A man is many things, and in his lifetime he has the opportunity to be many different men. Throughout their lives, people reinvent and rediscover themselves time and time again. This is exceedingly so in those oh so important developmental years known as the teenage years. Or as I prefer to call them, the downward spiral. It is in this time we are introduced to many of life’s less than pleasant qualities. Some fuck, and some get fucked. Often both.
In my own short journey, I have been through many a transformation. You might say I was evolving to be the “man” I am today, but that would imply a constant growth, an ascension. Yes, I have been many different men, and I have grown, but cynicism and experience tell me to never think that I (nor anyone else) have grown beyond our flaws and those parts of us we despise. Surprisingly enough, self-loathing is not my motive for writing on this night. Surprise. Tonight, despite my weariness, I aim to share my mental musings on my attempt at removing that which is unnecessary from my life and simplifying myself.
First on the list of overly complicated things in my life: clothing. Every time I must be seen by eyes other than my own and those of my nuclear family, I tend to dress to the nines as best I can. Being from a small town in South Carolina, one can assume correctly that I am almost always quite overdressed for any occasion. What better way to put less thought into my wardrobe than to emulate another person? So lately it’s been jeans, old converse, dark t-shirt, and leather jacket in honor of Hank Moody. Looking like I just got out of bed and don’t give a shit is liberating and refreshing.
(might I point out that, at this point, I passed out last night and am continuing this the next day...which would be today)
Next to go: my overabundance of texting. I’ve come to realize that these little snippets of thought are generally worthless. The only thing I really ever get from a conversation performed without any oral communication is a pissed off feeling when the other person inevitably stops replying. Some manners would be nice, but it’s too much to expect anyone to be polite. Instead of playing “text message etiquette evangelist” and spreading the good word about common decency, giving up my addiction is not only the more productive solution, but also the one that requires less effort on my part. No offense to those of you I do text, but as I’ve said time and time again, if people want to talk they’ll talk. If you want to text me, then you’ll text me, and I’ll respond. I’m not (always) that much of an asshole.
Last on the list: over-thinking my interactions with others. Trying to make good impressions with everyone you meet makes interaction more of a chore. I’ve never enjoyed chores. I’ll admit to being a little vain, checking myself in the mirror, putting a little too much effort in trying to look how I thought was cool. Saying what I want, no matter how crude or brutally honest, gives me a comfort no amount of bullshitting can supply. Now that I’ve accepted the fact that I’m an asshole and probably a bastard, being myself has felt easier. Not to sound like a typical angry teenager, but if someone doesn’t like me they can fuck off. We all die alone anyway.
Had enough of my bullshit about myself? Good, me too. I’m just another douchebag in the march of the fuckheads. Splitting a post up across time is a bad idea. This one is gonna be short I suppose, but that just means you get to waste less of your time reading my rambling. Not sure why you would read through this in the first place. For those of you who did, congrats your shitty past few minutes (or however long it took you to read this) and on having nothing better to do. Seriously, welcome to the club, Motherfucker.
But really, if you’ve got so much time to blow on the internet why aren’t you looking at porn? Porn doesn’t really do it for me, but at the very least go google naked pics of a celebrity before you attept to do something productive, you know you want to you sick fuck.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Where's the Cream Filling?
It’s so hard to find anyone with substance. Not saying that I’m loaded with the good stuff, though I will say I can bullshit with the best, or whoever is just below the best. I find the majority of my conversations lacking in correctly spelled words much longer that my common four letter fare. It’s not that I’m a spelling nazi (I am), it just says something to me when words are constantly misspelled when the clock hasn’t quite struck 10 o’clock and all involved parties are sober. Of course, there’s more to substance than proper use of spell check, sadly there’s not much involved in my lackluster social interactions of late. Even the flirting drags on, even though I love to please a beautiful woman with the gift of words. I also love to please a beautiful woman with gifts of the more intimate variety, but that’s another rant for another night. My new found self-loathing, which I embrace, tells me it has something to do with my awful attitude and over-abundant cynicism concerning the opposite sex; however, I have come to the conclusion that it is indeed the fault of my chosen conversational partners.
Whatever happened to intelligent women with opinions and thoughtful insights into the various subjects of life in which I am interested? I’m not asking a lot, I’d just like to have an interaction with a pretty face that didn’t make me feel like I was trying to masturbate in public on a cold winter day. As you can imagine, there’s no happy ending there, just that tired feeling that leaves you longing for something more that is also preferably a great deal warmer.
Whatever happened to deep, intimate conversations between strangers? Why is everyone so scared to talk about sex? I don’t mean that the only worthwhile conversations are ones about sex, more often than you would think healthy for a 19 year old of the male persuasion, sex is the last thing I want to talk about. I’m simply referring to the sad state of individuals’ intellectual capacity for anything outside the realm of their cut and pasted opinions, religious beliefs, and methods of reasoning. I feel like I’m spreading myself thin over so many topics, so let’s focus. This blog is about a lack of substance, so let’s save the sex talk for another time.
Conversation occurs everyday. So why do so many people seem to suck at it? When you strike up a conversation with another person and you realize they don’t have anything to say, I think it would only be polite to let them know they should work on that. Don’t be rude. Be honest. If only men were more interested in conversation, all the women I’ve come across lately might be better at it. When it comes to relationships with women, men are pretty one-dimensional. It may be a horrible stereotype to say that everything a man does is decided by the member that hangs between his legs, but the majority of a man’s decisions concerning the fairer sex can be, and often are, decided wholly by what his dick wants. It is a distressing fact that, even after thousands of years of evolution and civilization, this atrocity has not been discouraged on the level required to make us stop. Men are more than a sexual organ on legs, but as men, we generally fail to let the women we encounter know that things like intelligence, individuality, and personality are just as important as how much their appearance makes us want to ensure the continued survival of our species (or at least go through the motions while using a prophylactic). Some would say you can’t fuck a personality or get a blow-job from a college degree; well I would say that you can’t discuss the philosophies of Thich Naht Hahn with a pair of breasts or share your poetry or prose with a pussy (yes, I did that for purposes of alliteration).
What I’m basically trying to say is that, as a majority, man has seemingly done all in his power to discourage women from having substance. Who needs substance when most guys seem to say that they would rather date a girl who puts out quickly than a woman who is more concerned with having something interesting to say. Please, I need to make sure my genes proliferate, but if I can’t find a girl who’s beauty is more than skin deep, the world’s gonna be short a few “effeminate male body” and “12 inch genital” genes (I only did it for the alliteration, really). I think that would just be a travesty, but hopefully it won’t come to that.
(12 might be a bit of an exaggeration, but only by a few inches at the most, I swear)
Of course this all applies to men as well, and ladies in this position…I feel your pain. But as most know (though won’t admit) interactions between two men border on cavemen level most of the time. And I doubt this next bit is true for most men, but my interactions with women are far more genuine than those I have with men. Hence my reaction to the lack of conversational partners. It’s not for completely shallow reasons. I may be effeminate, but I am still a man.
I can find some pretty lady to stick my tongue in, but that’s only a temporary distraction (unless she was really good, then it might be a slightly longer temporary distraction). If I could sit down over coffee and have a halfway decent conversation about the possibilities and implications of quantum physics, or discuss how Jack Kerouac perfectly captured rhythm and beat in his writing, I would be overjoyed and inspired for quite some time. I’m not against going out and doing things, sharing mutual interests, and discovering the possibilities of our own physicalness, but when everything else grows old, when we’re tired, when we’ve exhausted ourselves and can only lie in bed, we always have our words. I’ve sped through all the physical possibilities so fast sometimes that I’ve basically smashed my face against that large brick wall that is the lack of conversational compatibility. After that, I’m not pretty. Shit doesn’t last long then.
What’s the solution? Fuck if I know. Go read some books. Catch up on your Nietzsche. Don’t ask me, I just point out how fucked up we all are.
Whatever happened to intelligent women with opinions and thoughtful insights into the various subjects of life in which I am interested? I’m not asking a lot, I’d just like to have an interaction with a pretty face that didn’t make me feel like I was trying to masturbate in public on a cold winter day. As you can imagine, there’s no happy ending there, just that tired feeling that leaves you longing for something more that is also preferably a great deal warmer.
Whatever happened to deep, intimate conversations between strangers? Why is everyone so scared to talk about sex? I don’t mean that the only worthwhile conversations are ones about sex, more often than you would think healthy for a 19 year old of the male persuasion, sex is the last thing I want to talk about. I’m simply referring to the sad state of individuals’ intellectual capacity for anything outside the realm of their cut and pasted opinions, religious beliefs, and methods of reasoning. I feel like I’m spreading myself thin over so many topics, so let’s focus. This blog is about a lack of substance, so let’s save the sex talk for another time.
Conversation occurs everyday. So why do so many people seem to suck at it? When you strike up a conversation with another person and you realize they don’t have anything to say, I think it would only be polite to let them know they should work on that. Don’t be rude. Be honest. If only men were more interested in conversation, all the women I’ve come across lately might be better at it. When it comes to relationships with women, men are pretty one-dimensional. It may be a horrible stereotype to say that everything a man does is decided by the member that hangs between his legs, but the majority of a man’s decisions concerning the fairer sex can be, and often are, decided wholly by what his dick wants. It is a distressing fact that, even after thousands of years of evolution and civilization, this atrocity has not been discouraged on the level required to make us stop. Men are more than a sexual organ on legs, but as men, we generally fail to let the women we encounter know that things like intelligence, individuality, and personality are just as important as how much their appearance makes us want to ensure the continued survival of our species (or at least go through the motions while using a prophylactic). Some would say you can’t fuck a personality or get a blow-job from a college degree; well I would say that you can’t discuss the philosophies of Thich Naht Hahn with a pair of breasts or share your poetry or prose with a pussy (yes, I did that for purposes of alliteration).
What I’m basically trying to say is that, as a majority, man has seemingly done all in his power to discourage women from having substance. Who needs substance when most guys seem to say that they would rather date a girl who puts out quickly than a woman who is more concerned with having something interesting to say. Please, I need to make sure my genes proliferate, but if I can’t find a girl who’s beauty is more than skin deep, the world’s gonna be short a few “effeminate male body” and “12 inch genital” genes (I only did it for the alliteration, really). I think that would just be a travesty, but hopefully it won’t come to that.
(12 might be a bit of an exaggeration, but only by a few inches at the most, I swear)
Of course this all applies to men as well, and ladies in this position…I feel your pain. But as most know (though won’t admit) interactions between two men border on cavemen level most of the time. And I doubt this next bit is true for most men, but my interactions with women are far more genuine than those I have with men. Hence my reaction to the lack of conversational partners. It’s not for completely shallow reasons. I may be effeminate, but I am still a man.
I can find some pretty lady to stick my tongue in, but that’s only a temporary distraction (unless she was really good, then it might be a slightly longer temporary distraction). If I could sit down over coffee and have a halfway decent conversation about the possibilities and implications of quantum physics, or discuss how Jack Kerouac perfectly captured rhythm and beat in his writing, I would be overjoyed and inspired for quite some time. I’m not against going out and doing things, sharing mutual interests, and discovering the possibilities of our own physicalness, but when everything else grows old, when we’re tired, when we’ve exhausted ourselves and can only lie in bed, we always have our words. I’ve sped through all the physical possibilities so fast sometimes that I’ve basically smashed my face against that large brick wall that is the lack of conversational compatibility. After that, I’m not pretty. Shit doesn’t last long then.
What’s the solution? Fuck if I know. Go read some books. Catch up on your Nietzsche. Don’t ask me, I just point out how fucked up we all are.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
I Am Bitter
I am not Buddhist. The best I can manage is the occasional hypocritical bit of philosophy about how we shouldn’t judge others or their choices or beliefs. Our beliefs are our own. But mind and body do not coincide, word and action are not one and the same. Who I am is my business, and who you are is your business. Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t tell you how fucked up I think you are. You are fucked up, I guarantee it. There is no one righteous, no not one. And negative actions have negative consequences.
Despite my apparent disgust with my own actions, I am not apologizing. Instead I embrace self-loathing. I am an asshole, yet I am intelligent and caring. I am intelligent and caring, yet I am an asshole. This is where I should say something like “take it or leave it, bitches”, but that seems so arrogant. It’s as if I were saying that I am better than you if you don’t accept it, and if you do accept it you’re my punching bag, my bitch.
Prick, Asshole, Douchebag, Fuck, what’s the difference? I haven’t been called a Fuck, that’s really the only real difference, besides the spelling, pronunciation, linguistic origins, social acceptance, etc. I like to try to differentiate them, give them different meanings with slight nuances only a true wordsmith like myself would understand. One more thing to be right about. Another chance to have a discussion where I shout “Fuck” for no real reason other than the fact that I like the way it feels to say it.
If I am not Buddhist, as I tell the world, what am I? I am not angry. I am bitter. How do I know this? No, it’s not because you said so. It’s not because a friend pointed it out to me and their wisdom caused me to realize this about myself. If you have said any of this about me, you’re still an asshole and you’re still wrong. You can still go fuck yourself. I don’t mean to offend, it’s just a figure of speech.
What am I? I am Bitter. It is the subconscious philosophy by which I live my life. I don’t express my opinions and ask others to do the same so I can segue to a series of personal attacks against them based on their possibly opposing viewpoint. Having said that, I tend to spend my days on the edge. Whether it’s due to my current life situation built of a series of failures and disappointments, or just my nature, I’m only words away from hopeless romantic or bitter asshole. If I need to explain how this relates, you should stop reading this now and try participating in something that might please your fellow man, like banging your head against a wall till you pass out, or blowing your fellow man, he tends to enjoy that. And for fuck’s sake remember to rubber up if you engage the opposite sex, we don’t want you reproducing and prolonging the life of the idiocy gene.
Returning to the previous topic, I am Bitter. I don’t hate your god, or your religion, but for some reason I don’t want to hear about him. I don’t want him to bless me. I don’t want to sit around and bow my head while you converse with your imaginary friend. If there is a god, he’s even more of a slacker than I am, and I’m not quite sure why you’d want to thank him for fuckin around for eternity. I’m jealous, no one thanks me. At least I provide a sometimes entertaining conversation to various persons. And I’ve also provided a few other services that I guarantee your god can’t provide, but I won’t discuss those. I’m not a fucking animal (yes, I’m looking at you, frat boys).
I am Bitter. Families bother me, not the people in them, but the unit as a whole, the control they seem to exercise, the harm they cause. Let people be fucking individuals. I think that’s basically all I have to say on that subject.
I am Bitter from years of being fucked over by girls, being lied to by friends, and being blown off and ignored by everyone else. I know you probably hate me by now, if you’ve even managed to make it this far into my spiel. But as some other douchebag said (and I’m paraphrasing), “Don’t screw with me, if you have an opinion then fucking express it, unless you like being a bitch.” I don’t know who said something similar to that, maybe it was in a dream, or maybe I said it. The point is, the only reason you all get along so well in your safe little circle of pricks is because you’re all a bunch of liars. You tell each other what you think they want to hear with the occasional bit of honesty thrown in for good measure. Maybe you gossip about someone not around or sling the occasional insult. So when I come along and tell you what’s on my mind, your make believe is threatened and you get offended. So you say I’m an asshole. I don’t know if that means I really am an asshole, but what’s the use in denying it. You can try giving me all kinds of different situations that you think are proof against all this, but keep that shit to yourselves, I don’t have all the answers.
For the record, I am Bitter, but at least I’m honest, and I won’t be apologizing any time soon. These thoughts are to be continued, perhaps in a blog, or maybe in a story. I feel I may soon find my Satori.
Despite my apparent disgust with my own actions, I am not apologizing. Instead I embrace self-loathing. I am an asshole, yet I am intelligent and caring. I am intelligent and caring, yet I am an asshole. This is where I should say something like “take it or leave it, bitches”, but that seems so arrogant. It’s as if I were saying that I am better than you if you don’t accept it, and if you do accept it you’re my punching bag, my bitch.
Prick, Asshole, Douchebag, Fuck, what’s the difference? I haven’t been called a Fuck, that’s really the only real difference, besides the spelling, pronunciation, linguistic origins, social acceptance, etc. I like to try to differentiate them, give them different meanings with slight nuances only a true wordsmith like myself would understand. One more thing to be right about. Another chance to have a discussion where I shout “Fuck” for no real reason other than the fact that I like the way it feels to say it.
If I am not Buddhist, as I tell the world, what am I? I am not angry. I am bitter. How do I know this? No, it’s not because you said so. It’s not because a friend pointed it out to me and their wisdom caused me to realize this about myself. If you have said any of this about me, you’re still an asshole and you’re still wrong. You can still go fuck yourself. I don’t mean to offend, it’s just a figure of speech.
What am I? I am Bitter. It is the subconscious philosophy by which I live my life. I don’t express my opinions and ask others to do the same so I can segue to a series of personal attacks against them based on their possibly opposing viewpoint. Having said that, I tend to spend my days on the edge. Whether it’s due to my current life situation built of a series of failures and disappointments, or just my nature, I’m only words away from hopeless romantic or bitter asshole. If I need to explain how this relates, you should stop reading this now and try participating in something that might please your fellow man, like banging your head against a wall till you pass out, or blowing your fellow man, he tends to enjoy that. And for fuck’s sake remember to rubber up if you engage the opposite sex, we don’t want you reproducing and prolonging the life of the idiocy gene.
Returning to the previous topic, I am Bitter. I don’t hate your god, or your religion, but for some reason I don’t want to hear about him. I don’t want him to bless me. I don’t want to sit around and bow my head while you converse with your imaginary friend. If there is a god, he’s even more of a slacker than I am, and I’m not quite sure why you’d want to thank him for fuckin around for eternity. I’m jealous, no one thanks me. At least I provide a sometimes entertaining conversation to various persons. And I’ve also provided a few other services that I guarantee your god can’t provide, but I won’t discuss those. I’m not a fucking animal (yes, I’m looking at you, frat boys).
I am Bitter. Families bother me, not the people in them, but the unit as a whole, the control they seem to exercise, the harm they cause. Let people be fucking individuals. I think that’s basically all I have to say on that subject.
I am Bitter from years of being fucked over by girls, being lied to by friends, and being blown off and ignored by everyone else. I know you probably hate me by now, if you’ve even managed to make it this far into my spiel. But as some other douchebag said (and I’m paraphrasing), “Don’t screw with me, if you have an opinion then fucking express it, unless you like being a bitch.” I don’t know who said something similar to that, maybe it was in a dream, or maybe I said it. The point is, the only reason you all get along so well in your safe little circle of pricks is because you’re all a bunch of liars. You tell each other what you think they want to hear with the occasional bit of honesty thrown in for good measure. Maybe you gossip about someone not around or sling the occasional insult. So when I come along and tell you what’s on my mind, your make believe is threatened and you get offended. So you say I’m an asshole. I don’t know if that means I really am an asshole, but what’s the use in denying it. You can try giving me all kinds of different situations that you think are proof against all this, but keep that shit to yourselves, I don’t have all the answers.
For the record, I am Bitter, but at least I’m honest, and I won’t be apologizing any time soon. These thoughts are to be continued, perhaps in a blog, or maybe in a story. I feel I may soon find my Satori.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
what i wrote in a bar
I visited where I used to work the other night. It was mostly empty, so I sat at the bar next to the only other guy there(at least, he was at first). And this is what I wrote while I was there.
-----
when you sit in
a memory from your past
seeing people and things
that haven’t been
a part of you for
well, quite some time
*insert life lesson here*
-----
he sits next to me
and
asks for things
he doesn’t want
quickly denying them
before his server can
make a
move
“it’s mucho grande’”
“I LIKE mucho grande’!”
what a booming yet
simple voice
i wonder if he has an
accent
can’t tell
must
pay
better
attention
-----
tonight was slow
gotta get out
gotta gotta
getget
the
F-, oh i’ve had enough
cursing for the time
being
being
being is easy
living is easy but
uncommon
-----
even us
underage folk
wander to bars when we’re
lost or
feeling down in ourselves
depressed
bitchy
etc.
-----
the ice in my drink
attacked me!
“Defend the last little bit!!!”
how rude
-----
click-on
light-up
pens
customers oh so
amazed
but confused
it only does it every
other
click
“oh look!
a light!”
laughter ensues
i’ll admit
i chuckled, it was funny
got a weird look though
i had revealed i was eavesdropping!
shit
guilty
“i was on TV once!”
yeah
okay
waving in the background of a commercial
doesn’t count
wait
it does?
damn
i wanna be
on TV
too
hey, can i
have your autograph?
laughter ensues
-----
-----
when you sit in
a memory from your past
seeing people and things
that haven’t been
a part of you for
well, quite some time
*insert life lesson here*
-----
he sits next to me
and
asks for things
he doesn’t want
quickly denying them
before his server can
make a
move
“it’s mucho grande’”
“I LIKE mucho grande’!”
what a booming yet
simple voice
i wonder if he has an
accent
can’t tell
must
pay
better
attention
-----
tonight was slow
gotta get out
gotta gotta
getget
the
F-, oh i’ve had enough
cursing for the time
being
being
being is easy
living is easy but
uncommon
-----
even us
underage folk
wander to bars when we’re
lost or
feeling down in ourselves
depressed
bitchy
etc.
-----
the ice in my drink
attacked me!
“Defend the last little bit!!!”
how rude
-----
click-on
light-up
pens
customers oh so
amazed
but confused
it only does it every
other
click
“oh look!
a light!”
laughter ensues
i’ll admit
i chuckled, it was funny
got a weird look though
i had revealed i was eavesdropping!
shit
guilty
“i was on TV once!”
yeah
okay
waving in the background of a commercial
doesn’t count
wait
it does?
damn
i wanna be
on TV
too
hey, can i
have your autograph?
laughter ensues
-----
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
"The Road is Life"
Kerouac is
like a breath of fresh air
stale to some
life to me
life
should be
a breath of
fresh air
fresh air that feeds the flowers
and speaking of
Flowers
thank you Ms.
Flowers
for the introduction
“There was nowhere to go but everywhere.”
-Jack Kerouac
like a breath of fresh air
stale to some
life to me
life
should be
a breath of
fresh air
fresh air that feeds the flowers
and speaking of
Flowers
thank you Ms.
Flowers
for the introduction
“There was nowhere to go but everywhere.”
-Jack Kerouac
Sunday, November 15, 2009
lovely footprints
love is a flowing thing
is a changing thing
is a slippery fucker
slipping right through my fingers
like your hair did while we lay together
and i whispered to you
whispers are all i hear now
floating through the air, from my past
making sure i am still enslaved
slave-driven by my un-Buddhist tendencies
i always mourn for things that i drop
shattering on the floor and cutting into my feet
“bare feet aren’t for traveling“ is what you said
but the earth feels good...till you step on a thorn
looking back i see i’ve left bloody footprints on the concrete
is a changing thing
is a slippery fucker
slipping right through my fingers
like your hair did while we lay together
and i whispered to you
whispers are all i hear now
floating through the air, from my past
making sure i am still enslaved
slave-driven by my un-Buddhist tendencies
i always mourn for things that i drop
shattering on the floor and cutting into my feet
“bare feet aren’t for traveling“ is what you said
but the earth feels good...till you step on a thorn
looking back i see i’ve left bloody footprints on the concrete
America-Allen Ginsberg
America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
Max after he came over from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of
marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable
private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour
and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
underprivileged who live in my flowerpots
under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my trophes are as
individual as his automobiles more so they're
all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a
handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and
sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-
cere you have no idea what a good thing the
party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand
old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me
cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody
must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
His big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us
all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in
the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and
psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
Max after he came over from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of
marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable
private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour
and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
underprivileged who live in my flowerpots
under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my trophes are as
individual as his automobiles more so they're
all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a
handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and
sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-
cere you have no idea what a good thing the
party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand
old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me
cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody
must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
His big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us
all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in
the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and
psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
wash me away, make me disappear
death draws ever
closer
while i remain right where
i’ve always been
and it all becomes
clear
i feel as if i see
all that matters
and the ocean
the ocean remains the same
spent life till now
combing the beaches
now i feel it’s time
to turn my path
to the waves
let the tide
wash me away
make me disappear
i descend from grace
in arms of undertow
i will take my place
in the Great Below
closer
while i remain right where
i’ve always been
and it all becomes
clear
i feel as if i see
all that matters
and the ocean
the ocean remains the same
spent life till now
combing the beaches
now i feel it’s time
to turn my path
to the waves
let the tide
wash me away
make me disappear
i descend from grace
in arms of undertow
i will take my place
in the Great Below
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
what is it
the more i read my poetry, the less i like it
i think i need a new thing
or maybe 5 line poems are what i do >_<
i think i need a new thing
or maybe 5 line poems are what i do >_<
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
as per usual
fucking figures, the “open mic” went awful, only the people hosting and participating stayed for the actual open mic...and i don’t do so well in front of small groups...i prefer crowds. but i wouldve done shitty either way, i wasn’t prepared, and this is only the second time i’ve gotten to do this in the 3 years i’ve been interested in and writing poetry.
it’s really fucking frustrating
i think poetry is just some stupid thing i wish i could do
time for a new hobby? :/
not like i’ve been doin it alot anyway
eh, who gives a fuck
and i just want to rant a little bit more about how fucking stupid the teachers are who give extra credit for only going for part of the time, way to reinforce that poetry is a thing older people do to bore the rest of us. (not that whats-her-name was bad, i enjoyed some of her stuff, but it wasn’t exactly engaging to listen to her read...not every poet is a performer, and not every performer is a poet >_< )
and also, just an idea...at a “school hosted” event, it might be a good idea to suggest that people avoid ordering huge fucking margaritas when a large portion of the attendees are underage...though I’d prob be singing a different tune if I weren’t underage XP
also, tuesday is prob a pretty shitty pick of a day for an event, especially one taking place late in the evening.
okay, done venting.
mostly i’m just pissed off about the lack of a crowd, and my idiocy in not preparing better *sigh*
it’s really fucking frustrating
i think poetry is just some stupid thing i wish i could do
time for a new hobby? :/
not like i’ve been doin it alot anyway
eh, who gives a fuck
and i just want to rant a little bit more about how fucking stupid the teachers are who give extra credit for only going for part of the time, way to reinforce that poetry is a thing older people do to bore the rest of us. (not that whats-her-name was bad, i enjoyed some of her stuff, but it wasn’t exactly engaging to listen to her read...not every poet is a performer, and not every performer is a poet >_< )
and also, just an idea...at a “school hosted” event, it might be a good idea to suggest that people avoid ordering huge fucking margaritas when a large portion of the attendees are underage...though I’d prob be singing a different tune if I weren’t underage XP
also, tuesday is prob a pretty shitty pick of a day for an event, especially one taking place late in the evening.
okay, done venting.
mostly i’m just pissed off about the lack of a crowd, and my idiocy in not preparing better *sigh*
Monday, November 9, 2009
[thisishowiwritethink.shout]
people tell me i write
strangely
so as is usually the common response from a
young not-quite-still-teenager
but
still-not-quite-adult
i feel the need to explain myself
first i start off with a thought
like
"i write poems how i think"
then i expand on that idea
with a
very similar statement
"if you could read my mind it would read like
one of my poems"
see what i do?
i use spacing
(when written)
and
tempo
(when spoken)
to emphasize the
important parts
i also add in
afterthoughts
those little bits in your head
that
most people don't say
well i say 'em
and i
write them
cause that's how i writethink
motherfucker
and then i over use
the word
Fuck!
and
Goddamn!
i like to
fucking
emphasize it
...
goddammit
...
cause thats how i fucking writethink
(andthereyoucansee
anexampleofhowiliketo
combine words into one)
and usually
when i write
i like to repeat myself
cause i like to think
it'll leave an impression
and usually
when i write
i like it to sound a little
angry
and usually
when i write
i'm
speaking it
in
my
head
and there you have it
folks
another thing i do
when i writethink
poems
i like
to
seperate
the
words
kind of
like
it's
a
drumroll
leading up to
something big
and then i let it down easy
sometimes
i get carried away
and i write too much
let me rephrase that
everytime i write
i get carried away
and i write too
much
but that's just how i writethink
and it's a shame if you're
reading
this
that you can't hear it
cause
there's nothin
to all these
goddamn words
the important part
is
in the way i
say it
cause it's been proven
only 10% percent of communication
is
what we say
the other
90%
consists of things
such as
body language
the tone of your voice
your
facial expressions
and sometimes
even
how you smell
but as per usual
i've gotten a bit off subject
so let me
apologize
and now i'm pretty sure you
know
...
this is how i
write
think
shout
strangely
so as is usually the common response from a
young not-quite-still-teenager
but
still-not-quite-adult
i feel the need to explain myself
first i start off with a thought
like
"i write poems how i think"
then i expand on that idea
with a
very similar statement
"if you could read my mind it would read like
one of my poems"
see what i do?
i use spacing
(when written)
and
tempo
(when spoken)
to emphasize the
important parts
i also add in
afterthoughts
those little bits in your head
that
most people don't say
well i say 'em
and i
write them
cause that's how i writethink
motherfucker
and then i over use
the word
Fuck!
and
Goddamn!
i like to
fucking
emphasize it
...
goddammit
...
cause thats how i fucking writethink
(andthereyoucansee
anexampleofhowiliketo
combine words into one)
and usually
when i write
i like to repeat myself
cause i like to think
it'll leave an impression
and usually
when i write
i like it to sound a little
angry
and usually
when i write
i'm
speaking it
in
my
head
and there you have it
folks
another thing i do
when i writethink
poems
i like
to
seperate
the
words
kind of
like
it's
a
drumroll
leading up to
something big
and then i let it down easy
sometimes
i get carried away
and i write too much
let me rephrase that
everytime i write
i get carried away
and i write too
much
but that's just how i writethink
and it's a shame if you're
reading
this
that you can't hear it
cause
there's nothin
to all these
goddamn words
the important part
is
in the way i
say it
cause it's been proven
only 10% percent of communication
is
what we say
the other
90%
consists of things
such as
body language
the tone of your voice
your
facial expressions
and sometimes
even
how you smell
but as per usual
i've gotten a bit off subject
so let me
apologize
and now i'm pretty sure you
know
...
this is how i
write
think
shout
[mutant_genius]
look out i warned you all the sky would
be dripping red paint and
kool aid
cause that's what happens you
motherfucker, when we choose to salute
that large man in the black robe with
the
big
shiny
scythe
fire your guns up into the sky
i told you its not safe to
fire your guns up into the sky
and now its
bleeding
precipitating
red rain
big bright blue is slain
and we're all going to
Hell
for it
i warned you
but you
wouldn't listen
to me
and why should you I'm just a
freak of nature
with a slightly
above average
intellect
i'm just a
just a
just
a
mutant
genius
with an enlarged cranial cavity
and enough fingers and toes
to count up and past forty three
so please please please
please, you
motherfuckers
listen to me cause I'm the one
who told you what would happen if you
did as you do
and wasn't i
right?
use those cannons to launch
fireworks and
plant flowers in your rifle barrels
lets make this a
great
big
celebration of
life
god dammit
i thought by now we'd all
be done with
bigotry and solving
issues with guns
yea that's right
fucker i got
issues with guns
and i don't wanna hear you
say shit about
my way of thinking
at least i ain't the one compensating with a
great big metal shaft
that erupts
with smoke and light and
more metal, who's only purpose is
to take from others that which you have no right
and
to make your devil's job easier
now he knows which of you to send straight to
Hell
you
i say it's
you
now get that thing
outta my face
don't think i'll submit and
fall to my knees just cause my
hands are open
it don't
mean
surrender, i'm just
tryin to show you a bit of
humility
and i'm the god damn mutant genius
the freak of nature with a slightly
above average
intellect
i'm just a
just a
just
a
mutant
genius
with an enlarged cranial cavity
and enough fingers and toes
to count up and past forty three
so i should know
and i know
be dripping red paint and
kool aid
cause that's what happens you
motherfucker, when we choose to salute
that large man in the black robe with
the
big
shiny
scythe
fire your guns up into the sky
i told you its not safe to
fire your guns up into the sky
and now its
bleeding
precipitating
red rain
big bright blue is slain
and we're all going to
Hell
for it
i warned you
but you
wouldn't listen
to me
and why should you I'm just a
freak of nature
with a slightly
above average
intellect
i'm just a
just a
just
a
mutant
genius
with an enlarged cranial cavity
and enough fingers and toes
to count up and past forty three
so please please please
please, you
motherfuckers
listen to me cause I'm the one
who told you what would happen if you
did as you do
and wasn't i
right?
use those cannons to launch
fireworks and
plant flowers in your rifle barrels
lets make this a
great
big
celebration of
life
god dammit
i thought by now we'd all
be done with
bigotry and solving
issues with guns
yea that's right
fucker i got
issues with guns
and i don't wanna hear you
say shit about
my way of thinking
at least i ain't the one compensating with a
great big metal shaft
that erupts
with smoke and light and
more metal, who's only purpose is
to take from others that which you have no right
and
to make your devil's job easier
now he knows which of you to send straight to
Hell
you
i say it's
you
now get that thing
outta my face
don't think i'll submit and
fall to my knees just cause my
hands are open
it don't
mean
surrender, i'm just
tryin to show you a bit of
humility
and i'm the god damn mutant genius
the freak of nature with a slightly
above average
intellect
i'm just a
just a
just
a
mutant
genius
with an enlarged cranial cavity
and enough fingers and toes
to count up and past forty three
so i should know
and i know
BURN_madly or An Ode to "On the Road"
i wish life was like
Dean Moriarty said it was
i could just
let
the wheel
go
come on
let’s go
out there
to the west
back
to the east
then back
to the west
rinse and
repeat
until fulfilled
then pump ourselves
full of
caffeine
and get it all down on a big old roll
of teletype paper
me and you
let’s sit
think
talk
share
fall in love
coffee?
the two of us
you and i
we never were
and so we are
perfect
oh but
surprise
we’re mad
you and i
good thing the only people for me
are the mad ones
who never say a common thing
now let’s all go burn
burn bright
crackling loudly
burn fast
crackling loudly
burn long
let’s all
go mad
and
burn out
Dean Moriarty said it was
i could just
let
the wheel
go
come on
let’s go
out there
to the west
back
to the east
then back
to the west
rinse and
repeat
until fulfilled
then pump ourselves
full of
caffeine
and get it all down on a big old roll
of teletype paper
me and you
let’s sit
think
talk
share
fall in love
coffee?
the two of us
you and i
we never were
and so we are
perfect
oh but
surprise
we’re mad
you and i
good thing the only people for me
are the mad ones
who never say a common thing
now let’s all go burn
burn bright
crackling loudly
burn fast
crackling loudly
burn long
let’s all
go mad
and
burn out
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Random assortment of bits of itty bitty poetry [work in progress]
our speech was like spontaneous combustion
unexpected and words tended to explode
into new ideas, hybrids of old ones
new ones entirely
"have you read On the Road?"
and suddenly we were on about
writing poetry and
drinking coffee
sounds perfect
----------
we go out in jeans and t-shirts
looking and being average
we get buried in no less than our nicest suit
not sure what that means
but it sounded important when i thought it
----------
i'm
tired
if you can't tell
i just slept all night
well that's what happens
when you sleep
----------
it is said
my ancestors danced
to bring rain
whether this is true
i do not know
----------
the two of us
you and i
we were never
and so we are
perfect
----------
i may be a fool
but i’m not your fool
and
you may not be a fool
but that doesn’t mean you’re not a bitch
----------
seduction isn’t love
that’s why i prefer to
woo
do
you
prefer
to
woo
too?
----------
stupid ideas
end up written down
and typed up
with words left out
now it’s poetry
----------
full minds prefer
mostly
empty
pages
----------
pretend this
is
exactly
whatever you need
and you wont have to call me
in the morning
but
tell me
how do you like your eggs?
----------
unexpected and words tended to explode
into new ideas, hybrids of old ones
new ones entirely
"have you read On the Road?"
and suddenly we were on about
writing poetry and
drinking coffee
sounds perfect
----------
we go out in jeans and t-shirts
looking and being average
we get buried in no less than our nicest suit
not sure what that means
but it sounded important when i thought it
----------
i'm
tired
if you can't tell
i just slept all night
well that's what happens
when you sleep
----------
it is said
my ancestors danced
to bring rain
whether this is true
i do not know
----------
the two of us
you and i
we were never
and so we are
perfect
----------
i may be a fool
but i’m not your fool
and
you may not be a fool
but that doesn’t mean you’re not a bitch
----------
seduction isn’t love
that’s why i prefer to
woo
do
you
prefer
to
woo
too?
----------
stupid ideas
end up written down
and typed up
with words left out
now it’s poetry
----------
full minds prefer
mostly
empty
pages
----------
pretend this
is
exactly
whatever you need
and you wont have to call me
in the morning
but
tell me
how do you like your eggs?
----------
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
E-Social
Though my social life has been sucking pretty bad lately, my interactions on internet social media (ie, Twitter and Simler, facebook not so much because i know all those people and that seems to give them the excuse to ignore me online) have been rather interesting and fun. Good interactions on Twitter again after a long dry spell, and Simler gets better everyday. Social media relies on the people involved, and between Facebook and Simler, the people on Simler seem to be genuinely friendlier and more interested in interacting with people. Facebook is just like having a cell phone, something people seem to think they need to have but shouldn’t use unless it’s the end of the world.
Facebook=narcissist heaven
And this is why:
On Facebook we take quizzes, update our profiles, and upload pics of ourselves...and those are the most popular activities on FB...not actually interacting. Sure FB Chat is popular, but it sucks. If people really wanted to interact in a chat environment we’d all upload our AIM SN (or whatever chat client you use) to FB and all talk somewhere more reliable XP So really, FB is more like anti-social media. Even all this sharing of youtube videos and whatnot is just us saying “look! I have good taste in shit! agree with me!”
But I digress
I was gonna go into details of all the great interactions I’ve had on Twitter and Simler lately, but howbout you join up and see for yourself :P It’s been so great on Simler that it makes me want to move out west where alot of people on there are from XP
Facebook=narcissist heaven
And this is why:
On Facebook we take quizzes, update our profiles, and upload pics of ourselves...and those are the most popular activities on FB...not actually interacting. Sure FB Chat is popular, but it sucks. If people really wanted to interact in a chat environment we’d all upload our AIM SN (or whatever chat client you use) to FB and all talk somewhere more reliable XP So really, FB is more like anti-social media. Even all this sharing of youtube videos and whatnot is just us saying “look! I have good taste in shit! agree with me!”
But I digress
I was gonna go into details of all the great interactions I’ve had on Twitter and Simler lately, but howbout you join up and see for yourself :P It’s been so great on Simler that it makes me want to move out west where alot of people on there are from XP
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
in a rut
haven’t been posting, or writing, or doing much of anything...i’m in a rut and can’t seem to find a way out
ugh
ugh
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)