an earmark; stay tuned

 

indistinguishable
  -or-
complexity aside

 

 

a pothole in the road, another knot in the noose; swerve. that is in the context of how a

narrative is 'proverbially' tied together, the punctuation up to the author's discretion.

say, how bout that december? 1 to remember, i reckon; swerve. a loop only closes when god

(or the fates, if greek mythology is your bag) cuts the timeline. this exists in a

vacuum, a space devoid of air; therfore an art in nonsense, swallowed by time. it exists

in the 4th dimension, future readers; swerve.

burn retinas after reading

sharp objects
  -or-
practicing police

it was a cold, overcast day; tryptical. i met this guy, neal wiley, who had come to my

attention as a possible suspect/lead in the home invasion that i had been hired to

investigate. he seemed tense, and jittery, like a coffee spiked w/ adrenaline, but i've

dealt w/ that before: that's why i recognize the behavior. i make small talk, commenting

on the reports of multiple stabbings in the area; it's a slight gamble to see how he

reacts to unpleasant news and also hints at his current level of awareness about current

events. in other words, i'm looking for a tell.

                                                    ^

as we talk, we split pitchers of beer, the only item on the menu that interested either

of us. i could tell he was troubled and take great care to study all of his mannerisms,

even try to decipher his mutterings. that's the thing though: he seemed disturbed (not

mentally) by something, but as far as i could tell (after maybe 3 (4?) rounds), he simply

knows something he'd rather forget. this guy didn't commit the crime, but he most

certainly has info connected to it.

                                                    ^

outside looks like it's getting brutal, so i up the ante: 2 maker's, neat. my companion

doesn't mark a word of dissidence. the drinks arrive and i continue to make small talk,

asking about the west end (where the crime was committed) and such, subtly memorizing

his alibis. finally he slipped, remarked about a frame-up he was ashamed to have

partaken/assisted w/; it involved some girl named jackie, which left my trail cold: i'm

investigating something deeper.

the daily puzzle

 

 asylum of horror
  -or-
stadia of concern

 

 

 

out of the cornea, i rose from my stool, spit a mixture of blood and water into a bucket,

and stood, cross-eyed but beset w/ a singular, ocular goal. the fight would continue, but

i would now employ unconventional tactics. it may be (sleight) of diction, a cross-

section of modern linguistics; it will be a bout that continues, old-fashioned, for

countless rounds. until crowned w/ reknown, i will rinse and repeat; i'm a lexiconal

lifer.

Ignoring acrophobia, for awhile

12.26.1999
  -or-
anti-ignominy


it's my jewish girlfriend's birthday. the fact that she is jewish is technically
irrelevant, but contextually it frames the un-importance of christmas the
day before.
besides, like i noted, it was post-christmas anyway. a beautiful girl, i'm
destined to
fuck it up, but before i can fully do that, we celebrate her birth, ironically
allowing
me to fuck it up in the first place/future. i believe i give her a necklace and
matching
earrings set w/ her birthstone. i think december is violet but i could be
wrong, it has
been awhile.

anyway, w/ the new year, and once again not technically, a new
millennium on the horizon,
i have invited some friends to visit her and her family in the hoosier state
w/ me. these
guys are the type of guys i feel will be life-long friends and both fiercely
intellectual. i delight that everyone, including my gf's family seem to hit it off and
get along rather well. i believe we go (indoor) rock climbing, something
one of my
friends would pursue a bit more seriously after this introduction, and all
have a good
time. afterwards, we carouse and (redundantly) drink, generally having
fun. this would be
the last and only time this combination of people would ever com(m)ingle,
but i still
remember the delight at being its nexus.

and this too shall pass

a double-down clique
  -or-
future endeavors

i sleigh down an imagined chimney, but words are magic, and i work in ways not seen since

earvin borrowed my nickname. a companion in search of meaning, threads woven through

different realities: it's a doctor of british fame. disparate but connected, rudolph

maybe (definitely) a metaphor for my message, a messiah complex surrounded by magic and

it's iterant surrealism.

^

i arrive in a blue box, labeled anachronistically as a police way station (or telephone

booth); an unconventional conductor. drawn and quartered, my missions always seem to

involve subterfuge and sex, also known, i think, as the 'seductive santa.' unfortunately,

everyday is not a holiday.

^

awash in unconvention, i notice my pole is melting; i need a good lawyer (or secret

agent) to combat this problem. violently, my mind wanders in quick succession of

questions: can i trust that girl, which weapon would i choose to use in a confrontation,

and maybe most importantly, can i continue to perpetuate this indiscretion? who knows...

miles to go before i sleep

imagined dream entry
  -or-
redundancy espoused

woke in close quarters, a tight spot to be sure. my head of fog and egg-nog, a hangover

of holiday intent. this confusion, rather oddly, did not discomfit me; it was actually

reassuring, like a womb. btw, i'm not claustrophobic, probably the antithesis of that, so

i had that going for me. once i figured out the exit, i saw i had been isolated from the

others; i was quarantined.

^

bunched in a bowl/ball, clutching my knees to chest, and i started counting...  i counted

until my head ached.

^

i was in the 'cube' and that movie reminded me of a hong-barco, a fading moment of

nostalgia; then i awoke again, feeling far from refreshed, but needing to fervently piss.


[12.24.12]

i just can't resist

looper
  -or-
seppuku

i kill myself all the same damn time: be it depressive, be it alcohol, be it an innate

belief in my invincibiliity. i sip from a molotov cocktail of metaphor and reality. it's

the eve of my own discontent, at the same damned time. scrooged, i flip a dickens and

wonder if it's going to really be a wonderful christmas...my bet is i won't back down and

my beliefs will continually collide, at the same damn time; clocked by death will be simultaneous w/

the same damn timing.

always on lockdown

double tap to the dome
  -or-
speared out a window

spy-hole man: an actual character, in a ridiculous movie. his role could have been short

-strawed, an extra in a violent motion-picture, destined to die. a ray of defiance could

be detected beneath the vitriol non-verbally conveyed; it was a chore for the director to

get the boat back ashore; it needed a consensus, something like a poll.

                                *

at port: the more religious contingent grouped in (many believe) a non-denominational

show of solitude; a vigil of sorts. the tragedy really was the lapse that had begun. it

was a slow burn, kinda liking watching things through a tiny aperture.

                                *

Balconies make one reflective...

Running laps w/ volleyball players seems restrictive...

Alligators can be a hazard, says the dukes of perspective...

I reconcile that this is all relative.

can't stop, won't stop:

 

free-form deluge
  -or-
parsing the water

 

 

word is the man had run into trouble, like as in something that swallows you whole, type

trouble. swooning, the man rested on the ropes; it was a proverbial heavy-weight bout.

but the man is word, and that is 'mad.' left hook, woman's anger, right uppercut, woman's

strength, body blow, woman's right to choose, body blow, woman's resilience, right cross,

woman's defiance, straight shot to the jaw, the man slowly topples, a vestige of previous

privilege. the man had met his match, but contrary to earlier reports, it turned out not

to be trouble, but a boon. an arena of diffidence had evaporated in the mist, and the man

vowed no more cowardice or prejudice; the man delighted amongst his brethren.

can't extinguish

 

a patron of mirrors
  -or-
forrest, tunnels, everywhere

 

petticoats and trenchcoats, all a slice of style. maybe you can tell me what's the

fashion. brooklyn by night, backhanded by day. conspiratioly (sic) speaking, it confounds

me. how can irony exist by the neighborhood, the local shop, the fact its meaning is lost

in all this inter-conectivity. it's concave, not convex; a lesson plato once taught as

philosophical, and ironically, not facing the book of implications it surmised, presumed,

and (silently) predicted, in broad daylight.

cause i'm fire

continued semantics

  -or-

addendums

 

So, of course you’re in this quad-dimensional cube where if you go In one door, you’re not only in a different room but also in a different time; pretzely.  However, after acclimating one’s self to said complex environs, one realizes the potential.  One door may lead to some phantasmagoric orgy at the former ‘orange’ bowl; another could lead to a surreptitious eavesdropping in a phantom bar.  The point, as king Friday would make in typical puppet fashion, is to navigate this magical kingdom, sensitivities be damned; a coda for infinity and its manifestations, which are many, in case you were still confused by the door you just entered.

completely appropriate

 

inexactitudes
  -or-
jesus spares

 

 

 

rolling down the lane
  a room/life tied together
near trajectory

thematically, appropriate

 

textual scolding
  -or-
new criticism

 

 

 

how we interpret those things we encounter; how they form a mold that manifests into

beliefs; journals are unreliable.

 

chronicles of the life we believe we lead -or- a sordid affair of divorcing reality from

fiction; questions for another day; debalitating concerns.

 

is the intent of a writer something that needs to be discerned; cause the chorus seems to

attune to the right melody; call it harmony.

rebuttal, appropriate:

 

triptych x 2
  -or-
retro grievances

 

 

 

i might not have excelled at designing buildings, but i know i have a deft gift for

crafting narratives. it may be a dark art, a bleak house, something condemned as dangerous.

it remains squirrely.

 

 ^

 

flew into mccarran, a branding the mac donalds missed securing, although the fact that

it's named after an actual human being, and despite it being las vegas, the idea may seem

crass. very bi-polar.

 

 ^

 

awaiting a fraction of an elephantine answer, i remain on hold, listening to weird rap.

the one snippet i can place is kanye's 'gold digger,' which, strangly enough, triggers a

rumination on the standards and practices, regarding the word, and/or derivations of,

'retard.' a strange association

insight, heightened

 thought industry
  -or-
mesh center

bayou amongst the bombast
  a collection of trash
cajun in collapse 
  a not so fast
three to hash
  relapse
natch

                     
                        *

 

a countdown always seem to loom, a knowledgeable shortening of one's life, two breaths at

a time. in many ways, it should be excruciating; an infallible observation of your own

ontology. 3 to smash.

                    
                        *

for difficult times, people collected beliefs; it was a quagmire, near catastrophe of

dead, and redundant, epitaphs, all forming a pentagram of broken paragraphs. a relentless

'six' pursued the word, flooded w/ confusion but buoyed by certain recollections; there

was 7 yachts in that complex collation, gassed and ready to go, ready to

collapse/contrast.

[12.16.2012]

a december to remember

 dancing w/ demons
  -or-
a crystal method

drank some absinthe and before i knew it i travelled 6 hours into the future. a fractured

semblance of reality had occurred, a fact i only realized in the abstract conclusions

that i had been moving along w/ actual time, and presumably, space. here's the

interesting aspect: i had already been getting wasted on regular booze and
weed when an

aquaintance offered to kick it up a notch, and me being me, agreed before the
question

was barely uttered. now, i had tried the green dragon once before, but that was
in

amsterdam, and knowing it's illegal here in the states, i foolishly believed this
was

going to be some cheap knock-off. well, heated spoons and sugar cubes soon
alleviated

that fear and my head was a block that had, well, been knocked-off.

there's a reason some people refer to me as the black-box-recorder and i think it

originated here. after ungodly amounts of mind-alterating drugs and liquids, i still

stood, some 7 hours later, closing out a game of beirut. not to exaggerate, but it made

even the toughest of rugby players to declare that i may have a preternatural disposition

for ingesting disparate chemicals. it felt like some sort of validation, a triumph, but

it was just a mirage; waking the next day, i had to confirm my ephemeral memory and it

turned out to be even more intense. like, hours of behavior that made my intoxication

somewhat folklore. it was literally a waking dream, an experience that only lasts for an

afternoon, and probably not meaning any more.

i think i saw three eagles flapping smoke signals into the sky; i shrugged at the

recollection and just chalked it up a pre-cortex warning that something was awry.

divided we fall...forward

a century's rhyme
 -or-
BV-PAR-W

it got a lil heady, i'm not gonna lie. there were misdirections, indiscretions,

recriminations...basically a lot of 'tions' pronounced as 'shuns;' huh, imitation.

                             *

  

per a sequin, i got bedazzled; it was a visual lie. there were questions, but fellating

those suggestions, like uncertain capitalizations, revealed a ribald consideration: a

limitation.

                             *

all wildly theoretical, of course; simply a submission.

revelations 18:2

a mar-a-SKEE-no cherry
  -or-
garnish the details

true story: i dropped out of architecture school. now, i didn't drop completely out
of

college, but simply my pre-ordained major and the particular school's specific

curriculum. i was embarrassingly overwhelmed and over-worked, both excuses
to the simple

fact that pervaded my fragile ego: i wasn't really talented in the field of
architecture.

it was a dream that had persisted for years and a disappointment; much like
axel rose's

'chinese democracry.'

forked in the road, both figuratively and literally, i retreated to a simple base. it
was

a joke that magically i could re-invent myself under the guise of eloquence,
when that

wasn't really the issue. a forked tongue, however, convinced everyone to believe

differently. the punch-line wasn't funny like ha-ha, it was paralyzing like uh-oh.

eventually, driving to a party, i hit some black ice and couldn't control my skid. i
hit

a snowbank and thought to myself, "what the hell am i doing in texas?"

two for one, baby; two for one

 whiskey-tango-foxtrot
  -or-
red-light-district

so regretful, the man exits the bar. as far as those regrets go: well it's a lethal mix of
a blurred memory and a bloody mary. it's as if someone scooped his brain out, but his
heart was still ticking. mistakes aside, he knew time was breathing down his neck;
unfortunately, he had stumbled into the a.m., daybreak to be precise, and it was already
way too bright.
the man stumbles along, formulating a plan, seussian style; while he vomits in an alley,
a mirage appears, sparking the man to commit to a weak smile; a contract with others,
endless lovers, safe behind covers, translucent in all colors, not fraudulent to unknown
formulas, the man wakes in a bed of flowers.
reverse-engineering the previous evening's events, the man realized he had also ingested
some strange pills from, of course, a stranger. he seemed to recollect it was an elderly
woman, which made him both aroused and confused. the man sits on a comfortable chair and
contemplates why he felt so much regret; he thinks it could have been some words he said,
but probably, he just played un(t)o and cheated death.

in regards:

a play for many
  -or-
sired in obsolescence

raised by run dmc, i just got an adrenaline that runs demerit critic, a therapy by

osmosis in clemency. but those guys did steal, sample, displace expectations, regardless

of their ethnicity or elicit activities; it was michael stealing a byte, he just pa$$ed a

buck.

i had a dream and it was all black, everything; yet i bit that frome lupe, a rapper w/

unconventional beliefs, a libertarian of sorts, and maybe kinda w(ron)g. i seem to pump

blood from belabored veins, a coal miner in modern times: it's a convention i can't quite

quit.

lapsed as a catholic, i still bleed notre dame; i still drive 75 and believe more than

any rational being should. it could just be the ray on the golden dome we all need.

totally contextually irreverant:

if memory serves
  -or-
[represses]

gentelmen's game, so i'm told, but i prefer putt-putt; more nuance, less science, less

agony, more proletariat. i got a crank call from a paul that said he slayed all the

extreme views; it was a green party, indeed.

i once rudely interrupted another party, a max faux pas, cause it was for those

identitified as special; but i bluffed my way in, and the rest was a mix of justification

and trepidation. it was a frisbee in my head, only, i wondered if this is par for the

course?

parse the third or fourth hole in the map, and it confuses the player; start at first

base, steal second, get an assist to third, pray for help to come home; this seems like a

rbi, but its simply prose already screed.

huh, well here goes:

blaque plague
  -or-
wired tar

no, it wasn't just fiction when i conscribed my dreams; they were legit-i-mentally fucked

up and dark.

                                          *

no, i don't think i'm outclassed or do not belong in 'school,' however, i did think

someone was giving me shit about my credentials. i simply stared to show my intensity and

realized it may appear as in-asinine-nity.

                                          *

no, that wasn't me present in those documents. i was referred to as 'the smoking man,'

something that carried a certain cache and part past prestige/pastiche. what was omitted

was my commitment to doing a jive to everyone's turkey; i was mis-labeled and actually

was the, referred by most in the know, 'perpetual blight,'

interesting; here's my take

east side, right on time
  -or-
wipe and elide

asked chuck if he wanted to jam at the blu-hill, but he seemed non-commital. i told him a

free-form session may rejuvanate both of us, but his eyes beamed skeptical. broke it down

in free-verse and that's when he got down-right septical, practically pointing towards

the bathroom and what may await my presumptuous ass. it was slightly humbling.

after drowning my sorrows in spirits i dreamt, and, and...it wasn't pretty. i saw a

horror film on par w/ 'the hills have eyes' and 'hostel' and it was grotesque enough to

remain w/ me hours after waking. the gist for anyone that bears to read this: a mutant

family has bought a house in the suburbs and recruited certain 'normal-looking'

surrogates to scout and capture victims. i am one of these victims pulled into a garage,

w/ other friends for an ostensible 'party.' knives are shown, people i know are ravaged,

yet i make it out and race to a nearby train-station. i get the cops involved but they

are soon taken over, but the violence leaves the house silent, to which, much to my

mind's chagrin, decide to go in and investigate. inside i find (of course) a secret

tunnel that leads to the actual mutant family and reveals the largesse of their grisly

scale. the end is somewhat cluttered, since i feel both emotions of a violent escape and

violent death; i'm not sure which woke me.

asleep again, different dream. i'm on some sort of camp/group outing and not getting

along w/ anyone; i feel weirdly disoriented, even for a dream, as i sense there's

something i'm missing, something vital to my interactions w/ other dream characters.

somehow, this evolves to me and a few others trying to bond by going bowling. it's not

going well until i notice a bar and think 'white russian.' unfortunately the dream

follows real-life logic by jumping to the next morning where i can't get my bearings and

am repeatedly told i did some dick things the night before, none of which i can remember.

hazily the dream proceeds to flash from me being late to a brunch to a fevered search for

my cabin and belongings to a weird challenge of deep-sea diving that concludes in both

excitement and terror; once again i wake.

semblance is a challenge,
meaning forged in crystallized
sands

intent is inscrutable,
just a text by written
hands

coherence always a problem,
seeming like requisite
plans

took me a bit, but i think this suffices:

those autodidacts
  -or-
construing constructs

 

 

 

it may seem bold to be pornographic, even artsy-fartsy, but rarely enlightening; 

the

style, though: it's all about the style. disguise a desire in the realm of a dream, 

deny

an accountability, say it was simply a description, guide a guise of tempered 

steam.

hazy, a liability, this approach would seem; talking like yoda, let's do some yoga, 

while

the gimmick still has meaning: relax and breathe. perceived as tantrums or 

logical

extremes? the question begs a logic beyond an 'awakening'; pursuant class 

action lawsuit

between sticks v. the game. it's a dorm of hallows, a grouping of shadows: the 

naked lust

that wallowed.