"A lot of the houses out here are bright red, straight out of the paint tube.
The fences around their gardens aren't right. But over there, to the east, everything is realistic and local and as it should be, except on fire."

[i must have missed this one last time around. i laughed a lot. i'm sick of writing about my feelings. writing hasn't been very satisfying lately either. i've written a lot of letters that won't be sent anywhere. i don't think i've written anything new in my journal in a week. i've been transcribing old things into it, but apart from that i've been talking to myself via collages and pictures. so now i'm going to write a story.]

the fan doesn't work in the bathroom. which actually turned out to be a pleasant loss, despite the accumulating steam and cigarette smoke. for unknown reasons it was preferable. the bathtub had been freshly evacuated of soap scum and general filth. everything was white and clear. like those television commercial for any assortment of cleaning chemicals. people always think that the smell of cleanliness lies in the plastic bottles carrying harmful chemicals. then there is soap. i looked up at the tiny rack, bursting with different aromas to smear on your body. this shampoo is for normal hair, this conditioner is for limp hair. and so on. there have been many occasions where i've stood in the aisle set aside for the simple enhancements of your imperfect self. gazing at the thousands of bottles of products, i search for the simplest bottle. that's all i've ever wanted. so it's either mango or coconut lime. oh, but that's the body conditioner, which is what. i'm curious and appalled, discovering there is an oily substance you lather your skin with after cleansing it. so you're soft and fruit flavoured. and unclean again, so instantly, like hair gel. what about the pink bottle. this one's called "sweet pea." i don't understand, so i put it back on the shelf. finally one looks safe to use, it's raspberry scented, but smells nothing like raspberries. the scent stabs into my brain making me think of some murderous berry plant with lots of sharp teeth. then there's a bottle with words that appear to be in a different language. i chose this one. it seems plain enough.

[it's funny to me how, after reading something, i find myself writing in the style i just read from. i'm sure that happens a lot, but it just struck me, just now, very much. i'm too tired to edit that. i'll do it later.]

i don't know what i'm supposed to do after 1pm. i am anticipating this sense that my entire world will crumble when i am finished with job work and realize that i have nothing particular to get done. at one pm. that's in thirty-five minutes. thirty-five minutes until the end of the world as i know it. i'm picturing myself. i'll probably be sitting in front of grounds. until a herd of people are somehow instantly there. and i have no idea what anyone is saying. and when i start talking it seems that no one can hear me. so i begin to babble nonsense and backwards jibberish in an attempt to communicate something. anything. maybe they will hear me when nothing makes sense. no one is the least bit fazed. they just stare off and talk about subjects i will have forgotten about in the next five minutes. everything is slipping. am i dying? i think i may be dying. suddenly i am exhausted. and i have to leave. but i don't know where to go anymore. i was having such a nice time cutting and pasting and writing. maybe i'll move over there. around the corner i go, and breathe a sigh of relief. fifteen minutes passes. someone comes to join me. which is fine. but then it's another and another and all i wanted to do was write and think and paste and now all of you people are hear and i had this great thought i was in the middle of writing this thing and your talking about ridiculous nonsense that i don't care to hear about why do you have to sit here why don’t yougoawayand let me sit by myself. and then, before i've recognized it, there is this pressure in my throat and my stomache is feeling very strange and light. and i'm grinding my teeth. thinking, "nothing has happened, why am i like this. everything is fine." and everything is fine really. there's not much to say about anything. we're all just doing what we do and life is great and i thought that i was at ease about how fucked up everything is, but i'm beginning to think that this might not be the case.

+

coping mechanisms at maximum
thinking softer, the maintenance of hope
in every anticipated departure
mulling over each delicately dreamt gesture
never exactly how it was imagined
now all there is to do
is play out the possibilities, future instances
the reconciliation.
rebuilding dramatic dreams
keep blood flowing, contain self.
in such a strange place i feel
i've never been
except in fabricated mentalities and mindsets
nobody's lost. neither one.
but precious segments of existence,
the parts that keep me going best,
most efficiently, a sounder machine,
have been disconnected
doing the same with myself.
a very lucid life
everything is only half real

+

flashing storefront lights. on and off again.
not sure whether they are done for the day.
the potential customers crossing
are only kids in baggy black jeans
and homeless old bag ladies.
walking slower than ever imaginable.
searching through trash for cans.
we don't have any cans.
just sausages and sauerkraut.
you speak a foreign language,
hotdogs and coleslaw.
can you spare a dollar.
we're trying to catch a train.
shitty techno blasting from the oversized SUVs below.
everything is either really shiny or dilapidated here.
there's not much inbetween. except you and me.
i'm going to wash my feet and bed for now.
tomorrow we will play in airports.
then travel hundreds of miles
in opposite directions
make more sense of solitary minds.
you saw things i never would have seen.
i'm recalling past instances.
getting distracted.
there's too much i've overlooked.
i've had to take it in.
all at once.

+

everything in its right place.
how much can i do to hold on
where do i stop
so i don't lose myself.
how often should i step outside
of me and consider that it's really not so bad.
everything is fine, even when it isn't.
will my perspective change
when i'm older, supposedly wise
contemplating past stupidities
each pointless spat of melancholy
will they still standing in the shadows at the end of my bed.
the thoughts i chose to forget
but never really did.
and when my children bring up the world's in justices
will i say,
i thought that first
please bring me back around.

=

[that last poem isn't exactly finished. i wrote it anyway. i liked the idea. i'm not this melodramatic in real life, just in brain life. what is the brain life of that brain?] [?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?]tires that grip in the wet.