Peculiarly different in the way of bad connection. The ease of bonding was compromised with the temperament that was borne upon me. Aren't we all worthy of love? Ive found the new love of my life, once so lost and directionless; I have finally found the life's work that is meant for me - by accident.

TRAGIC COMEDY
Driving lost and slowly, no - only a certain speed tears muscle from bone and sinew; the most morbid memory of death and the lead taste of blood from a crushed skull splattered with a hammer over and over again.

It finally happened. A dear crossed the road in slow motion. The entire mass was split into 3 sections as my vehicle plowed through.

Exhilaration!!!

At last, the meaning is discovered. The loneliest connection to life is death.

5 hours driving in preparation of new pleasure. The target must not be rushed. The life of an older person is ideal; they've experienced more of it.

Down the road again. Someone walking on the shoulder of a long stretching road; this is meant to be. Make a quick stop: ask for directions to something, somewhere. After disappearing around the bend, my 10 and 2 calmly exchanged positions over and over again to complete a u-turn.

Heart beating fast - Fire eyes... The walker recognized the vehicle and tried to step out of the way. I put the pedal to the floor board and ****** the wheel at the precise moment we met eyes for the last time.
Terror...

POW!!!!!!
No longer the flight of fancy that stayed my waking state with images and cravings; the storm has truly begun. Wind blown laundry on the line, caught in the flying droplets descending slowly at the end of a horizontal trajectory as the strength of wind died down once its range was finally met. The laundry - like me - care free and clean, soaked by the drizzle of an impending storm without the guidance of caring hands. I have heard about what is described as the calm before the storm. For me, the calm was only a foreshadowing of what I have become.

Setting: Black and white landscape, grayscale populace. Dull droning frequency progressively inaudible, machine type quartz operated movement from birds eye view.                •••••••• READ•THE•MESSAGE••••••••

Way -  too - much.

You're not spending enough.
You need a car like this.
You don't look like them.

Next Setting: The brain. Synapses and dendrites/stalactites and stalagmites.

••••••••IN•ANOTHER•PLACE••••••••

Reading angels write hymns of summer sight, snowflake moonlight; life to no end, broken door still shut with moist eyes and dry lips. Sing to me from fallen skies and invade my prison mind.

Fever clutch shadow craving collapsed oxygen bandages soaked red with blood and organized by decomposition rate.

Capsized ship sunk mentality, leveled from the tarnished mirror. Scoop hand down for packaging cassette tapes neatly. No kneel working while busy foraging the soft shore for answers to the newer questions yesterday. Grains and globular surface melting molten and traveling through the path of least resistance.

••••••••OLD•NEWS•NEW•ESCAPE••••••••

Commence the countdown!

Shed light beam - scattered amidst shadowing December and shallow compliment of gathered mass.

Bright moonlight stills the whispering vapors where you once left beaten sneakers, football cards, and smelly socks.

This view from there where you once played your guitar; the hole in the screen remains where filtered smoke poured out the window from the bubbling drag of natures antiquity.

Science was only existent in an ancient alchemy.

Laughter came easiest while dreams remained bountiful and attainably tucked in the future projects folder before collecting thick layers of dust beneath well wishing and inaction; just feed now for the annoying perpetual adolescence that holds me down with regret.

Weighty concerns finally crept up slow and sneakily like a strong dose  of LSD on a
school night.

Laughter becomes tears. This weight is mine and can only be carried by me. Why do those that I sought for direction seem so lost? Who am I if not the one who walked in the room?

No one but me. Only I can answer that. The answer comes and goes. Heartbreak can shatter an ego like nothing else.
I still love you all.
Thank you.
Forgive me.

Laughter at the pirate ship wreck
Incarcerated alibi.
Self-doubt and enemy envy.

Post neurosis mental chariot waiting patient set to test and task the palatial steel ballast.

Starting to startle itself awake according to twilight reporting recognized first and focused lazily to be remembered later for the first half percent.

Decent decline descending darkness ascending atoms attending arson. Gallant grey nose for cold weather bubbling wound **** streak pillow.
Plain sight eyes glazing reminiscent veteran folded over beer bottle drunk at home the unknown soldier.

Spirit spear piercing glowing nexus weightless flying high shadows vacant samurai clutch in an adjacent basement.
Bleeding bone fractured paper homes manufactured homeless jeering platelet picked and cast like a rune on your first born baby blanket.

Hallow, heated, grave displayed, and looped backwards.  

Happy fishing!

I'm bitter. Full of naïveté and dreams, I plotted an unplanned path to nowhere and nothing special. I ended up here after a long sleep. the images I remember raise goosebumps and feelings of remorse, shame, and embarrassment.

The continual process of hating my self-pity even though psychological projection is validated with tears for others who I view as sharing circumstance.  I look at myself in the face of a child - male and female - throughout all worlds that move the earth. Suffering is synonymous with life.

Some are devoured despite nature or nurture, good or evil, rich or poor, this or that. Innocently honest entities experiencing inflicted pain and swallowing tragedy thick and slowly.

The luckiest children avoid the heavy baggage of the most well-intentioned loving parents and begin to collect their own. Some are born to surrogate parents who exploit children for desire or money; lives created who know nothing but suffering.

"Focus on the positive."
*******!
I can't lie just to fake a smile and I can't ignore the truth to stay asleep.

What do my attempts to help amount to?
How is what is positive not soured by what is true?

I can devote life to the living, but to what end?
The starvation of my family, the loss of shelter.
Instead of lending a hand to the forgotten I am enslaved by a system that perpetuates the long list of sorrows.

Yeah, I'll see you ******* at work.

I'm left with who I am when the night is still. I am a microcosm of everything I see. I don't want to feel sorry for myself - but I am sure that I will.

Death of the Ego and Id

Space vacant. So alone. Deep blue sky; floating clouds.
Dark black sky; wandering stars.

The men who lay dying wont see this.  

Hear my thoughts. If anything, I can offer these to you.

One forgotten. In just this case. She spent her life alone. Once had dreams of sharing her existence and leaving something for the world to recognize. Eventually she took her life to create space for others.

He was a simple lonely child and on his final day; his father drown him in a rain barrel before jumping off a bridge with his mother and sister.

Time disappears in the pitch black of a musty basement. Malnourishment, fatigue, and resource deprivation have drained a broken body of salty tears.

Is the pain worse when the end is in sight?
Time to experience the sharp knife.

How many lives have vanished throughout history?
Who will remember us in 100 years?

I'm still confused
After all this time
I research what makes the
most of you tick.
I can write you down in theory
And predict your stale remarks before you
Sit down for your salad

I am the obscure outline that flashes
through your foggy windshield on a rainy night
You can't predict anything about me,
except maybe an outcome of loneliness -
but-
I know better
and that's too far a distraction
away from your comfort.

Do you feel confused/sympathetic/annoyed
when I'm in front of you?
I'm a dark place where fear is swallowed down
To get away and find happy things
forget me just as easy as it is to ignore me.

I still don't understand
You get 100 and some odd number
Here is my heart
What's it worth to you
1or2. A third one, two weeks later.

Maybe I should embrace your imperfection
Then
You might accept mine.

I still honor 1, 2, and 3
for having the insight to notice me
Throughout your daily intake of dull debris.

"Yell that one out when you get it" she said in what she considered her most calm and gentle tone. Her calculations were wrong though. What she considered calm and gentle still seemed animated and intense to her audience.

By this grade and age most children have been trained to raise a hand to answer class questions or request the floor.

She began realizing more and more that she spent her days within a room of tiny robots, in a building of tiny robots, in a town of various types of robots... situated in a galaxy of dust that accumulated on the surface of the Great Petrie Dish.

This was not where she wanted to be.

All along his path he grabbed the sticks that called to him. There were many in this area which was surrounded by concrete yet, enough nature inside to forget the dull grays.  Still along the way he traded these sticks and twigs for other sticks and twigs that he placed earlier in naturally occurring hammocks cradled within the bark of an old tree knot or between two inviting branches.

Each stick and twig that he moved was followed by a message of gratitude and the intent to do no harm.  A pinch pull of hair from his arm was placed here in reverie of balance and reciprocation.

Walking by, I noticed this and waved to him  thinking, "wouldn't life be a little better if we all ran around in a circle and enjoyed the healing power of play. It feels good to let go." Then I thought to myself, "that was totally awkward. I just waved like a guest walking onto the stage for a visit with Oprah".

I was fat non- hippie backwards hat fried from acid tabs and Hendrix Stuttgart posters for hours while rewinding the instrumental track that followed the song "drug store cowboy" on a dubbed Justin Warfield tape over and over again. Those years floated me from the village on my floor to adult ADHD and a far off gaze.

The neighbors hate when I run around my back yard shirtless chanting and banging a drum on rainy evenings.

But, wet eyes and sore throat from wailing until now-all the words have been written in the texts - literally written underneath the separated layer of paper glued to hide the backside of the material that makes up the underside of both front and back covers.

(The message has also been made in stamp form and has added a nice contrast in colors. Even beyond the red and blue alternative options commonly available.)

In the time of need when you question whether feeling okay is ever a possibility again the gods send messages, within questions, and messages. The infinite possibility of resulting answers are enough to keep you busy...

Enough to distract you from all that pain.

The gods have a sense of humor. Our experience gives them new material for open mic night.

Sometimes, I want to write so bad - but all I see is evidence to deter this disaster...

Stay on the couch bud. Let those thoughts run around your head, you need to exercise anyways. Your badge is so shiny, like a gleaming night sky clustered by stars and reflected on and off a still pond in isolated beauty.

Polish that which you hold so dear to your heart and take it in because the private hours and emptiness are not too far away on any day.

For clarity, it is issued to those who are [no good] less then, devoid of purpose, defunct of satisfaction.  These individuals often debate the mystery, are self blasphemous, and forgettable.  

Many are identified by narcissistic behavior, self-deprecation, self-perpetuated enslavement to ignorance, and lack of gratitude. Sad isolated entities who surpass other earthly levels of achievement by those who are merely existentially anxious and victim to the propagated melee of marketing, *****, and celebrity.

I have cautioned others in the past to stay away from the badged ones. They feel so low and hopeless that he or she finds identity in what has been most consistent. Pain and misery are worn as a badge of honor. Here the fragile psyche finds something to grab onto for survival and self-preservation.

Read and find the answers that explain how changing the way you think about your situation can create a new reality aside from what you know of the emptiness that cannot be filled and the haunting thoughts that keep you awake at night.

Choose your reality, I truly believe. I have been exceptionally effective at creating my reality, it just isn't the reality I want.

How do I fight what I continuously experience. This may be considered delusional or even psychotic to some extent. You choose the difference between a positive and negative experience.

If the subject of that difference is for me to decide - well nothing that I can do is any different than the rest; I'm confident that others can provide the same experience in a healthier and more honest way.

You see I am literally disgusted by my view of this world; the dry plywood planks for doors, the corner of the concrete path where the leaves and dried up dead grass settles to become a dark black soggy paste with pine needles added after it rains, bad breath, and toenail fungus, hair collected in a brush, the warm toilet seat that was used recently, and the sweat under my fat gut fold set me to retching.

As of late, I feel my heart race and my knees shake. I don't remember a nervousness lasting this long.
Am I noticed smiling as much as I'm noticed when I am not?

Still a slave to distraction. I push life aside for petty acts, moments, searching, browsing the Internet.

I can share this part of myself and remain intact.  By the time you see this I will be showing up somewhere unprepared, late, and sweaty.

I will take the thought of you reading these words and remember this moment as I open the door...

It's like live how? like you make it
copy down the sad crown
ride the wheel you made it
the strong misguided hatred.

-eclipse-

Bathing naked
The flurried atom swarms and indulgent desires strip me of my latest confirmed identity.  

thoughts  and painted-eyes
Department earlobe tenants remorse filled by the
phantasmagoric patience and comfort of pain.

So plain and petty feels  like I'm crying "lone wolf!"  double knot shoe tie
finite coffer rusty nails-stick latent reparation clips of manta ray striking tail whips.

The core is stifled to trip and fall upon the wet autumn leaves, broken twigs, and an earthly wisdom. Carry us, oh misleading stranger to a different home with Velcro that sticks to platelets and crust that covers elbows.

Hatred is stronger for the long-suffering and confusion when what we need is light
The fierce reserve beckoned to fight after immobility subsides and clears clutter away from the self-loathing, shame, and spiritual fatigue.

Maybe today is the day. This spot is reserved anyway and the wolves seem hungry.

Skip the kind gestures and polite itchy ego scratching.
"How's it going?"
"Good, how about you?"
"No complaints here?"
The truth is too heavy and time consuming to hear. It might be something like:
"How's it going?"
"******, but its still early. Usually the day ***** less as it progresses."
"Decent, but the jury's still out. No what I'm sayin'. I reach a positive peak of enjoyment during the last hour of work. By the time work ends I begin the descent to a feeling of unfounded dread."
Who wants to hear that **** though?
I do.

Bones shackled, breast plate pierced, enemy to the new governance - SCREAMING dark hearted chants that linger in memory like death and love.

Come and be one: we are looking for your[self] substance. Is that the facade you've chosen? Only for now my friend.

Come and be clear: bring us your mistakes - especially those that you continue to make. Those that make you question your worth and capacity for love. Bring your folly, your hatred, your discontent, your ennui, your sluggishness, your truth.

I want to be around those who accept my naked soul. Stripped of the costume that makes me socially adequate or tolerable.  Can you be Who you truly are. I know you crave this. Embrace your anxiety and bring it with you...

All that you are is welcome here.

Look at me, my naked soul wears no pockets for a secret to survive.

Just like so far lost
let in from the outside
remain the outsider
pushed back and forth,
then out
           - again.

Fractal force[d] deeper inside this time,
bone endures and strengthens solitude structurally.
Somewhere within the sponge bone
light emits through its holes in a dark orange hue.
Proof of occupancy? Not likely.
The sign of a visitor - a miner.
An altar carved into the wall, surrounded by shadow and dim orange light, calling out to saddening self-hatred and naked personality displacement.

So cunning, so precise - a rapid cycling of self-doubt, confusion, and contempt. It's there to push me when I know better. It wakes me up when I need sleep. It breaks my will when I need hope.
The silent guide that drags me weeping...
an ancient force that makes me bleed.

Welcomed warmly and befriended willingly.
Bitter now, broken heart, reality clipped winged innocence.
Gather up the feathers and continue forward please.
No time to process this mess yet.

Now over emaciated files kept locked away.
Like a second hand gold claim - gold now gone.

Still...
I dig and dig and dig, more...
****** hands and throat sore
Crying deep with sounds like banshees
blood and tears combine in thick and dusty pillows of pain
cemented by the paste these two create.
What I've buried is so elusive, self-destructing, and sad.

Whats left is not worth the trouble: I was aware when I buried it.

But still...

I visit past traumas like old friends.
When I am especially dark, I unearth the remains and dust them gently, wrap in red cloth, and spend time in search of a lesson learned.
I've been told this is part of my gift to share but I hide it like sickness; I bump into everything I need and quickly scurry away.

Can I honor the past and  let it lay?
The pain I covet only serves to perpetuate old stories and the isolation only softens my brain to social interaction.  

The enemy I've chosen is always present but never within my reach.

Im in a crunch with school and work and 7 hrs sleep in 50+. I aint showered and my *** reeks of ***** outdoor musk type, like defrosted by the sun after freezing under the moon. Inevitably, mold and mildew add that nice after market aged/crusty scent.

Sloppy wet diarrhea brought on by anxiety and doubt; I'm in a ****** hole collecting uneven magazine clippings uncomfortably.

Here I am still, packing my belongings to leave the hole and find serenity. Yet, nothing gets taken out. Instead I'll be here for at least 7-10 more days waiting for the easy chair to be delivered from an order placed online at 3am when I could have been finishing a paper.

A day to take shape and quite possibly escape the self-hatred that permeates my cellular structure.

Is it true?  Will my cellular make-up be completely renewed within 7 years?  Each cell that makes me up now will give way to a new wave of cells garnering total transformation.

I used to answer questions like this because I thought I could answer anything - I still can but I feel like a phony who speaks just to be heard.

I used to think I knew a lot. Now I recognize that I don't know a *******, let alone **** collectively. Ask me, I might answer. Beware of the prefaced statement: " all views are highly subjective

and

most likely to change dramatically before and after they are forgotten".

If and then.  I continue to seek a logical answer to the reason why I don't know anything - but...

Self-hatred, discontent, fear, and ******' Fruity Pebbles. Cocoa Pebbles are good - but lacking the crunchy sweetness of the good ole fruitay pebblays.

Let the funk squadron play...


NOW !

Saul. Babbittz.
Slight variation of the name Paul - sometimes pronounced
with the
"ah-oolll"
of Raul - to intrigue cashiers and toll booth attendents.

These words seem meaningless and even less interesting than the blank white background each letter invades.

And still I thank the God in my stomach that wakes up every once in a while to capture butterflies before I leave the house so I can turn down the sounds in my head that stir the butterflies to a frenzied mess of tangled neurons and synaptic maladjustment.

My interaction goes something like this:
cashier-"do you have a bonus card?"
me-(holding out the pad of my thumb - serious like lava)
cashier-(looking at me with a confused look)
me- "I thought thumb scans were enacted throughout the states. Sorry about that, I just got used to the thumb scan back home in North Dakota".
cashier- (dumbfounded, slightly annoyed)
me- (chuckling-embarrassed smirk) "you know, like a dystopian tracking system?"
cashier- "uh, not really" (avoiding eye contact, rushed transaction) "freak" (under her breath).

butterflies again
I've never even lived in North Dakota!
Just uncomfortable enough to prove that body heat activated "degree" does not provide 24 hour protection...

Next transaction a day later:
me- (silence)

Elected:  naturally sweat swamped vanity trapped cat paw flip flop.  

           But oil lamps burn for a different view

Vague outlines of where you once were
It's been years now and we've both moved on
You've grown up
I draw a picture of myself as a stick figure with a fat belly
scenes like an adolescent martyred for love.

My emptiness is touched when I think about your reality.
I hold enough space to carry multiple lifetimes of love and heartache.

Emptiness that was once filled could never be filled again
new doors open but renovations are not allowed.

Emptiness is still full of nothing; the sick cling to details and perceived meaning.

It's essentially the same science that religion refers to as God.
What is left then? What will save humanity from itself?
Thought is dangerous when left to its own creation. Some are safer following instructions. Life is much easier when we have someone or something to blame. Without that we find no "right" or "wrong" that fits the world universally. So... If it isn't the fault of this or that, it may be a fault of my own.
Now, there is no savior to pick your inequities above the rest. It's up to you.

Can you live without self-hatred? Is it possible to love yourself enough to be worthy? Can you trust yourself with the outcome of your own life?

As a testament
A documented file of bones.
A sight appears daily
Inside somedays, outside others.
But always -
Here.

For history mostly
An attempt so vain that the facade of denial rots a hole in the stomach feigning recognition.

Sad mostly as boredom subsides.
Drown in collected moments of mediocrity and save the gold coins for the enemies eye lids. All along you kicked them around when you needed them most; crying about loss, misfortune, and isolation.

Replicated "t" square, heated and manipulated to match a hand drawn schematic, eye-balled and transferred to a soiled napkin two days prior.

Recovery spent melee inspired by whispered breath. Kin to wind, multi- colored marshmallows, or hard candies that have been rewrapped quickly and shuffled to the bottom of the bag.

Periscope ala multi-limbed, e.g. tentacular. Rain spun abundant large geometric insect eyes radiating opalescent transit; here and there, over or under, stop and go, when = then, two - days - life - end.

Glowing hand, darkest white light in a vacant space. All secrets hidden with trust, imagination, and neglect; recalling memories for those who live to forget. Like a hunger fed plentifully followed by a playful belch aloud for honor and comfort. Later, the indulgence calls and abdominal gases produce an acidic truth that burns the memory back into awareness.

Flush it away now! Get rid of it quickly. There is no time to respect the whole past, only that which allows performance to continue uninterrupted.

Tuck those memories away deeper this time; the ***** will drown you before it drowns them. Laying around and crying aloud won't pay the bills; if nothing else remember, a good American is a good consumer and a good consumer never wastes time getting to know themselves  when the alternative is television.