to work really hard to press through all the garbage in my brain. to find the goodness. however, this state, despite it irregularity and emotional cacophony, is almost creatively treating me better than if i felt absolutely fine. it seems that the reasons for living have manifested themselves, and when i do get out of bed, all i really want to do is write or draw or read. i am neglecting a lot of responsibilities. but not really. it could be worse. all of my clothes need cleaned. my fish is still dead in his fishbowl at my other home, and i know that today the owner of the home's sons had to go into my apartment to clean it. i wonder how that went. maybe i'll simply sleep until it all works itself out. i'll socially shut down. i'll make a tent.

***************************** *

{here's some crap}

***************************** *

we know we love
choking eachother down endlessly aimlessly
for the sake of everything bright and beautiful
all clarity all serenity
hands holding on for a final touch
eyes blink to death
at separations sight
isn't it enough
we know we love
to stand rigid in affection
like it’s so desperately serious and necessary
laughing at life's tricks
laugh at its hope

i'll smoke sinister cigarettes
i'll drink darker coffee
caffeinated and sedated
to become a horribly concentrated truth
those stupid acts i resent and perform
(i do too.)
greeting lady lazarus
with a warm handshake
i'm gathering strength
from anticipating misery
sing myself to sleep
a smoker's lullaby
the notes don't come as simply as they used to

mom dad
i'm fine
oh dear love
remember when
the future took place
in my dreams
day and night, wake, sleep
the finest of lives
so you have always been here
forever stay forever

the death of a dreamer
playing pretend and assembling stories
creating lives to love
and be loved in
forgotten forever in a years time
some have stayed
inhabiting treasured compartments
marching madly in and out of vision
two-timing thought patterns and number nothings
sometimes it produces

wondering when this day will end
to see if the next is better
like most days
like all days
why was i asleep
when did i awake
what happened to the weekend

********************* *

the next part is a bunch of rubbish that the computer made up, but seriously read it. it turned out pretty awesomely peculiar. thyroglobulin.

{look down}

********************************** * **

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we know we love
we know we love
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i press into my thighs
where bones should be
i consistently assume so
the delectable melodic euphony of
tendons and moving muscular tissue
florescent pulsing white lights
and she is all mine
designed for no one else but me
i consistently assume so


all the things that sound

so much better
in my head (?)

by a form of tangibility
the inevitable flaw of text

i’d like to see through equivalent
eyes, if you don’t mind
perpetually going in and out
the revolving doors
of your brain


we are so frail
so fragile
i am self-sufficient
i am self-reliable
and i don’t need anyone

why are you knocking
why aren’t you knocking harder
for every breath i take
i should hear some sort of sound
the pounding of a heart
the grinding and gnashing of teeth
we are strange carnivorous creatures
licking our chops
with such a taste for red meat
soak up the blood with my bones
and devour them too why don’t you
take as much as you like
i don’t need it or anyone
everything bleeds itself dry eventually anyway

teeth aren’t for smiling
they shouldn’t sparkle
they shouldn’t be so white
only assisting in the fallacies

i forget to breathe
i forget where i am
i forget how to blink my eyes
at times

live alone,
i say
i will

i seem to have misplaced my memory of
how to do the things that people do
on a regular basis
and all i ever wanted was some sort of affirmation
to know that things arewhattheyare and hereiswhy
and thisiswhatwearegoingtodo about that
and this is where i stand on the issue of you
my attitude

don’t forget why i took a precious breath against your forehead
so that you could feel who i am
your skin cells grazed by a product of me
so that i would leave an infectious mark
it seemed so real and sincere
to me anyway

i’ve lost myself
i don’t know where i went

everyday i continually question this person in my head and
ask them to leave me be
i don’t know who you are
i don’t know what you want from me
i did ask once, but you said nothing
i know what i have to do
and i don’t need anyone

often times
i question who
i am ranting at
and why
only knowing now and then


i have resumed
the perpetuation of pulling out my hair
and strand by strand
delicately selected by fingertips
it all falls to the ground

********** *


here comes the day.
so we meet again.


i just watched this delightful documentary about martin scorsese. it was really interesting. i have a lot more of an appreciation from him now. him and robert denero, is that spelled right? because i watched "raging bull" tonight. wow. i knew they were marvelous, but that just gave them a bit more. if i have a kid someday, i want to name it lazlow. girl or boy. i think that'd be great. today has been absolutely terrible, but really inspirational. it seems that there shouldn't be anymore toying around with individuality. if that makes sense. there's so much to do. there's so much to get done in life. we need to make sure these things happen. you know. it's so easy to forget or neglect. sometimes i don't know where i am, or what's going on. i feel like i don't know how to live sometimes. and i question the "okayness" of that. but quite honestly, i don't know what it takes. uuuhgh. i'm so caught up right now. it's great. i'm so caught up. i don't even know what i'm talking about. get me out of here. i need to get out of here. that's all.


smoke creates suspended ghosts

it forms the destructive paisley
casting spirits out of lungs
i watch manifestations
as they take shape
sliding down the roof
spiraling, springing upwards
lifting off
hovering and staring me through
with sincerely evil eyes
like demons and deadly omens
or a heavenly host
watching over every sinful act
i perform late at night
reminding me of all things
that are so tenderly horrible

as momentary as an exhale
these visions fester like the liquid in my lungs


electric staplers?
well. i'll bet that the person who invented that didn't feel like a waste of space. some day i will get it right. i'll make an automatic stapler. i'll have it all laid out.



old men sleep in their cars
waiting for wives
in the far corners of parking lots

and the most insecure of us
run at night
in XL sweatsuits
in order to hide our clumsy shame
from the rest of the
beautiful world

how many of you use hairgel.
you know,
your hair is never clean.
with the exception of
that instant you exit
the shower.
button-up shirts
all the way to the top. please.
and suit pants.
shine your shoes-
you sons of bitches.
you've gotta look sharp
to stay
all the way to the top.

i've forgotten
where i was going
with this.

oh ya.
it's a distraction.

For the past few days I've been sustaining my nutritional existence with coffee, diet pop, and peanut butter. At the moment I'm sustaining my emotional existence with The Moon and Antarctica. And it is a great psychological existence. It's great because it is so incredibly sad and happy and everything I ever could have imagined to feel this past summer. It is Delta. It is warmth. It's a flop house. It is the smell of too many cigarettes and the beer I didn't drink. It's a bipolar episode; the pinnacle of joy and the deepest aspects of sadness. When I listen to it I don't exactly know how to feel besides nostalgic. I feel heartbroken and this immense sense of anticipation for something that already happened. I look down from a balcony and then up at a cinema ceiling falling apart next to clouds of smoke. I feel the remnants of an incredibly painful and necessary developmental transition. I see insanity. I see the windows rolled down, and the corn isn't even up to my knees; the yellow lines of the road passing by the wheels of a shitty car. Like every second falling through my fingers that I tried so hard to cherish. Memories aren't good enough. We always forget the moments that so horribly mattered. And I so desperately want to smell particular summer air again.

Yesterday, I read a 'journal entry' from my old computer, circa May 2002. It made me laugh so hard at life's delightful tricks that I started to cry. How marvelous to think of past thoughts. Pull them out of their filling cabinets and cupboards. But in reference to what I read, I realize that my heart was never fickle, which is the most charming part of it all. I always knew what I felt, but multiple personalities, insecurities and plain stupidity seem to consistently get in my way. One of the most interesting aspects of this past writing is it was almost a prophecy. I would say it was. I really would. A marvelously ignorant and insecure prophecy. I love myself. I love that I love. I wish I were better at manifesting it. But my goodness, do I get in my way. I am absolutely the best and worst person I know. I am an enemy. My beautiful body and mind are berated by my repulsive body and mind. I have such a delightful body. I have such a delightful mind. More and more, whenever I am feeling disgusting, I'll just take off my shirt and stare at my bare torso to make myself feel human and lovely. I do love my body. I love touching the hooks of my pelvic bone. I love feeling the groves of my chest cavity and the concave divot underneath my ribs that slowly ascends to a fleshy stomach, then back down to a valley between my hip bones. I love the scent of my shoulders, running my thumb across my jaw line, curling my toes around the folds of sheets, and kissing my knees when I'm in the bathtub. I love my swollen eyes in my morning. They look so unaware and old and sad and worn out. I love my cheekbones. Last night, before I went to bed, I took a bath, and when I took off my shirt and stared at the sides of my stomach, the veins leading upwards (downwards? either/or/both) were extremely pronounced, and it was delightful. My upper body was like this intricate living, breathing map. Aside the arteries were my stretch marks and my ribs, and I inhaled and exhaled, and it was this beautiful, linear living piece of art. It was nice. I was pleased. But if we were to look closely, to x-ray, everyone would see black lungs and angry intestines. So my body is a physical interpretation of my mind. In both cases it's completely my fault, and I could fix it if I really tried hard. I could mend the bad respiratory system and the torn up insides just as I could eradicate the ugly, insecure and pitiful thought pattern. Or maybe this is just how I am. I could do better. I know I can. But. - It turns out that?s all I have to say about that after sitting here for a few minutes contemplating that thought.
In that case:

it's hard to remember we're alive for the first time
it's hard to remember we're alive for the last time
it's hard to remember to live before you die
it's hard to remember to that our lives are such a short time
it's hard to remember when it takes such a long time
it's hard to remember
my hell comes from inside
comes from inside myself

everyone's afraid of their own lives
if you could be anything you want
I bet you'd be disappointed
am I right?

All of those words seem so simple, but they aren't easily considered or digested. My God, I love this album. It is too good for words. It's almost too good to even listen to, at times. If that makes sense. It does to me.


i've thought about this a thousand times. i don't think there is or will ever be anything like it. i think that a lot of what i'm emotionally going through right now has to do with hormones, however, tonight, while in the midst of these tears that came from nowhere, i decided to listen to lucky, and sometimes life is so pure, i don't know how to deal with it. i cry so many different tears, these were the combination of everything. mostly the manifestation a deep sense of affection. but they were nice, and relieving. just too pure and honest. i don't know if the rest of the world can make this connection. i don't know if i'm the only one who has to handle this complexity. i know i'm not. but why don't we sit and talk about these strange and bewildering emotions that pour out from time to time? why don't we secretly tell eachother about these instances? because they are indescribable. because we can't. never ever. not because they're are secrets, but because there aren't words to place upon such emotion. i really wonder. i really really wonder who feels this. and i don't think i'd ever want to attempt to verbally express it. it would cheapen anything i was feeling at the moment. it would just cheapen it. the other night i watched myself break down. and i don't know who that person behind that mirror, staring at me was. but whoever it was that i saw expressed such pure and utter beautiful brokenness. and i don't know if i will ever witness such sincerity ever again in my life. but either way, the images that i saw made it so much easier to accept the way i feel about life, and continue to live it, understanding so much more. realizing so much more about who i am, and creating a sense memory of appreciation, and the location where i do not want to be.
sunday afternoon dumpster drivers

tissues on the dashboard
dried out sinew at the wheel
there are skeletal frames hiding
beneath layers
of cellulite and fat
there’s the calloused viscera
the absence of a glandular problem

and wire frames are bent or broken
prescription’s still the same
too old to change anyway

carpeltunnle and spiderveins
guardian angel on your visor
you know who you are
bible in the glovebox

getting fast food
for an after-church lunch