nothingness consciousness.

there are many lights

some flicker and perturb

others shine brightly and sting the eye

and most comfortable are of dead light

black and soothing; quiet and dumb

the end and only possibility of every lantern

is to be spent and comforting 

pleasurable to the eyes

as it dims 

and silently departs 

falling absent and dark

come

shadowed memories and dead light

nobody will care about it

shades drawn

doors closed

the propping of bedroom tents

rising and falling

up and down

it's all gone and forgotten 

you are gone and forgotten

illuminated in dead light.

re: people floating around in soup

piano keys

shimmering

running into one another

in accidental harmony

limbs like piano keys

they play themselves

accidentally and beautifully

ascending and descending

colliding and parting

the tides and seas that we are

tethered 

but intentioned

brave

but accidental

i don't want it, but ill still pay.

indebted forever and forever.

hair slicked in sentiment,

carrying lovely words,

expensive - and i will pay

over and over again.

running through corridors together,

i will pay.

sitting in beautiful flowers,

i will always pay.

hand in hand,

i will pay.

life.

damn. carl don't speak. shit. walking, walking, walking. up, down. carl. keep walking. may i speak? no. why? keep walking walking walking. damn damn damn. shit. sir? no. i didn't say so. keep walking with me. carl? i wish that engine would explode. he would die though. ok. damn it, carl. splattered on the pavement, we'd slip and slide like on ice. i want to skate like i did when i was young. i can't. all this human friction makes it impossible. it's so hot. everyday, everyday, suffer, suffer, useless. is this right? i wish this bus would explode. carl? what. no. stop. i'm hanging on to the bar. i'll be off and bored soon. dead. carl. oh, thoughts arrest us. indiscriminately, without warning, we are.

new york city.

sullen eyes,
i disguise.
unsightly,
am i.
all fear to be by my side.
my subterranean life.
piled up metal and stone,
skin flesh and bones.
through cavernous streets,
i'd roam.
our insufferable city moans.
all hide lies behind eyes.

50 years or so.

fear.

it's when the sunlight dips and drips

down the backside of the mountain.

undulating rays, 

descending with precocious curiosity.

all drenched in sun. all of it

can see me.

naked, luminous.

glistening and empty,

like a sinking ship.

my empty, desperate utterances,

"dear, i love you".

swept up in twirling canes'

into the heavens, forever

and ever. amen

tie tied tight, sweat carving trails

down my face

worn and wrinkled,

eyelids blanket my eyes, with

the promise of eternal happiness.

sleep.

rapid bliss, glutinous animals.

bad tv.

buzz, buzz.

the ship still sinking, mastless

and still naked,

forever and ever,

amen.

incuria adamo.

(after, words).

lights spent.

all naked.

mouth dry.

unseen.

restful sediment.

for good living.

lights are burning, circling round the bay. from space it's all the same, innocuous and small. the parties, the beer stained floors, the slurred, misdirected words, and myself, solitary and slain on a couch. the lights are pretty and circle the bay, from space all the same. one speck. the one reason i don't fully hate myself. blip. the houses, the roads, the dogs, the people, the grass. all the same. i still can't get up. i'm drowned on the inside and weigh too much. all my insides floating, weightless - my solar system. i cannot speak. all my friends, lost or still fooled, stand as one, nothing. still, all the same. people walking moving speaking dying, all the same, from space. one speck. one life, innocuous and small. 

he is lingua franca.

he sits as a statue in a chair, set like cement, with his eyes and mouth poking through, still living. eyes smile ecstatic, endlessly and his mouth rests beneath, mimicking their movements. he sits fearless in the eyes of ghosts and apparitions, with no words just courageously glittering eyes, endlessly. staring through the being of demons, made ashes and memories soon to be forgotten. sitting with a delicate imperiousness, he is a good and feared king. his voice a furiously unrelenting battalion, an effortless roar, the lingua franca. hair wiry, sparse, spanning the width of his head like seven silver arches standing forever. he is old, face sunken and body withered. he is weak and he is strong. stronger everyday and everyday closer.   

twelve smoke clouds.

I could never hear anything.

            It was around two o’clock, and I had squandered much of the day reading and thinking, so, I hopped on a bus. The 13. An accordion bus that at all times of the day was stuffed with people looking for their escape. I hadn’t a car and I liked the bus, it was peaceful in some strange way, the only way i was nowhere and nobody, just in transit. 

all is peaceful when you can’t hear. 

The bus slowly lurched forward as the hustle and bustle of the urban landscape fell quietly sparse, into the burbs and acceptable nakedness. I didn’t know where I was going, I never did, I just went, with childlike intent and amusement, 

                  forward, 

                               forward, 

                                           onward. 

Finally, the city was silenced by the space between, made a distant infallible echo, but still ringing in my ears. The 13 made its last stop and I followed all the sullen faces off the bus. The suburbs were terrible, always the end of my nothingness, and every second lead me to question my being here. All the houses stood on one another, reaching for the sky and the smoke clouds, like all the people living in them, stepping on each other, looking for the sky. I hated them. I despised their unconscious weekends and their petulantly wetted lips. They rode the bus holding bottles and cell phones. I didn’t like alcohol. it was the mother of monsters - hideous, reproachable beings.

 Everyday, the cycle would persist, the 13 slithered through concrete jungle to abject unconsciousness, and I rode it with them. The 13 became real, because everyone has to shut up and die. It was the path to self made fucking greatness, and i could hear all of it. Finally, I could hear all it’s agonizingly wretched noises. I could hear everything.

suffocating in twelve smoke clouds.  

lost and found in death.

I'm at the amusement park, it's raining and the words are slithering off the page. trying to escape somewhere. Sitting and watching all the people strolling by, all lost in life, hair flowing and eyes dancing. I am lost and found in death.  I fear it, and am apologetic in it's eyes, slobbering and begging. the end of every man. The amusement park - the place I can never get lost in - no shadow is too concealing, each corner begs for light. In death, I am lost and found. The coaster dips and dives. these playful death traps and screaming humanity. I am so alive and fear death. God, I fear death and my humanity. The coaster is alive too, laughing at me in the face. Making my insides feel like a can of soup, on a truck-ack, to be sorted, to face death. Unsettled and restless, I am and will be - for a while. A can of soup, a man afraid like the rest, riding a roller coaster. Watching all the people walk by, all lost in life.

the man on the bus.

the man on the bus is curled up in the back corner. we have never met, but i know him well. i've stared into his dark, sullen eyes, like a starless urban sky - blind and vacant. his alcohol breath sways, crashin' into me like waves, putting me to pieces and sweeping me up after breakfast. he has no words. i have no words. we are two strangers riding a crowded city bus together - our wayward glances colliding and the smell of piss permeating, becoming our sacred aroma. human static buzzin' in our ears, all the same, consistent and long as the engine hum. riding on the bus - our makeshift, reluctant communion - taking all the people to their places, our separate nests, our private colonies. the man on the bus is in my eyes, shriveled up in the corner, like the flowers on my kitchen table.

going to mexico and nowhere.

how the morning lets my hatred go,

up and down,

to and fro - like restless ghosts.

frantically fanatical,

"ugh large one"

as blood runs dry.

god, i don't give a shit.

at a time when i don't give a shit,

breeding

unabashed and reckless disregard and

feeling so happy they're getting back on their bus.

floating blissful in unconsciousness,

like babies in a cradle,

cries immutable:

love, simple pleasures, and vomit shit stained shirt.

going back to mexico and nowhere.

douglas coupland.

trend bar outlet franchise lifestyle,

faceless fabric,

sucking on chicken wire legs,

like self righteous, sheepish leeches,

patronizing the dispersed central (us) america,

and liberating aliens,

escaping other planets;

places I'd tried to fall into

and out of 

time.

"they're simple and fit well"

he said,

he felt,

strongly.

i felt nothing.

"i want the exotic raspberry,"

a hippie vegan booster juice trickery,

mainstream subculture,

selling to the dark.

"ridiculous"

he said,

he felt.

"yes, quite, very." 

la creme.

PLEASE LINE UP HERE

I'm Working.

It's hot.

waiting in the queue,

and balding.

stop bleeding.

eating, aging and shitting,

change sifting, stop staring, 

start working.

eyes burn heavy.

speak,

don't talk, 

assemble,

resemble,

(manifesto)

beeping,

stop again.

safe tomatoes.

email apocalypse.

i won't send this, and you will never see it. it's been months of perpetual loss, intentional loss. i'm trying my best to give a shit, but idon'tgivea. things got complex, complicated, misunderstood, decayed - our good government. i never loved you - and never will, i'll spend my whole life trying. my words cheapen and depreciate; my weakening sight, my battered flank - all spent and ready to surrender. i'm in this myself - withstanding stinging bits of shrapnel and debris, shitting myself.  i don't hate, i avoid, hate is too strong, avoidance is too hard. (remember) my non hate, careful and calculated avoidance. people are everywhere. in every open space and every dark and unsuspecting corner, you will find them, keeping me up with cackling (unforgiving leech). i can't sleep at night, the unending crack of light peering into my closed eye, eight hour burst of life, and consequent, subsequent hours of non living. a live of non living, a tumultuous, unwanted praise, a dimly lit cave, my thisway. stand up and pay for your sins.