octasyllabic

stomach upset and lame, loud love
souped up, disarmed, chances blown off.
i'm lonely like i haven't been
alone before, like i don't know
what this loneliness will become.
like my visitors and all my
visitations resolve themselves
into weekends of depression
left alone at last and feeling
like it's all just time lost to me.

remember winters come and gone
and lived through, and died through, and done.
but some days it's as if i've not
ever made it through these long months
with their shortest days and longing.
but i have and took with me skills
i need to make it through again.
so where are they? why do I forget
the most important things I learn?

nonasyllabic

i'm thinking too hard about numbers.
and every time it comes to this,
trouble reigns supreme, lording over
me, laughing, singing, dancing, gloating,
like victory is its already.
but still i fight, though not inclined to
do too much, waste too much breath this time,
i'm tight-lipped and short-winded despite
my nature, my wordy roots and blood.

words and phrases i've been using lately

"jinkies"
"fuck 'em"
"fat fuck"
"twenny bucks"
"~"
"terrifying"
"brilliant"
"fuck you, don't you dare think about taking my jigsaw, you haitian bastard."

i am a bit more substantial today

those feelings of wispy inconsistency are gone. i'm grounded, solid, down-to-earth. today. is it the weather? the pit of my stomach? yesterday, who was i to feel that nothing could touch me? it is the little pains. the little tears. the cuts and bruises.

the headaches. the constancy of discomfort.

I AM ABSOLUTELY FUCKING UNREAL

yeah, you heard me screaming. yeah, you saw me sink to my knees. yeah, i slammed my head against the wall of the elevator, bang bang bang bang, four times and as the doors opened, i returned to normalcy, i returned to me, i returned to the fourth floor. reminded to remember who i am.

yeah, you saw me shrinking. yeah, you heard me thinking. yeah, i remembered to throw myself in the middle, remembering all the while what it would cost me. there's just too much noise in this too much joy. it turns out that i don't turn out well at all.

if i could say everything at once, i could combine my words into the most powerful form of expression known to man, unknown to everyone all at once.

if only i could scream just a little bit louder. if only i could scream just a little bit louder.

<math type = ld shape = false trick = never destiny = foolish>2+everything</math>

how do you add it all up anymore? it seems like it's becoming...something else. like everything's changing. not just in your pitiful vertical bullshit marketplace, but everywhere. everything. everywhere.

you used to love me for my formulas. for my formulaic approach. for my endless forms i had you fill out. i just needed to know everything. i am the world's largest exit poll. i am the world's worst nightmare.

imagine waking up from your worst nightmare and just laughing at how pathetic it is.

i get that all the time.

buzz

your words of the day:
differentiator
information silos
human capital
disconnect
verb(i)age

look it up! use it! wear it out!

(as they say).
navel gazing

"i. was once. misinformed. about. your intentions."

what am i even thinking anymore? shit, if i'm even thinking about anything. one minute, it's this, next minute it's that, and don't even get me started about minutes number three. that's when all bets are off. all bets are off.

timecode and any given sunday this weekend.

and very little else. doughty still in my head. that smile still in my head. but as i stumble around from nicotine habit, i'm thinking i don't even want to bother. that's minute number two. and i laugh at myself and think, "if you don't want to bother...well...yeah, me neither."

it's terrible. it's all a bust. we're just making it up as we go along.

i try to cultivate my obsessive-compulsive behaviors.

think again, mothah-fuckah

why so vulgar? and so bold? it's crazy, but this election, go figure, is pissing me off.

or perhaps the reactions. or perhaps the fact that i can't stop thinkingtalkinghearingwondering about it. when was the last time i read a newspaper? when was the last time i cared?

freaks. motherfuckers talking about people who can't figure out a ballot shouldn't be voting in the first place.

dave's point:
"Oh, maybe you and I are unaware of some constitutional law forbidding
uneducated people from voting. I suppose you and I are now the uneducated
ones. Fathom that. Being that the employees circulating this information
are so intelligent, I'm sure the irony of their stance being tremendously
undemocratic is not lost on them."

plus, they filled their emails with wonderful misspellings. "eyesite."

fuck em. it's allowed for people to just make a mark next to their name when signing in to vote in case they're unable to write. the system is in place so that the less-educated will have a chance to vote. shit, it's fucking democracy you dumbasses. that means EVERYBODY.

Above Top Secret - Uncovering Government Conspiracies

In the mood for some excellent paranoia? For the love of crimony. This is amazing stuff.

And then there are the numerologists going crazy on the "809" area code scam.

(which, by the way, is interesting -- 809 is the area code of the dominican republic, not the bahamas, as all the documents claim...not sure why that's been overlooked...)

thorough.

read new yorker article on train on way to work about meg,ev,jason,etc.,etc. typical new yorker article style -- journalist feels need to put self into text as usual. all new yorker articles are like personal blogs. "As Hitler and I sat down for coffee (I was wearing a gray jumpsuit) he complimented me on my personal appearance." no journalistic separation. just report. i still read it. interesting anyway to learn about the history of this thing. i first saw on courtney's page and had no idea what it was. (sidenote: just visited courtney's blog and how terrible is it that blog doesn't have a vast and powerful spell checker? everybody would sound so intelligent.)

anyway -- point being. what? nice work.

phone calls from some chick from somewhere. and not the one you're thinking. arguing about why bush really is the eviler of two evils (and no, i don't argue that you should vote for the lesser of two evils -- you should vote for the candidate you feel to be the best, even if that's a write-in. they're all bullshit votes anyway if you're not campaigning. and in the state of illinois where gore was mr. shoe-in from the giddy-up, any one vote isn't going to do much of anything. but don't tell that to the floridians. motherfuckers take forever to count to 2 million and then someone distracts them by asking what time it is ["huh? it's 2:15....oh CRAP, now we have to start all over again"] and then...shit, my parentheticals are getting parenthetical on me) and she thinks gore sounds like a moron.. "he's such an evangelist...he's just so emphatic about everything." that's the first time i've heard that about gore. thought he was supposed to be wooden. whatever. anyway, this whole thing sours the whole conversation for me and so i just want to be a very quiet little mouse over here in the corner and let it go.

tragic.

and then there's julie whose smile, i've realized, really hits me right <here> and who i just can't get a read off of except for that smile -- is that smile for everyone? who's to say? but it seems she's a great combination of cute and non-annoying (verging, dare i say, on cool? nah...couldn't be...oh wait, it seems that it could) which is so freaking rare. you know what i've been dealing with. fuckin' a. let's just....

fuhgeddaboudit.

it is morning on the monday of my discontent

everyone is either dead
or damaged
or married
or me.

sleeping and dreaming
or tossing,
turning
in fear.

it's simple to think
these thoughts
have never
been thunk.

but i try, i'm trying.
eyes burning,
body floating,
never knowing.

instead   it comes    to    this  -- good      night,   gracie

heave a big sigh for the end of the week for the beginning of the weekend of the beginning of the end. or something along those lines. i really couldn't tell you what i'm telling you, except that these little talks of ours have already helped out a lot

( thank    you   very much)

and it's all in the guise of getting me back in that manchurian groove -- and who knows what the hell that means -- that i used to have.


you got big plans for yourself? -- it's just another gray page, with another gray mind seeping out through the edges again.

cha.

so much to say so much to say so much to say so much to say


but tight lips keep sinking ships from breaking up and falling down.
big man broken up -- more compelling images are rarely seen. how can you answer that? obvious dedication. obvious commitment. true breakdown.

let's pretend we know what we're doing:

no dry eyes in room
emotional visine drops
redness still remains.

only good for a laugh

found myself once again in top5's ruminations, slightly (and i think inefficiently) edited from my original submission:

Just once I'd like the answer to the question,
"Honey, why are you crying?" to be "Because
you know too much and I have to kill you."
Instead, it's "You watch too much football and
never take me shopping" that I always get.


this is the extent of my creative genius lately. a series of one-liners that usually only dave will find funny. that's fine, but the part in my head that still thinks that one day we'll find my shit in barnes & noble and on amazon.com keeps saying, "they ain't gonna publish that shit, chunky." not sure why that part in my head calls me chunky -- must have gotten crossed with some fat-girl's body-image controller. so what to do with what is obviously comic brilliance but is otherwise worthless aside from making dave crack up in front of his co-workers? time to write for letterman.

pills bury dough boy

...i keep thinking, "i must, i must, i must have more thoughts than this" and i feel doughty roll in the soul coughing grave. there is no reason for me to have more thoughts than i have -- i am not that special-edition collector's-item version of myself that i used to be.


these girls last night told me they have binders full of the old thoughts, the old "songs", poems, etc. nothing but depressing, that. who would want to keep that shit? burn it...but show it to me first. if there's any first editions in there, i'll kill for the copies. why? they're worthless as the digital versions -- less so, illegible as i'm sure they are.

even worse: the bags of old notes they described. with my terrible angst of yetseryear. i declared: "it's a damn cool thing that even if that angst still exists, we all know how to deal with it better these days."

julie: "it sure is. if you couldn't deal with it better it'd be like you didn't learn anything over the past 7 years."

think about that: 7(+) years ago, we might have sat around, all worried about covering our portions of the check, unable to deal with the self-destructive terror built up inside.

worst of all: dani says, "I remember you punched a tree because of some girl."

i could only reply: "i've punched a lot of things about a lot of girls."

and worse than that? i still do. but not so much over girls anymore, though i'm sure that'll come to pass again.

said i: "I only have one button that people push. It's labeled 'stupidity' and people keep slamming the thing."