we lock up and hold our breath

i wish i had a good song to sing. today i was a housewife. spent the whole afternoon cleaning house and tapping my finger. a slow day that went by too fast. i picked up some cat shit and thought about what the future holds.

on a smoking break, i heard a gunshot in close proximity. at nighttime. all safe doors were shut and locked, drapes drawn and lights dimmed. I figured if this were some other place or history, if everyone in the neighborhood heard such a commotion as gunfire, they might rush out of their homes to see if everything were okay.

we'd all run out late at night to find a dead friend. everyone would be carrying torches and clubs to dispatch some intruder/assailant. we'd mourn our dead by moonlight and see all the familiar faces in it together, there, in the streets. comradarie, i suppose.

we watch television and talk about family members' future endeavors. we eat many kinds of meat before a football game and dream about sex. i'm in the corner of the room sulking over christmas and an old relative is talking about a cousin that will soon become a police officer. all she really hoped was that he didn't get a job working in the core. because that would be bad.

yeah, probably.

nobody wants to help anybody out. i'm slightly paranoid (to a degree i'll admit) and get nervous when i'm caught off guard. if you telling me you're dying and hungry, i'll probably believe you, all the while i'm doing whatever i can to escape our awkward conversation. we make wonderful, hasty decisions when forced to.

or else we lock up and hold our breath.

i was driving and crying. everything was perfect enough, but not

up against a hot gun, you'll always lose.
merry christmas everybody.

there is nothing good here anymore.

seriously.


i just realized it's probably everyone's initial reaction to take photos in an olde abandoned warehouse. piles of junk and rubble, ladders turned on their side, puddles of water, moldy bricks.


who really fucking cares.

with fingers,

a child smudges paint shit on a paper-plate.


one cannot say art is everything and anything and then assert that someone else doesn't know art. wrong, all wrong. what's the criteria? please?


i will agree an artist will presumably do nothing, make nothing without an audience, patron, or institution. i'm not going to say there's anything wrong with that.

i'm fucking exhausted.

a man dressed for the apocalypse was digging through a garbage can for signs of life. he carried a shopping bag to hold his valuables. he wore thick snow pants and boots. gruff as fuck but surprisingly well groomed for a homeless man.



i haven't been on much and maybe i'm the only one that's not crazy. oh wait.

after reviewing everything i wrote this past semester, i'd put the total number of written pages at around 60 or 70. Now it probably takes me 3 minutes to read a page. i guess you could say i've done at least three hours of talking the past four months. i don't feel any better though.

HOW I LOVE PLAYING THE DRUNKEN BUFFOON !!
if you occasionally say something smart, you'll achieve status. you'll sit back and smirk. people develop your mystique for you. wild and dark and unapproachable. presumably rogue and totally inappropriate. in the end, is it not simply another voice whispering
let's change the world
we'll all be happy.
but we forgot about dead people somewhere in central and south america that wanted to be too, and yes, we feel guilt in the slight. such notions of happiness are impossible or at least short lived. there be no such thing as a perfect, yet i still recognize the perfection of warm bodies in bed at dawn. cracking sunlight between winter breath, the fucking buildings and small bits of success. such things drive me, i guess.



AND YES I FEEL GUILTY FOR MY OCCUPATION
for some might label it filling a gap, as if i'm striking opportunity in the head. still, i see myself feeding the fatness of the city appeasing them with what they don't really need. my ideal izumis serves potatoes. only potatoes, a business that runs itself to the ground in seconds. how many variations on potato can there be?



AM I MONK OR MAN?
there are distinguishing differences between the great and truly great. the difference is quantifiable in humility, but i might be wrong (joke).

i am greed, i am slob. my home environment is broken and messy. i still considered myself halfway there - some proverbial there that does not exist except in my mind. expectation is imaginary.

yes, i wanted to be a monk. clearly i am not. as if dropping everything were so simple, should i find myself a monk tomorrow consider me lucky. the devil visits me weekly and i oblige with its demands. clever harlots and a weak will to live.



ON LIVING.
i would like to be good at something, at least i could live with that. "yeah, i have all this shit failure, but at least i'm good at this one very important thing." i realize my criteria for good is made up (pomo argument), but it's still a matter of self-fulfillment, however imaginary.

i see success in writing coming with equal levels with self-destruction. the latter comes former, though. sorry for logic.\
an observation: i am closer to deterioration now than i was say a year ago. there is still a long way to go, but i recognize the fact. if you consider it fact, too, of course (joke / pomo argument).

i have this tremendous hole

i have this tremendous whole.

you should see it.

i used to think i was regressing, but now i'm at a standstill. the quietest lull at evening.




well i don't think i'll sleep tonight. see how that goes.

the vial putrid

earlier this week, i saw myself in a mirror.

i looked homeless and filthy.

embarrassment led me to a bathtub, where i scrubbed down and even washed my hair. afterward, i slept for days and accomplished nothing. i wasted time and didn't meet anyone new. i haven't had many expectations lately but maybe i should make some.

1 fall into a routine of personal hygiene.
2 fall into a routine of regular sleep patterns
3 organize freetime better
4 fall out of the routine of self-loathing and self-deprecation.
5 stop being negative and celebrate what little there is to celebrate
6 stop drinking
7 go bananas
8 watch television
9 finance a car and
10 drive around the city so everyone can see my brand new car
11 consummate a list of unlimited desires
12 donate blood and seed

i will start collecting hair samples of everyone i know, so as to gather their dna. i will keep this biological information in my dna box, a small kit lined with green felt that i tuck underneath my bed everynight. yes, i have a dna box, and i need your important strands of life contained within it. should something terrible happen to you, at least i will have that. some loose blueprint. i could make a clone, commission a scientist to do just that. if you need my seed, i will lend my seed. should a harlot be needed, so will i buy one.

me and your shadow out to lunch and we share a sandwich together. there's no spark in your eye anymore shadow though you're very much alive and breathing. we could try again. with each incantation do you grow more distant. at first you were deformed, but with every successive instance of yourself do you appear more beautiful and lifelike. nevermind me hung up on a shadow's face.



i have no idea what any of this means. bedtime. zing!

explanation.

well i revamped my postmodern performance piece, mostly due to technical difficulties, and opted to play a five minute video i made while i sit at a desk folding paper airplanes and throwing them at my class. The sheets of paper the airplanes are made of will have text on them. like:

1
hello you
fucking
monkeys

2
you're
animal.
you jump
thru hoops.

3
take yr.
pants off

4
dignity is
not real.
shame is.

5
debt slave
(me)

6
mob mentality
(you)

7
class struggles
(everybody)

8
SAFELY WE CAN ASSUME THE GREATEST CONFLICTS OF THE LAST 50 YEARS WERE DEEPLY ROOTED IN OPPOSING IDEALS BUTTING HEADS.


FREEDOM OF INTEREST
VS.
DEBT ENSLAVEMENT &
EXPLOITATION.

9
i tell the foreman time is on my side.
he laughs, pats me on the back.
"that's a good one Charlie! Fetch!!"
He throws me a bone.
I have no choice but to run.

10
if you cannot concentrate you have
a.d.d. because a professional doctor
said so. there are certain
prescriptions available ($$$$) to aid
you in keeping up with the ever
shifting norms of our society.

for a good time call
894.7355

11
"the last 100 years," we write.
should it be so special?
or precious or perfect?

i love the way you make me feel.
utterly selfish.