Unanswered Questions

Balancing the ideas of the beautiful life of freedom with the realities they sell. Intelligence cannot even fight against that. Why does it fail so often? It is talked up so fucking much. As we run frantically in that direction we need to wonder periodically. Where is the ending point? When did I forget what would be considered the beginning moment? Is life supposed to seem like war? Am I now only fighting a defensive war? Is this really the best thing for me? Or is it the best thing for the world? One less fucking nut job in there eyes. Good we could hold him back that easy. Bitch I ain’t being held back. I am just waiting till you die so I can fucking go on with my business in fucking peace. The real kind of peace. The one where you get old and gorgeous in your decay. Not becoming a pathetic and addicted corpse walking like you have some sort of importance. That’s a goal if I could ever decipher one from these delusional ramblings.

Emptiness and Entrance

Here lies enough thoughts to subdue the times when I am dead… If there was a distinction between distraction and novelty, would there be gaps in novelty? The silence of indemnity lies in the self awareness of the ruined ones to take points up with aggressors in aggressive manners. When I see the light, am I dead or is it just the fluorescent light above my cubicle? I am becoming a story I wrote when I was young. When I was younger I was the stories I write now. But then or in the midst of my imagination now I was just doing what I wanted without past, present or future glaring at me so definitely. Saying good morning sarcastically. Not content with the movements of functioning in the fantasy world or lying lights. I need just a tad more then this. There may be a place for me yet. I remember certain slogans from times past. As they echo down my path into that exact story I hated reading in the commonness and familiarity of the plot. Sad to see dreams ending as a common lyrical theme of crooning. Obviously I am making fun of Bruce Springsteen. Its no ones fault though. Right? Life comes at you quick. Then fucking swing back when it attacks you. Or at least choose the ground where this battle is going to be fought.

Dead Tired...Tired Dead

They are moments when you realize what you once thought was a problem is actually a problem. Prior to that you believed otherwise. Convincing yourself that if you moved fast enough it would all go away. But that was then and this was now in the midst of the issue. The problem has come to light. The recent events. The seemingly random nature of the end of time. It is seeming to become less random. It starts to take the shape of a war. Where are those other moments? Lost like mine? Really? That hatred died in banal motions?

Gleaming Hatred Glistening In Defiance

It is with heavy regret we deem your teeming worthlessness to be the perfect medium for self destruction. The anger co-opted will fuel many false fires. Nip it in the bud. Keep it petty. Make life somewhat easy enough that doing seems an unrealistic option. I am just not entertained enough for their shit. But here I am sitting pretty. Pats on the back. Money substitutes for love or camaraderie so I look to the shelves and aisles under the fluorescent lights. The golden age of commerce. Options! Wow! The thrall and thrill is only a pull in my present slavery. Give me more then two days and I start to break. The things you can do. The things you can’t do. The artist with no art. And no desire. Its that inner flanuer telling me just walk. Walk. Deem distance to be a worthless chump. Its like that story with the piece of string. Time is what you make it. Then the criticism comes in by the thousands with petty whatevers. What can you expect from a society that deems violent trappings to be the king. But what can I say I am listening to satanic propaganda with an objective ear. Or maybe not.

Castigate With Corpse-Like Coldness

Missing from the scope of the narrative was that moment when you just wanted to understand. But the unforgiving nature of concrete held your breath at a distance from you. Try to bring it nearer and you would fail. That they say is the sanctity of sanity.

Outward looking from the windows of the train. The pieces of the dusk slowly form in the space between the trees. The space between all the supposedly unity of matter. That wonderless uselessness. Best raped with the extreme nature of movement itself. The defiling of the surroundings. It is weak and it must perish. The listlessness of the its stagnant nature. The dusk can set the forest on fire. If you unfocused your eyes enough. Hell if I died enough it would make things out of focus.

Poughkeepsie New York My Ancestral Homeland

If one fails to break into their past, does that make them a failure? It was a day late in May you cannot expect much from me. The memories came out of the years of dimness. It was the piercing strength of being here again that broke through the fog of years of bludgeoning my brain in to subservience. Births like wasp stings in the eye. Confusion and a new way of seeing. Human life measured in a scale that does not suit its lengths and purposes. Always that goddamn pointlessness punctuated with semi less pointless movements. Memories... now that is the layman's term. We are the peasants of the future. They gussied up the hovels a little bit. Replaced the livestock with pets and the gruel with breakfast cereal. Five hundred years ago they promised us the flying car. We waited out the whole fucking industrial revolution for this. Fucking fraud ass magicians. I'm supposedly to be impressed with this? Just five hundred more years of rules, regulations and gadgetry laid upon us savages. Lying naked in our hovels. Serfs then and serfs now. All they did was fixed up the joint. And at the expense of what? I want to lie naked in my hovel and fuck to stay warm in the winter. But then again I am a man of finer tastes.

The Shores of Western Civilization

In demystifying the validity of the exorbitance of empty space we set souls less fortunate up for suicide. But here in our fortune we can understand the vast filler. The buffer between blood and air called culture. The taming motion. The lulling to sleep. Seamless as dreamless nights. Dripping with the thought that there will be a moment of anticipation worse then moments spent anticipating. It is the mere existence of fact that denies the valid. The rarefied belief in the march away. To the climax of existence. Existing in the valid is a waste. The persistence of belief. The stain of reality plastered to my retina each morning as I open my eyes. The failure to see beyond. Weighing hard on my soul. Not just yearning for moments of brief breakthrough but for a whole life lived there. Present in the present.

If we forget the past then hopefully the future it created will forget us. Let us alone. Scurrying silently in the shadows of the night. The world of walkabouts on macadam. Dandy in our informality. Toughness over style. A violent society best expressed in a sneer, but found in many forms at the base of it all. Its enough to lose faith and just be entranced by the baubles. I see happy. I see whatever they need me to feel. Lately though all I feel is whatever they needed me to see. Needs are not like visions. Visions need. Needs do not have vision.

City of Dreams

My melancholy city.

Even sad in the sun.

Sliding slowly into obsolescence.

Dying in the mud.