I once held onto the wonderful tapestries of stories long gone
That no longer even apply to the reality of existence
The stories that never existed anywhere but the romantic images of young poets
And artists prophetically penned in the language, which seemed so perfect
Until everyone and everything realized that we cannot simply rely on the stories we tell ourselves
And in an instant everything was destroyed and everything else was born
As it all rained for days, sleet and glass sideways, ripping the world to shreds
For god had finally shown himself
And his name was systematically comprehended by generations of scientist
Objectively reverse wiring the brain into a complete knowledge of everything that can never be understood fully
And proof of fact was there on the page for all to see but none listened
The word was too great to be understood
And so god left man again
To toil in the teleological
Like a blind shepherd who had forgotten that he was once Jesus
And that he held the key to everything that is and what should never be

A wise man once said "of that one cannot speak one must be silent"
But i think its worth the shot

Ugly pensive shuddering blah dee dah
Wondering where the wind is
Holding back for god knows what
Crippled by ghosts with long ropes
Making a spectra out of myself
Passive abuse waiting for the sunrise
That never comes
Because the sun only sets
On the travelers journey
And the wind only blows
At the command of Demigods
The time is nigh

Our movement was never there
All we had was grand allusion
We were always far too self aware
Sublime is but profound confusion
And drugs and things were our default
The mind divine, carved in basalt

Language were the tools we had
And everything else just fell into place
For nothing stings like Ignominy
and ignorance just ain’t that bad

Because when it comes down to it
The only way you can really look at the world is with the objective lens of cold numbers.
But what is progress anyway?
Is it worthy of our toil?
As the mind attempts to foil
In its complex poor design

And why the disjoint anyway
The existential crunch
The winds and birds are here today
With frozen scaffold, mold and clay
So we ride on, the wild bunch

Today is a pale day, A grey day. But that is not why it is pale. It is pale because it is colorless, another drop in the bucket. My inadequacy grows symmetrically with my own dissatisfaction. And I am shelled with explosive thoughts all derivative and predictable. For the loose sand that I sift through my senses creates a thin mask of foundationless kernels. All the candy is wrapped up in bright packaging to attract the eye and disguise the paltry nutrition within; an old, worn out evolutionary trait used supposedly to search for new food sources. And I am left ever conscious trapped by my own logic in the new paradigm that is lonely and empty. Sometimes I wish I lived before all our great wars, back at the height of aristocracy. When we all lived by the romantic images of our minds and men made change by god inspired will. As the world was much larger then; so large that we could ignore it’s vast esoteric workings and rest comfortably in our own intuition. Whether the world is material or immaterial is irrelevant and meaningless. I only want to know whether it is mine or isn’t. Is my stake in this world or is it’s in mine? Is my destruction my choice, or his? And even this is irrelevant in the end because it has no purchase on my actions anyway. The fact is I feel as though I’m in control and all scientific fact points in the opposite. And so today is pale, again. And my life feels empty, until another brief glimpse in to the shadow of teleology passes through my sensorial geodesic and I am wrenched headlong back into comfortable narrative. I am the waffle ******. I own the waffle. And I wander down along the dotted time line with my blinders on, occasionally slipping on the balance beam and smashing, crotch first, into the irreconcilable and incomprehensible night of entropy. Ever circling back through all my fancy “knowledge” and landing again on the feet that my father gave me. Coming, once again, to the sanctimonious and systematic pattern of myself, I lay unawares, viewing only through a pinpricked hole, into the wasteland of the real. I am left only to gape in awe at the persistence of my dream.

Burning fire death curdling scream because I’m back from the dead *******. Anger is an energy that I cannot ignore.
When I am worn down to a nub it is the soul seed,
Which I can hold onto,
My psychic anchor in my hour of need.
The moment when you have broken through to the other side
And you explode in a thousand fiery shards.
The collapse is imminent.
There is no avoiding the finale.

I washed my hair today with three in one body wash, shampoo, and conditioner.

It has come time for someone to say the facts in blunt and bold terms.
A Cartesian scaling of reality
There are no facts

In a society founded on genocide and warped by decadence,
I find no solace in bitter resentment.

Thriving in ennui, when the real demons come about
I parse together bits of my consciousness in a frantic search of clarity.
No solace,
And I have become the neurotic eye of the mid mind watch dog.
Sailing into Armageddon for want of heroic end,
Plastered to the seat back with sweat.

The carefully constructed outer shell of my being disintegrated in front of me in a mesh of color and light, and they said there is no god.
Enter the Thing

In the desert ****** up the *** by a sordid English poet, religion finds all the seekers, otherwise its madness.
And without truth, Its just a ride, we
play the game, for it is the only thing that we
really have—As  I begin to calm down, two months later,
I realize the folly of my actions.—Actually, **** that nonsense, folly is a lie,
there only Is.

Is there evil in truth? truth in evil?
And is evil not subjective?
For the fathers made the call.
Doth thou do what thou hath
For truth, subjective as well, is an infinite path,
Gödel’s law.

I write with groomed fingernails on a keyboard of obsidian-blocked letters and cadmium laced circuitry.

At our core we are neither inherently evil nor good,
Intelligent or stupid,
Narcissistic, altruistic.
life is Never simple. ‘No secret ingredient’
And pity the swine who clumber over the word nor

If you think you have found the answer to anything, especially in real life, and especially if you can write that answer down in a sentence, you’re Dead Wrong.

So what is there? You think I don’t know where this is going?

Lines written with acid and syrup tapped deep
Is there logic in reason? You know, the what’chamacall
Aren’t we all
Dominated by utopian views
of manifest destiny; the End All be All.

And so what of the fall; the universe that cares not?
No matter how many mushrooms I take,
Reality Still Exists. Then, I almost forgot

And This Beacon of Hope,
Will it save us?
Will we win?
Is there a win?

Where is the end Dark lord of the nether?
Does begging this question get me closer to the truth?
Does it even get me closer to explaining what I mean?
The man selling purses on the corner, patent leather
I cry out to you! For a soul’s desperate answer

But **** that defeatist ******* also, this journey must come to its bitter bite.
And flight from the truth is cowardice divine.

“What reason is there to believe that humanity will not overcome the next world crisis? There is no reason to believe that it won’t. If the universe is infinite isn’t every point the center? Why else does reason even exist, why else do we see ourselves as the masters of the universe?”-Bill Hicks

Here is the closest I have come to any conclusions ever in this Painfully Obvious vision

The universe is chaos,
Our soul is order.

We draw the ductile copper wire through chaotic blackness.
This is our being, it is our tool, take that as you will.
A fiber of a thread on the ocean floor vs. the divine sepulcher

I have lived my life bucking everything that didn’t come from myself, but in vain
Because even these are chains.
I am my own slave master.

In the depths of true evil is the darkest knowledge
Is morality but a thin mask? Fear and Weakness
Is there any difference? Dawn on the killing fields
Dew on the earlobe of a dead man
Drips off and drowns an ant

Back on my so-called Conclusions.
I cannot say I still hold any of them
Even though I typed that sentence not thirty seconds ago.
That man who drew conclusion is now a stranger in the past.
There are no conclusions to draw.

Sometimes I wish I could **** without mercy, if only to know I am really free. Sometimes I wish for suffering, if only to give me some obvious direction. Sometimes I wish for death, if only to clear my skull of all these pesky thoughts.

On the train
A tunnel under New York,
The unseen interlocking teeth
The Filthy steel grating
Narrow shafts of brilliant day shown through
Illuminate the works of unknown artists
Cartoonish letters hastily scrawled and placed
Directly in the light
The only light
Of the tunnel of the New York train
There it passes, and another and another
Each precisely placed
In the thick blackness laced
With light
For your viewing pleasure

And So Spake Urgnd Lichmae The Prophet of anarchic Tremor, Schlock and Paradox. Of the author nothing is known or will be known.

There was once a man who lived only on a moment-to-moment basis
That man was named I
And he brought the wind of a thousand starry butterflies
To the ears of ***** and things that never heard of such words
His life was broken down to be consumed by troglodytes of stone
And everything was left the way it was
Because in the brief glimpse of unattainable wonder and profound and intense clarity
He and all the others knew that it was but a fleeting glimpse
And that language and experience had permanently marred the white glimmering crystal of pure lucidity
Nothing was as it could be ever again and choices were made like computers programmed to make them
As a great cataclysmic storm of righteous godly entropy funneled itself
Through a sieve of perception
Granting all the trembling palmers the strength to carry the burden
Weighted in the sarcophagus of matter and form
Eudiamonia left forgotten on the slopes’ broken ladders to ecstasy
in union with god in harmony, onward christian soldiers
For all was contained within the realm of everything that was before
And even the forgotten was not forgotten by the whole
As the egg grew larger and smooth to the touch
The ******* son of Pan and Athena threatened forever to crack the brilliant shine of that crystal egg
And then something else happened in the middle that I forgot about until just now
Because I was left unfinished as the sculpture of flawed marble
On the workshop floor of Michelangelo
Words! yes language is the mind
A construction mathematical and taken for granted
The one great masterpiece bequeathed by Nature
Was the squishy erector set built in perfect logical syntax
Only to be rediscovered by its own unknowing creator
The Sublime is but profound confusion

This is my suicide note
To all my friends and loved ones
How can I explain my sorrow?
But in my heart I knew this was the only level of control I still had

The moment to moment
The day breaks softly over the heart of immediacy
And so it goes as I slipped into the past
I could not take it any longer

But I could take that feeling
The gentle push of sanity
Faith in choice and reason
If only I could take that still

So say goodbye to everything you knew before
Say goodbye to listless seas
of calamitous ennui
The devil set my course

And pardon my lack
Of ponderous ambition
And slight of hand
Because I was never a very good card player

So come clever little witticisms
That sum up life on a dime
Because they make it so much easier
Than knowing the ugliest truth

Of the eternal empty knowledge
Born through beyond doubt
Through painfully obvious vision
Religious in its scope

Oh and did I mention that I’m not dead yet
The ***** ridden down, shallow then steep
And petering out at the end
To a third act in a hospital room, Nostalgic and satisfied

So here it is
My note for the loved ones
The ones who could not save me from myself
From a fate decided long ago

Filthy with an itching stink on the dog day subways of choking humidity
every pour on my body screams
but there is a comfortability in the commiserating faces of greasy passersby
we all deal with the heat
without warning the smell of a sulfur **** fills my nostrils to the brim
and i hear somebody cough

this is the beauty of language

a glance upward yields an advertisement with enlarged *******—deals on plastic surgery—the women bellow it eats a McDonald’s breakfast sandwich with coffee

it is my choice what to put on this page
my choice
the words and images
my choice
the moods and emotions

for there are, in fact, six people on this train with their noses in books
the one next to me is Game of Thrones

and the girl across uses the most advanced handheld piece of technology in history as a makeup mirror

Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah
Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah
High art for Mel Bochner
an ad campaign for the HTC One
and representative nonsense for everyone else

as I sweat my headphone chord makes me acutely aware of a lump under my ear
as a homeless man sleeps without shoes on the bench opposite

is that a juxtaposition of images I see there?
or did i just make that up for dramatic affect?
that is your choice my friend
Just as it is mine
to use that patronizing tone
to create an air of highfalutin significance
despite the fact that I am just another dumb privileged straight white guy.
I feel like i should apologize.....
I just missed my stop
I do that fairly often

Reading an art magazine and Jason Goes to Hell is on in the background, I cannot really get anymore satisfyingly pretentious. The day is softly leaving me now and I don’t really see much point in being so cryptic, as some people might like to do. I have found that I reuse a lot of words. I wonder what that means. They come in waves. I’ll use a word over and over and then drop it. Sometimes I will make up words and use them for a time. This movie is god-awful but I can’t seem to get off the couch. So to the keyboard I roam, the path to corporeal transcendence. As is above, so below, as the saying goes. And I stand between with my machine.

Ting Teting ting
Teting ting
Teting ting
I’ve found that I’ve come to be blessed by the Thing
And I Ring! and I Ring! and I Sing and I Sing!
For the courage counter-culture creature torture
Sold for sport
I have a dog his name is brady
Ugh. stop already maybe
There is
nothing
you
can do
there is
nothing
you
can do
are we
permanently
stuck here?

I don’t know what to do
And I don’t know where to go
And I don’t know what I don’t know
That’s keeping me from home
The home that’s out there for me
the horizon of tomorrow
And words are fickle ****** things
For description of that pasture
As I’m lost and I’m silenced
In the beauty and the rapture

And if for just one moment
I could finally come to capture
The light that settled in the wind
The storm that won’t begin
The blazing saddled horse within
The path that is incumbent
I stand broken in my stature
I am under-slung resplendent

As the words come much slower now
And the feelings washed out grey
I couldn’t tell you who or how
Has come to write today

and the words begin to flow again like the river Styx
as I follow on an angry path to find a blessed fix
to sooth the shallow paltry soul that bore my sordid stay
as I ponder on the world and things with shadows in the way

Walking down the street with beads of sweat and agonizing anticipation
involuntary smooth muscles clenched tight
I walk with a robotic posture
Almost afraid to bend
in fear primordial and ancient in scope
of a shame known by all but spake by none

Burst through the swinging gate born of coy mystery
chasmic porcelain, grit lined
a benign stench under the surface that treads on the minds invention
the coffers line the walls spattered yellow and wet
chambers pestilent and poorly designed
with cracks peered through by perverts and the curious child

I sit down
A pinch and burn and then
I am instantly filled with relief twice fold ancient and primordial in scope

I sigh
and then of course the wafting and comfortable smell of myself
Then a rush of cold water by the premature mechanism
of faulty eyed modern laser beams

I hear the door latch next to me
the spattered burst of spice and rank *****
a redolent splash and froth of exotic fury
the sounds and smells of a sick beast

Folded paper and a scratching scrub of cheap manufacturing
appearing from my mausoleum of privacy
fear tingled spine hairs stand straight at the sound of the latch again
my own eyes betray and my neck cranes
to exchange an awkward glance and uncomfortable smirk
I wash my hands metaphorically and otherwise

In case you haven’t noticed I’m taking a ****

Some people may tell you that there are no brakes in life
But I’m here to tell you that there really are no breaks in life

Unless you count sleep

But they may say something like "life has no brakes!"
well I’m here to tell you that life really has no breaks

unless you count death

and Shakespeare would say "tis life brake-less?"
So I’m here to tell you that life tis breakless

Unless you count that bit before life

Do what you must to curtail the will
In order to rage against the coming of the ill
Be a slave to your master instead of his
To penetrate the darkness and chaos that is

Starve yourself from the comfort, animal
And carve out a bone from entropy’s thigh
Because humanity exists only in memory
And morality is but a ruthless cannibal

But why get caught up in the question why?
For in the end we all simply die
and give ourselves up to the endless ether
without feeling or presence
a shadow of vibration of a wave of energy

I had to say something
My skin was starting to crawl again
And the backs of my eyelids were itching
Everything was deconstructed
And I saw infinity there
Well really I saw infinity everywhere
As if it were a forgone conclusion

They managed to make my heart pump In my ears
I had never known there were men on mars
Training in esotericisms like philosophy and Art
And did I mention I made a lot of this up
As some kind of joke on you
Because I’m far too Oh! So terribly concerned
That I will fail And Oh! How embarrassing
Reputation is the only currency we have
Now that privacy is gone
But there’s still money
And don’t we all just love her

How hard can you bite the **** of life
That’s the one thing I ask myself
Malignance unto Death
Rueful vengeance at the depth of apathy
The mind trapped inside the body
The man sits and waits
And watches the party outside the window
The love of the women
Nothing but flowers plays in the background
As the sandy foundation cracks beneath
The man sits and waits
And watches the party outside the window
But he dare not dive through the glass
Though he feels the Anguish
From fear that he might ruin the party below
Crème delish and everything else
Right and wrong are illusions of the mind
And yet, I cannot abandon them
Projected light into the darkness
Epson powerlite 1761 W
Oxymoronic by nature
Paradoxical in practice
I am the lord our god
Pinhole projection in reverse, we all watch the eclipse of infinite suns
And daughters that never really lived
But I regress
the artist is lost as he learns the skills of the trade
and the artist only ever existed in his own mind
fuel dried up
running on good vibrations
past inspirations
all distilled
like potato ***** with ketchup brewed in a prison toilet
but I regress
to the moment I was born
and I didn’t even know it

He looked out on landscape of glittering monoliths Black and Shining Brilliant
Esoteric machineries of the Gods astraddle
Glancing up into the eyes of a stranger
The words fail at a universal moment of recognition
Facing the one way mirror
At the foot of the behemoth
CLANG! CLANG! Rang the bashing bright struts
Gilded bodies in words and actions
Circuits and wiring showing up from underneath
The thin layer of sheet metal
That barely contains the whole lot
As bits jangle and disclose inner contents
But he is only left to wonder
In the eyes of another

Love and hate are the same
Evolutionary expedience
Whichever gets your babies born

Space astral longing depth, endless ****
Endless love, endless fear
Queer but not quite, right, and bitter blunt
The runt of the litter
And the ***** knows only words, roses
Something new sublime, lost in rhyme
And reason lost as well, spell it out
For the benefit of a clever Lout
Nonsense phrases, phases of will
Fancies of fait
Looking for the concrete
Watching a stuttering bumbling pathetic mumbling
man
With class in crass language
Selling fake props to aviators
And other things stolen from other obscure places
Erased by time and astral space long depth
And endless ****

The problem with me is that I have little patience for other people's ******* while I seem to think they should want to hear mine

After about two and a half hours of communication with the eternal rhythm of My God, I think I see a bat fly across the attic room

"My God!" I think.






"I've Finally entered Bat Country...."

seriously i'm lookin

Everything is everything
Everything is something
And everything is nothing
All these things are true
Explain this to me

Never created and never destroyed
Infinite forms of chaos employed
And in a word, we create the world
The tomb awaits your flags unfurled

Ever wonder on an immense coincidence
Something of which you could not make sense
In the world of chaos and lack of pretense
The power of the mind to find eminence

Makes you wonder if there is anything at all

But of course it’s all real, still; is there more?
every atom is connected to every other
particles of quantum entangled brothers
all held together by mysterious force

ocean waves to stones, the dimensional fold
atoms made with the same basic subatomic blocks
building blocks only theoretically locked
deep in the esoteric knowledge untold

And they don’t even exist until you look
but they still control the soul storybook
being nothingness’ revelation uncovered
that I am really nothing, in the world I am smothered

And in the end it’s all vibrating strings huge violins
Energy flowing molding, Janus’ open door
Perception divine, thread on the ocean floor
To the pulse and the ring, guiding all from within

The metaphysical folly of language?
Epistemological toxic steam gauge?
Losing a grip on the parallel plane
Conscious of the clever game
A Vast simplification but the facts remain the same
And go ahead a continue to play the life game
But take a dose of life and tell me its not true
Tell me that you do not feel this in your bones
The bible even preaches this **** in there tomes
You have to understand because its true I tell you!
Everything Is Everything
And nothing, and something
of course it is.

When I was a little kid I used to play this game while I was taking a ****
I would look at the wallpaper pattern and cross my eyes
It made the wallpaper look as if it were leaping off the wall
Just floating a few inches in front of where it really should
Then I put my hand through the minor hallucination and it would go back to normal
I did this almost every time I sat down to take my little child *****
I eventually stopped doing it and now the wallpaper is gone
I don’t really know what that means but it feels significant
I remember it constantly
My first little experiments with alternate realities
The first time I discovered that the world is not as it seems
That our eyes are just filters for light
That is interpreted by our brains
Which then create the world that we see
I think that might be the first time that I understood that the world is an illusion
To be manipulated at will
As long as we have the will
To manipulate the world to our choosing
Fairly Nietzschean don’t you think?

I don’t know if this was the beginning of what would eventually lead to psychedelics
But it certainly appears that way
I small child sitting in the bathroom for an extra five minutes
Crossing his eyes and staring at the wall
Escaping reality
Diving into the ether
Looking for something new
That funny unseen realization
That just under the surface
If you cross your eyes
There is a whole world unseen and unrealized
Impossible to grasp even
In the realm of the Gods

Writing to stave off boredom
Isn’t everything just another attempt
To stave off boredom?
To escape the nothing of the mind
Of the world,
Posited in an instant
Forgotten a moment later
And lost in anticipation of the next

We are all petty seekers
Seeking comfort in our actions
Seeking comfort in the belief that we actually are
Anything at all
And not even this knowledge, this truth
Can save us from this ugly fait

Suffering in desire?
Or desire in suffering?
I feel myself slipping into Buddhism so let me just say this
Those ******* haven’t found the answer either
In their claims of awakening
And nirvana in detachment
Only the dead are truly awake
Only in the obliteration of the soul is the soul really content
Only then, is it ready to let go

So then where does this drive come from?
the desire to continue
Life from life
The breath of pulsing intention
That only life seems to have
Only life seems to care
About fait and desire
About life

But then isn’t that the rub
Because even particles have a comfortable state
I remember the words of my professor
“the atoms bond because they want to be in a neutral electrical charge”
The word “want” is supposed to be only semantic
Because atoms don’t really “want” anything
But what is the difference
Between the atom’s “want” and ours?
Don’t we all just want to reach a state
Of neutral charge?

And lo! The soul worn thin
And so the story begins

The words feel swallowed
Hollowed by their meaning
And with force followed
By desperate screaming

For purpose and strength
To face the wild future
Planned for at length
And dashed in good measure

Errrreeeeeeeumumunumb
Nerevum nerum numb

Blazed into tomorrow
Carrying things to yesterday
And accidentally making a point
About the illusion of time
and the inevitable conflation of meaning in words

There are things that words cannot describe
And emotions cannot grasp
Things that are unbearably simple
With depth and meaning vast

Things that the poetic form cannot possibly imagine
Things so sublime
That men fall silent and bow their heads
And angels sing in the hearts of noble song bearing birds
Where unintelligible jibberish is the only thing that you feel
And the words flow freely, feeling as if without will
Or manner or flow or ugly grumbling pensive cynicism
Where more words are ripped out of the dictionary for affect
And boring recursive narration is the only option left

As the mind jumps from topic to topic
In an unending string of free associations
Listening to a man with white hair and beard
A young writer blathers impetuously
Longing only for sublime novelty
And castrate words of biting wit
And pure and simple truth
And lyrics of pure aesthetic
And also fame and fortune
**** it all, he wants it all

So let's make a deal, You Hear?
Lets write more ******* lines from between the ears

Sitting in a room full of people with the same style of glasses
I wonder why that is?
or was
John Lennon or Buddy Holly
Pick your Poison

I used to think of life in terms of things that I could never do
I still do but now I think it is just a matter of circumstance

Then I decided to write some of this **** down
Maybe one day that will make it all make sense
Because Hey!
There goes another moment
Another commute

I am not a poet
I don’t like poetry

And I look at these pages of poems and I realize that everyone is the same
Everyone feels the same about love
And life
And even the people who are different
The people who say different things
They are just trying to be different
And then they are the same as well
saying the same different things as other different people

That’s why I don’t like poetry
It makes me realize that I am not me
And that I am also you
and them
One soul
infinite sepulchers

Listening to Beethoven’s moonlight sonata with the Fresh Prince of Bel Air on mute in the background
I looked up how to spell “Bel Air” in the All Knowing hive mind
I thought it was one word
It’s been some time since I’ve even seen the word written out
Is the point of language to convey meaning?
Does the absence of a question mark throw off the reader
Lack of grammar or punctuation
I don’t know
Wat abowt propr spelliyn
Kan I get bi on fonetiks
Or am I missing the point
Is real innovation in the structure?
Or in the emotion?
Or is it in capturing some unmentionable truth?
Some undeniable reason in faith
Ever expanding the wealth of experience
For the collective subconscious
Now I’m going and assuming a lot
When I know that there is no truth
If there is one thing I’ve learned its that buffalo society is in a sorry state
Because as we all know
buffalo buffalo buffalo baffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo

.....

All the pain of all the souls mashing away in a great battle of long lances and fire
In perpetual anguish at the realization of our own ignorance
Everyone finds it easier to turn the guns around
And in doing so turn them on themselves
And this is what we call progress

For men that sit in rooms clacking away on ponderous theory
Find no voice in the world at large
And only in the exorcism of demons can we be rid of them
So may it all hangout
The most acidic bile laden stomach dream
Of pungent hate
Spurs the horse ever forward
Until the great lamp burns at its brightest
And the inferno of infinite souls fully realized
In the capacity of will
Only strengthen it
And bring about the most golden of ages
with the realization of the great project
Of the true moral will

And in that very theoretical moment of revelation,
Finally in union with that beautiful Conceptualization
Of the world without flaws
Will we find peace?
or will we stifle all our lust?
Does the river come spill to the Ocean?
Or Dry Homogenous Dust?

Is the problem in the difference?
Or the lack of its acceptance?
Will a captain-less ship reach the shore
with all its crew?
Or is a flawed diamond the best that we can do?
Will the Will remain when the moral flags unfurl?
Or is there some third thing that keeps the best of both worlds?

Let us compare life to a large white goat
That will eat anything you put in front of it
Even a bent rusted tin can with some rain-watered down beans

Or a young man with long hair listening to zeppelin
Strangling himself in his room for pleasure
Or playing party games where nobody knows the rules

Where some make them up but others follow theirs
And in the end everyone goes home

Words and words and lethargy
Languor and ennui
Writing to pretend to write
Pretending to pretend to be the master
But pretending to be is how we be
And in me being me I am always free
To pretend to be
So you see the sea of ennui
That was me
Or is me
Is only me pretending to be
Ennui
From fear you see
Of finding me
In the depth and sea
of to Be

AHH sometimes I love how I can be soo
absolutely
repugnant

A book falls off a desk in a room where nobody is there to see or hear it, it doesn’t so much fall as the atoms of the book and the desk spontaneously align and it falls through the table and out of existence entirely.