Drunk as a candle, sober as a slice of cheddar cheese, incarcerated in a fridge like an onion in San Quinten, I wonder whatever became of you.

My life is occasionally a continuum of anxiety of and or relating to the possibility of my going insane. My greatest fear is schizophrenia, thanks mostly to Aldous Huxley's Doors of Perception. At my worst, I am standing in a Wal-Mart under the surrealistically bright lights of dead consumption waiting for my head to become an unfamiliar place filled with unfamiliar voices. It has never happened. The closest I ever came was on the night of February 4th, 2013 (which, in this case, just so happens to be last night), when in a state of silly pointless inconsequential anxieties I thought I heard the faint hum of an unfamiliar voice chanting, 'Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.' It went away, but the moment I started hearing it I freaked out a little inside as I was lying in bed having just finished reading. I attributed it to the possibility of over-reading, over-conceptualization, not enough time in the real world. I blamed reading and writing and watching for the feeling that I'm never quite in the real world, because my head reads and writes and watches and asks itself; “are you real? Can you truly say with any certainty that you exist? How much sense does depth perception make, and now go to sleep and dream in your head because one day dreaming will be considered a symptom of mental disease. Enjoy it before it terrifies your strange fettered wits.” Sometimes I listen to music in my head and wonder if that's insane. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and contemplate innocence. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and sing along. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and realize all music comes from inside so I calm and I calm and I calm.

I once woke up screaming because I dreamt the price of gas was only 7 cents a litre. It was a scream of holy infinite ecstasy and I believe I also woke to discover I'd had an ****** in my sleep. My voice was deeper. Puberty is a beautiful thing. Economics was prettier in my head.

daft as the last 3 things you said, I don't
question much aside from life. in how many
sentences could I make a reference to an old
French poet to illustrate to you how little
sense Albert Camus makes seeing as I have yet
to go to university? You'd think the sand clocked
in his socks from all those summers spent in
Algier's would have consumed much more than
background or 'home is where the heart is.'
the right mind is the right heart is the home
is the everywhere you go. in a world where
'I-Ching' and 'cha-ching' are context insofar
as bookstores, I doubt much and question little,
money is dharma too. dharma I wish to burn because
my hate for money is dharma. back-flip. slightly
arrested in development is the faculty of spirit
in GDP, at least the lion still roams the Savannah
and at least I can explore the lion. My New Years
resolution is 1080p. what's yours?

the cool kids, moping, stenched and
stenciled eyebrows, miserable and
paralyzed in try-hard poses, thumbs
strategically stiffed from pockets;
miserable to be noticed. glad to be
an album cover.

In the end it was a case of
'I've probably got to ****;'
moving off in all directions
seeking the hallow holy spill
-drip of sweet relief. the
washroom is the last place you
are guaranteed solitude like a
lil tyke meditation chamber the
Brahman made sure could not be
tainted with distraction or 'I'd
rather not's,'and it's not that
you'd rather, because kind waits
and last moments go by like this.
but you can safely and suavely
admit to yourself as you lie awake
in bed that you really probably have
to ****. it's your body speaking in
liquid laughter.

it's a part of your language the
rain-clouds have crafted.

it is one relationship that has
eternally lasted.

Oh, holy human waste!

ever had those moments
of artistic remorse
where you want to burn
your imagination?

I want to burn this poem
I want to burn my poems.

I'm no poet,
I'm a ******* narcissist,
I'm a ******* farce.

*******.

The misty counter
reminds my cloud
of rainy day breath
that

Today
is overcast
with a chance
of..
just wait a minute,
Be patient.

Yielded to the toast on plate,
it's a quaint morning but it
began in boredom. I closed
my eyes and kept them tight
because I knew I had nothing
to do but keyboards and screens
with a side of cleaning. This is
freedom? I suppose freedom is
the choice to this multiplied
one million, but when you
wake up bored, now what?
Someone once told me that
motivation is like a bath-
recommended every day or 2. I
suppose they're right. I really do.

writing poems about
odes about
codes about
nothing

sitting still
except the feel
of fingers typing
something

oh
give it up.

misty day if she mistakes her
lens for the world. every breath
elects new particles to the surface
of her sun. every now and again
she twitches in sleep and it's like
electric dream time spits seconds
in hours. hours in minutes. minutes
in mine. once in awhile she wakes
to stroke my back or my arm and
if holy moments are all the time, us
together float the illusion of Maya
away to be here. I look in her eyes
and tell her were just God playing
hide-and-seek. she nuzzles my nose
like a sweater cat and speaks. a
multiplicity uncorks the wine and
tells us to dance. I'm dancing. Keep
dancing.

coffee burns lungs, cigarette smoke, don't
lie. Black Folgers tastes like cigarette smoke.
Stars and visions of blank black back-then
haunt neurons, twitch tears. The *******
lights and the gaudy bulb, who thought this
was a good idea? Thomas Edison ruined the
world so no thanks to Thomas Edison. I'd
rather sleep on a dark-world night-time
than a bright-world all-time.  

the grass-is-greener syndrome, Paris syndrome,
I-exist-syndrome for the love of lavender lungs
syndrome, suicide sounds as scary as life when
you scream loud enough, that's true confinement.
Jail-time on Earth. I don't believe this, why do
I think like the devil? Can I blame it on Adam
or whatshisname?

it's like my mind is on fire
disintegrating into a nothing
sport of scorched earth
where maybe in control
was too far and I believed
myself when I said it was
okay to kick my innards
with a book in my hand.

I believed in magic but
it was a little too slim
chanced to grim reaper
the smile off my face and
bathroom slips only got
me rest when I was already
half-dead. Where did I go
when I left me, where did
the highway end? cut like
a tack with Achilles smirk
the fable ended in last  
period, 12th grade.

Dark driveways in muggy weather
Look like sand stuck in a feather

Ferns and curbs don't go together.

Clean, thoughts on it
Wrong again
Seemed, nope not this song again
A misty clip
Of winter ****
Seemed so soft and fond again.

Face the throat and choke the face
Wait for boats, critique the wave
Answer into sushi dish,
'Was this really once a fish?'

You, oh you! Oh you, oh you.
True, we knew! Who knew? Not you.

Don't begin to read the news
Now it's burning rows of twos

Ferns and curbs don't go together
Runny nose in sunny weather
Feel like lakes lassoed and tethered

Ferns and curbs don't go together.

Cracking my thumb with headphones on, I can just picture the eye of diagonal lady flitting in my direction curiously and gone, that's all. Kid with Red-Wing hat and Beats by Dr. Dre sits across from me *** there's nowhere left to sit, poor kid. Doesn't know me. Manifests that social anxiety for age-the-sames-or-similars. He's texting, avoids eye contact, not that I'm looking, nope nu uh not that I'm looking. Lady with flashing visi-light walks on bus as half-hedge is lit half-hedge is dark silhouette, bus lights. It's dark and rainy. Windows pretty fogged and bogged in dirt and smog and oh my God I feel the song it's verses on it's verses long it's words so vertical!
Redwing looks a little nerved, blanked, searching for saliva salvation in his Beats by Dr. Dre
texts again, I looked uh huh I looked I did this time I looked.

Bus bumps corner cruuuisin', aren't we a speedy bunch?
Cracked my thumb again old man diagonal looks I'm sorry. I'm sorry too. Girl with blonde streaks could be years old could be decades, probably a decade .7, getting off bus behind former diagonal lady, she'll forget my thumb you'll see. Miss her. No sir. Redwing sees me see him turns to look to stop request, uh he didn't look he didn't he's gone, sitting in seat ahead now, Redwing hat cooped in Beats by Dr. Dre, red Van shoes poking out till friend apparitions seat next to him, hi! Redwing takes off Redwing hat and chats apparition, turns hat back wards, forwards, nerved I bet, nerved I can tell don't pretend oh you're fine!

Stops coming so bye I'll talk to you later

special thanks to my parents for making all this possible.

tablets of Vitamin C

Campus shoes

picture that, ha ha!

Pixel that!

I had a dream about

               (what's that? sorry? let me grab the phone.)

once I imagined
  
     (I need you to listen to what I'm telling you, Kyran.)
                            
                        the sun is shine, shone, shaning.. what a

           (can you work 11 to 7?)

                racism, sexism, for God sakes, humanism is what we suffer from

   a great big prejudice against ourselves.


  Now shut your ******* mouth and keep your hands busy, feel sorry for wanting

          and just buy what you want.


                    if I have to ask you again

              
           prepare to feel terrible.

it's so speakless, you lucky *******.
I couldn't tell you half my terrors
half my bliss
half my stupid ghastly lovely other ****.

so that is why this poem stands both with me
and alone.

Panic attacks are like deathless suicides
****.

You're deader than a dead man because unnatural fasts
unnatural- fasts
solipsist dizz-
solipsist sip, mizz?
burn the boardwalk and walk the beach *** all of a sudden
life is too short to fuckit, later.

everything has to slither out like Satanic snakes offering the half-bitten apple
to Adam *** he got the other bit stuck in his Adams Apple and suddenly lost his voice,
** **, take that, prophecies of God!

Too tired to be the  metaphysical rebel licking the slug slime off your toes as if you deserve the luxury,
smile again and I'll call you the prettiest pervert to ever strip down to your socks.

this is what a broad mind is,
I write this assuming weirder thoughts have flickered in your ******* lightbulb.

**** angles.
This house has got plenty of **** angles. Tom knows, I don't. Tom knows more about that kinda stuff because that's Tom's forte.
Old Cochrane.

I'm not sure what disabilities he suffers from, but to be honest it doesn't seem much like he suffers. He's just a dude with a loud set of brains fixated on a very Cochrane world, sort of like Plato I guess, beard and everything, looking at the angles and strange asymmetric dots with a feeling that there’s some preternatural 'other world' where all of Cochrane's expectations are met and this house as well as the world would do ******* well to abide by it if it knows what's good.

Old Cochrane loves Superman Returns. I once saw him watch Superman Returns 3 times in one sitting, to the point that it became Superman Returns Returns Returns and for Chrissake if Metropolis were real I doubt his ethics would be much appreciated anymore but hey, who am I to say? I'm no Clark Kent but I'm sure Cochrane thinks he is, and if he's damnwell Plato he can damnwell be Clark Kent just as well as the next Kryptonian sucker to crash-land on planet Earth, and it's damnwell possible Cochrane is from Krypton for all I know, he's got some miraculous will-power and push, that's for **** sure.

He's always yelling, 'ober-der! Ober-der!' like he's some sad German screaming at the **** Poles across the Oder-Neisse line as if it were there **** fault. It's either that or Krypton is ober-der and he just wants to go home, or maybe his face gets red because he knows damnwell where Lex Luthor is hiding and he just wants our ******* help finding him.

I think Old Cochrane has a crush on Kevin Spacey.

I wouldn't know, but I'm making that assumption *** Cochrane looks pretty spacey sometimes.
Okay, that was just a bad joke. I'm not too good at jokes.

I have two coworkers named Ryan. To avoid any confusion we all just call them by their last names, Soprovich and Danyluk, but most of the time we just call Soprovich Ryan Sop, and I'm not sure if he much appreciates the nickname. Our bosses name is Pam Wadden and in response to her calling him Ryan Sop he asked if he could call her Pam ***.
Pam didn't hear that of course, but I heard it. And it was at that moment I made the judgement that old Ryan Sop is good at jokes.

Anyways to slide back to my point, once I was working with both Danyluk and Soprovich and as I was leaving, to shave a few seconds before my bus, I said, 'Bye.. Ryan..s'
that made them both laugh a little so I quickly made the judgement that I'm sometimes good at jokes but I never mean to be which is kinda Zen I suppose. Buddhist effortless effort or whatever they damnwell call it.

I've always been somewhat of an intellect, but not usually of my own freewill. I read a lot, but I sort of read like a ****** addict shoots-up.. just one more line, just one more paragraph.. and before I know it I've finished a book that kinda scared me but good ******* the high was fine.

I guess it's not really like that at all, but I like to think of it like that sometimes, it kind of excites my stomach in the good way, makes me feel like some ******* rebel reading **** the government has probably already burned or recycled into the paper bags I shop with at Safeway..
shopping at Safeway.. livin' life the Safe Way.. gatherin all the grosh-rees, yeah, you ****** know me
I forgot to mention I'm somewhat of a part-time rapper and 40% of the time I have rap lyrics pulsing through my head as my own inner monologue. I dunno why but it's always kinda made me proud to think the way I do and ******* does life get high and low and if you understood you would know what I'm talking about, but I know you probably know what I know, I just like to be a little pretentious about that kinda stuff *** if I pretend I'm the only one it kinda manifests in my attitude and I get girls easier.

True story.

Maybe.

Probably not, but if ya see what I'm getting at that assertion is part of the pretention *** I'm a ******* hipster for Chrissake, writing like J.D. Salinger, reading like Kerouac without the squinty drunk eyes of infinite sadness.

I loved that achey crane you used to call your neck
I used to passionately kiss that achey crane
maybe massage the middle more
so its 80 year contract with you
could be properly fulfilled
without having to take advantage
of the *******
warranty
again.

******* God and Angels Ltd.
free marketeers who planned our obsolescence.
give me what I paid for
you self-righteous Forbes ******.

Rainy day tired-eyes
one of those mornings where
all my 'achievements' are straw
and for all I care
they could be bonfired for blasphemy
70 years ago from now.

I woke one day to find my blood all drained into a corner
Of my room, it swathed and swooped like pasta on the burner
Under water, boiling soft, and so content to listen
As to what and where my life has gone, and why I'm missing
Life, and long red roads of ocean currents to old Goa
The world is mad! And me it's had!
At 18 is when I told yah

And I know you didn't want
to disagree.

In White Rock
They paint the rock
White.

Yearly, perhaps
To keep nature nurtured?
Neutered?

I don't mind.

Either way,

It's kind of nice
To someone.

"Man is a crushed being. Floats like logs on an empty river in a wild with no predators,
because, Man knows, a predatory wild is immoral."
no regrets.

and water once said to the wall
"Can I speak? And if I speak why do I speak this particular language? Beyond my reflective frailties and your broken back, there really isn't much to be said for the anglo-saxon remembrance of loss, now, is there?"

and the sleep in the corner of her bedroom was like a feminist strike for equal wages
there was a resentful bitterness to the way she spat her measured love.

often, she would say nothing as a means to everything,
and everything as a means to nothing,
but either way the only one listening was every one of us, so we couldn't really hear a word she was saying.

some mornings, I awoke to the curious wondering of subject versus object, and sad endings versus no endings, and you know what?
not once did an answer appear and if it did, no way was there a syllable empty enough to describe our lack of a point
so I stopped calling I, I
and started calling I, we
so we slept until 1 in the afternoon with the only shame being that of novelized continuity with its great big book on the cons of finitism we tried to return for store credit only to realize it wasn't Chapters selling, nor the writ of the holy ghost, but instead that particular angle of our face that can only be witnessed if one mirror is placed in front of another with a third to the left

and suddenly, 'I' made more sense,
what a shame?

and water once said to the wall
"all things are all things," and the wall listlessly agreed to nothing.

so we walked to the water and agreed on behalf of the wall
and the water swooshed kindly as we lay out a towel
sleep on the beach.

and the sleep in the corner of her bedroom was like a feminist strike for equal wages
there was a resentful bitterness to the way she spat her measured love
so my nervous flinch began to wonder why the real world teases with stillness, distant mountains, open roads, warm kisses, sunrises, and cold rain
when I still have to get up for work in the morning.

the whole uni-world-verse is a work of art
painted, sculpted, written, strummed, yelled, whispered, spoken, hummed,
watched, read, walked, met, clutched, felt, thought, fraught, shot, healed,
sealed, revealed, eaten, clapped, drummed, hugged, kissed, loved, hated, caressed,
sexed, hit, held, slit, melded, tripped, tasted, clothed, wasted, hurt, emaciated,
bounded, re-created, infinite, hallucinated, framed, contained, insane, profane,
profound, no-sound, throned, starved, crowned,

and could the hues and colors of experience be expressed
I would have worked this art to show and speak to no one
but as the same, no none
and yes some
to a sandwich multitude and the star-gaze vigil
from the back, to the front, in the middle.

all big, all mid, all little
and silent as a God watching young girls play fiddle.

And the show is never over!

I don't even remember purchasing the tickets.

Welcome to a runny nose, and welcome to a style of up and down.
Because that's all up and down are; styles for the miles of crowded planet.

Drink your tired music like a bowl of wonton soup
Chunks will surprise you.

Swipe your debit, credit, hallmark card to purchase them

All of them.

Every inch of their REM.


I woke up to the winter concealed in valleys
Filled with fortune and ethernet cables.

What's your wifi password?

"Thanks, love."

Alright, thanks, love.


What a beautiful way to say "careful."

Carefree.

Curvature of some invisible decimal point.


I love you.

at the psych ward with the client,
hardly anyone is quiet
they all say they feel okay
but 'they' don't even buy it.

here and there a light will flicker
pulsing on and off, I'm sicker
are these lights intentional?
pyscho-nautic centinnel?

calming, calming
smells like ****;
holy **** I need to sit,

who am I and who are they?
oh, here comes the dinner tray.

snow-water dribble dots are mountain spheres on my sweater
outside, the cold is hol-ee ****
the weather is wholly enveloping wooly anythings
so good luck telling skies to quiet.

I tried, and the skies whispered back
by breaching the bottom lip of my jeans to crawl a great big
'ha
   ha
     ha
       haaaaaaa'
up my Pyrenees spine like God had laid out a line of coke days ago and was only now ready to gracefully snort.

they said 'blizzard' last night,
I said 'blurry blank' in the morning
rain and slush and cold and rush and
no no no, my veins weren't heating up.

Clammy fingerprints lead to evidence
of sickness
pain
death
or cold.

Hot fingerprints lead to evidence
of panic
***
ecstasy
or heat.

I'm sure I could see an Illuminati reference
in the combination of 'play-pause.'

thing is,
I'm winning if I'm talking about it

******* idiots couldn't keep their secret society a secret

the sled flattens cans on its way down the rock-face
oh, bottomless pit, how have thou forsaken the moth without the lantern!
carry me and I will carry me farther,
shoot a man and he will die for a day
teach a man to shoot and he will die for a lifetime.

Inalienable in the sense of extra-terrestrially impossible
Cold in the float-plane at 8000 feet or as high as an average cascade
'Average' being an ******* who believes himself average
**** that *******.

slumber as fast as you can to reach first place.
go, go, go!

the race has started!

cables are faded like pencils erased with no patience
and wifi reigns king.

lord of the invisible air
it's the internet plus O2 we survive on.

Under prickled probably-a-berry-bush
overhead the scented magistrate and the muffled cough
of one emberassed to be viral
she's somewhere on the a-scale, but she is so very divine
zero public humility, whopee cushion existentialism
'I didn't do it, you did it.'

Oh right, thanks for putting your hands up
now turn around and lay your chest on the front of my squad car
sleep again and I'll wake you like Royalty once woke the jester.

jam your front toe on the archway
so you can be the vocals in my band
we'll be jamming next week, if you care to join us?

I understand.

It's not as much effort as sudoku
if you ask me.

Perhaps the lions share found itself inside my coat
where I never thought to look for the dastardly sins of a mall security officer
I was to assume his best intentions at heart! he is here to guard!
however, that's lost in the bramble of bush and the mountain of crystalline cloud-water
sky-ocean
plummeting over my head.

strange neighbourhood if you ask me.

the shape of a body in a photograph can be slanted
like a monk on acid laughing at the fact that he already knows
and this feels no different to his everyday happy glance.

he was worried
until he realized
your birth

was his birth
and your birth

A cute girl with blonde-streaks and pink skinnies marches dignified past my cubicle, stopping for a moment to inspect me;

"Is that-
Nevermind."

And on she floats into the grand sky-blue matrix of life.
That was our moment together.

sitting in the laptop cubicle aboard the Queen of Surrey
a duo of older women scuttle past as I open a new document.
"blank page," the first one says.
I laugh. "Well, you've gotta start somewhere."
"Totally blank page," the second chimes in.
I chuckle again.
As they scuttle on forwards, the second, with a bruised right-eye purple and black from God-knows-what, says, "she's mean. Dont talk to her."
I laugh again and nod,
"Okay."

I spread my influence on lives
And lives
And lives.

Each a part of every art
Surprise
Surprise
Surprise.

We rise at the sound of alarms on the dresser
So by 9 AM we can start saying 'yessir'
We fall back asleep at the end of the day
Like we just lived our lives through an era
Through an age

And each page read
mis
understood
By the reader

Finds itself-
Simon says
The picture is the leader.

I've made my point.

I am the rest stop for truckers in the window
The dark and muggy photographic night
so they forget they've become widows.

I don't believe in kness nor turtles talking terror
Nor do I believe that the Earth moves from quaking tremors.

I am the cradle of the civil sight sorority
Making love to castles for I don't believe seniority.

I am the rebel which Camus told would come hold
The oldest, boldest lotus flower
Frozen solid in the cold.

Drinking Rose remembering young-old Auntie Debbie
Who had eyes like pies mixed in the ocean and a bevvy of
Insulation, house-hold and a water-forlorn view
With her lionness curled hair which the wind affectionately blew.

Sitting on her lawn chair, not on lawn but on the deck
She loved, she laughed, she looked to what she had inside her head
Like landing immigrants from countries far from White Rock shore
She had it all, she owned the sprawl, but knew she wanted more
and that she had it, glad it never took the sun from out the sky
Not once did the window break from sunlight in her eye
and doorknobs crawl left
as she sits so patient ready for the.. everything

ready for the.. everything

ready for the.. everything.

she's NOT waiting, she's just making
every single moment COUNT
lies and likes mean non to her as the counter fills up like a FOUND
fountain. she's rounding every corner in her Jetta
Uncle Jerry in the next seat, happy that he got to meet

with the women of his dreams
I see his eyes still gleam and scream
'I love you Debbie, love you Debbie'

Life and death is just the water
in the stream

forever flowing
Auntie Debbie was a river
and all rivers lead

to ocean.

she never really arrived
so she never really left.

hello, Auntie Debbie?

I know you go by a different name now.

Perhaps we'll each meet you again one day
a different body
a different face.

"You want to keep things on an even key, this is what I'm saying. You want to go with the flow. The sea refuses no river. The idea is to remain in a state of constant departure while always arriving. It saves on introductions and goodbyes. The ride does not require explanation - just occupants. That's where you guys come in. It's like you come onto this planet with a crayon box. Now you may get the 8 pack, you may get the 16 pack but it's all in what you do with the crayons - the colors - that you're given. Don't worry about coloring within the lines or coloring outside the lines - I say color outside the lines, you know what I mean? Color all over the page; don't box me in! We're in motion to the ocean. We are not land locked, I'll tell you that." -Waking Life

Speak of the arrows which collapse unfaded through the gates of gated gratuities
Expansive perpetuity
Leading to the loose leaf paper falling from empty trees in the dead of an autumnal night
Moonlight,
Clouded contact lenses

Mills billowing, malls bellowing
"Open for busy-ness! Open for busy-ness!"

Unzipping jackets with a smile that says
"From the ends of endings, I have always begun with an eternal grin while you slept on my knees and I dreamed of things smaller than the precipice of the period at the end of this sentence."

This never loved that
And that never loved this
Because they soon discovered 'This' was not this, and 'That' was not that
They were all There together, and discovered an 8 kicked sideways was an honesty beyond promises
And angrily, I remember wondering what had ever come over the all of us that wanted nothing more to do with anger

Had we stormed off in all directions, reading to seek in veins for a blood that was unfounded in the deadly hallows of happy mathematics?
Or were we simply throwing words together in the hopes of sounding surreal?

Sometimes I feel psuedo when I write, when I know I'm quite as real as anyone else.
I just need to struggle with the words more honestly, I suppose.

Perhaps I need to struggle more honestly with myself.
As Kerouac said,
“My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.”

I need to go mad.

I need to quit my job and be here and all over here without a worry for the ideas
Yesterday, tomorrow
It is only ever today.

It doesn't need to make sense. It doesn't need to oblige my mother and father with a proper philosophical argument as to why I want to be here, because all they've ever been is 'there,' with the best intentions at heart I know, but without ever coming back down to Earth and letting their worries waft away like the smell of fresh, metallic rain during the Ides of March.

They failed the exam of the lilies which did not accept the parental "this is the way it is."
It is only the way it is because we are too cowardly to endorse our wildest dreams.

We do not wish upon stars, and if we do, it is because we wish upon those stars to help us get out of there, when all we have to do to escape there is to be here like a sudden clash of thunder upon a bobby-pin that has been pricked into the arm out of an innocent curiosity which all the There-Afters would call strange, while the Here-Nows would smile and nod at such beautiful sincerity.

At such pristine reality.

All the logical arguments my father confers upon me during our Grand Cosmic Debates always feel gently serious. He does not wish to convert me, nor to convince me.

He simply tries to pull me gently back into his reality, which sits reinforced by the rest of the global nay-sayers and There-Afters.

Why is it that my parents never had the courage to go mad?

Why was it nothing but a literary curiosity to them?

Why do they still continue to believe that one cannot simply run off into the sunset with a cosmic sense of reckless abandon?


The human race is nothing but a grand conviction.
The words themselves look to say, "Now, here here young one! You are a part of our great label. You owe us. We have been measuring since the day of your birth."
It's like we are born, and hopped through hoops until satisfaction meets the empty stomach to tell it that it must be full. So we struggle to fill, but it always becomes empty again. We seek to devour and consume and listen to the creased minds of our parents as they confer to us their common notion of sense which truly senses nothing beyond nonsense.

All of this makes me feel like I'm jogging on a sidewalk of soap.

And I'm sleepy.

We all work too hard, even when we're not at work.

We feel the affluenzic pull of occupation.

Not because we occupy our occupations,
but because our occupations occupy us.

I am a Cosmic Hobbyist

For the infinite round of nowever and always again.

head
brain specific
feels heavy

a little too much slouch factor
day in
day out

I marvel at the very weirdness of existence
to the point that I will wonder
if it's so weird, I am sick in existing

likelier,
I am sick in thinking existence so strange.

in the bliss phase of a hangover
I can march like a sage
no, I am a true sage
ready to let the bottom of the pale collapse from the weight
of the water

nueronal reflection
each atom in my head attempts to stare at itself
thus freaking its essence
right the **** out.

calm the **** down.

you can't bite your teeth,
with your teeth.

it will be a brooding day of fine, crisp air
when the world is born again.

it will seem so full, the cardboard hanging from the mantelpiece will burst into flame like a happy call to arms;
'hold me, darling.'

the facts will remain fiction, and the fiction will remain as-is, and the only real truth will be
absolutely everything.

will I fall in love with a Bodhisattva?