for close to 20

 years i've been sitting here

writing about the road

 in front of my abode

and the view hasn't changed

the place across the street still brown

with black shutters and mirrored windows.

i've mirrored these back at them now

to keep the room cooler and it works but 

from the outside it just looks wrong

half finished. i'm too weary to fix it

even with the material camping in my room.

anyway, i can't tell from this mini slatted viewpoint

c'est la ennui.

hey crow, i just saw your message today.

i too will not give up on blog. they'll have to erase me

when the tubes run out of space or whatever

happens

when they remove a http. buried in digital landfill

ones and zeros waiting to be flipped or not.

i still imagine somewhere the archives exist just

need monetization. frozen like cryogenic heads

waiting to be, again.

but really it's all virtual ash

which means the same as never existed. 

ripples of the past infecting the now

and the impossible, the future.

*

why i don't write. so much. anymore.

is less to do with nothing to say

because that hasn't stopped me before

and more to do with the way it hurts 

this old body. sciatic and such. but it's nice

that my new glasses allow me to read what i type

so that's an improvement i can wallow in.

*

i get the general zietgiest of reddit

but the magahats i just can't understand.

they feel the same about me. when i 

try to feel it, it's slimy 

and i don't wanna touch it cuz it might

stick my skin and suck me into a 

jeep lined with ducks on the dash.

or a lifted truck painted with brandon

bumper stickers. or a suburban lawn

freshly mowed, summer flags flipping

at the borders. dogshit on the yard.

neighbors.

yelling at the owners. 

instead i stay in my hurricane proofless hovel

on rented land proudly proclaiming i am not

an owner. i am a slave. a worker b. a point of pride

in not succumbing to the baselessness of worth measured

in money. or worthiness. not succumbing to the killer of joy.

8*

but really it's just that 

despite my long hours of work

8 perday imagine!

i am penniless. any thing i buy

is on credit to be

 paid off with next year's

taxes so the cycle can begin again. 

and people call me a boomer living

on the hard work of prior gens

taking all the privileges they gave me

and throwing them all away

for participation trophies

to leave to my children. 

i work for a living. credit pays 

my medical bills while i pay

my daughter's lease to own off. 

without even a garuantee that any of that

will count at the nine years mark. i can't

even find the contract. 

and i just don't care really

i'm tired. all the time.

if i could just sit and read all day

that would be my retirement.

it's true, even though i've read

all the stories of the bride 

and the cheating spouses, fiancee's 

girlfriends boyfriends the whole definition 

of cheating changing from just 10 years ago

all the stories of oh my god i am debating

whether to asterix the word rape 

because someone reading this somewhere 

somehow will be triggered by the pornography

especially if i put the word child before it

as if that isn't a reality that too many 

for centuries have endured as almost a rite

of passage into what it means to be chattel

i mean human

in a "we live in a society" way.

you know that song they still play on the alt rox

station because 

every thing was going fine 

till the day she met me

yeah 

so all that's going on just like it always has

and you think an asterix is gonna save

you from the trigger? there's millions

let's go for it BILLIONS of triggers out here.

wasps flying around y ou all the time

and you don't even know it but when you see one

if you scream 

you're just scaring yourself yes you can say

you've been stung before and you know how that hurts

but you don't need to relive it everytime you see one

if you just say to yourself yeah

it resemebles the wasp that bit me

and all wasps can bite 

but it's not the same wasp

or the same day

and even tho they all bite

they don't always want to. 

some never do.

*

i read the teachers

the new home owners

the new home   buyers

the tree owners

tree haters lawn lovers

lawn haters how to get grass

stains out of my new toms

i just watched a young boy

with hair as straight as mine

get an awesome haircut.

i mean, sometimes i watch vidyas

as i scroll across them

but mostly it's reading

about all these slings and arrows

and rainbow pets and finding 200 on the 

grocery store floor then 

finding the person who lost it

to give it back or the paranormal 

like my dead dog came back as butterfly

or my cousin died in a horrible accident

and i drove by, unawares of the player

tho i said a prayer for the driver anyway.l

lots of creaking moving objects doors slam

sleep paralysis with a slender man.

*

but what about me?

still stuck in this tepid life

i dream only of work

and working i mean they're unusual 

circumstances like the president values

my opinions or i'm stepping into a new 

work zone or going off some cliff 

that turns out to be my job

packing parachutes or testing mosquito nets

maybe cooking meth for a midnight social

but i mean it's still work. even more puzzling

is when i don't dream of work but no one

i know populates my dreams. alll strangers

in nomral circumstance as if

i really know them , have similitudes, lives

intertwined. it makes me sad

when i dream of work. 

*

everythought  a thwarted sensation

but weariness the most thwarting of all.

to lie abed and wait for something

beyond guilt or sugar to stimulate motion.

the wish for a new drug when all the old ones

inevitably lead to a painful death. unless early checkout

but that's already too late. 

the weirdous is seeing my partner

become a dad again and how i just don't 

want to be there so now my partner 

is not. he's got a new one

which i understand he's gotta be there

since momma and daddy aren't but i

didn't commit. can't commit. just float along

eating  dinner and clawing him down 

from the fascist father facade. we would not

have agreed on the raising of the children

but he would have given into me because

he doesn't want to actually be responsible.

but he has to be now. no one to blame

and he'd be pissed that i characterise him this way

but he expects a seven year old to be rational

and co operative and that's not what he was given.

i try to stay united, just as i did with my ex

but it's hard, even tho he's not quite as difficult 

as my ex and he does apologise after all.

oh jesus. making excuses again.

it's cuz i've checked out

the boy is not mine.

())))))

cusp

night's edge slices

the west of rainbow's skies

i walk disembodied thru the mosquito grass

disconnected from any sense of doing or purpose

and i wonder is this what depression feels like

my health is truly faded, endurance a fantasy

things pile up in the just cleaned kitchen

a little more red leaks out of clouds

the grey inside becoming 

&&&

i scroll all my time away.

i don't even interact i 

observe, silently only

the bots know i'm here algorithm

is my closest confidant. 

*

it's not that i've said all i have to say.

it's not that i actually think i'd be remembered or preserved

or granted some small immortality 

in what is coming into being

i am the winston, the banned, the wormed

apple. pale pink in bathtub. 

it's that writing as i want to write

takes a lot of energy and quietness

a lot of cigarettes and thrown away typewritten pages

ello.coms and gravel bbs wiped off the face of the web.

all just as well because most of that was tripe.

i'm sure there were good lines somewhere. sometimes.

it was more an outpouring of too much info before 

that

became the national obsession. i'm only talking

about my own writing here. most everyone else's

i just admire the fuck out of to this day. 

but it's all gone now, except the little 

that was saved on simple reality writing.

**

i close the door against the lights.

wonder how or if i could write

a compelling story anyway. 

schroedenger's love is such a silly title.

the cat is dead is better especially for this century.

the gun went off

collapse

and really the story is not so special.

everyday there is betrayal, all the lives out here

just trying to find some kind of love

some kind of continuity in a fracturing reality.

has it always been this precarious?

i'm beginnning to worry about him.

i wanted him gone but not absent

not forever. just a few days. 

is he dead? because this is not like him at all..

****

he's not dead.

that's good.

# why the angst?

again it's related to the exhaustion

i would write but 

i would clean but

i would refinish the project

or take the dog for a walk 

or go into the store for a canolli and chips

but it's all so exhausting.

i feel like i'm invisible

yet spotlit

agoraphobia yet needy

i mean what would i do if i had to actually 

forage for food? liek when the revolution happens

i hope they kill me quick. i make a good slave now

but i have hot showers when i want them.

food cooked by other hands all i need is lucre.

what would drive me when all that's gone?

sneak into a looted publix 

slide over the melted ice cream

paw thru scattered pasta and cat litter

take out my trusty can opener

and feast on a can of tuna i found buried

under the plastic bags of rotted meat

marvel at the waste, shoot a zombie in the back.

no thanks. and with your global warming TM

that all seems very close to the bone.

aleady fields lose their fecundity

water moves to the oceans

the oceans take up summer in the mountains.

survivors will be few. it won't be my story.

ai?

technology will not survive the coming 

of desperate societies. mad max begins

as we watch from the garden of time. 

a story i didn't read but imagine 

as both prosaic and prescient with a bit o magic

thrown in because whimsy is in vogue. 

but metaphors are magic aren't they.

so many years writing and reading and to not

understand that at visceral level. 

and now in my old age

explaining it to myself as if i were

some neophyte in a writing class.

the trouble is. 

i could not write infinite jest

so why bother writing anything

it's been done. 

companison is the death of joy.

*

so if i were to write collapse 

or something similar i'd have to go back

to my own hopes and dreams when i was young

and honestly i just hoped i'd stay alive i guess

hoped i could stop stealing cheese from sav a lot 

and get my license back and get a steady job 

and get a trailer and a kid and a car payment

all the while wating and wondering what the fuck

did i want out of life and it wasn't this suburban thing

i'd fallen into with a man who never once meant

that he loved me never once let me know i was doing ok

told me who would put up with me more than once

and i have worked hard to erase that from who i am

but i feel like i am doing that 

to myself now. 

so i thought that if i piled something good on all my bad

i love that song. pure americana on the alt rock station

stick season. 

now you're tire tracks and a pair of shoes

i'll dream each night of some versioin of you

that i might not have but i did not lose. 

with phrases like that existing in the work

of humans and i think i need to write a book about love?

nah homie. it was just another sick sad love song.

i was just another heart that went wrong.

justification for a life that moves

through emotions like water and a stick.

i can't say that what i wanted to say 

would have been any help to anyone

least of all the dreamer. but i'd like to have existed.

somewhere on the cusp of becoming stardust again.

x censored x

this post was titled sum edits and was unpublished by blog for violating malware and viruses policy. what the actual fuck? this whole blog is behind a wall that warns of community standards and acts of triggering. oh winston, what do? 

remember crow? we kinda thought this was coming, whistling past graveyards yet to be discovered. funny thing is, this was orig published in 2007 and was unpublished just about a year ago. i was cleaning out my email and ran across this notice. there's also some in simplerealitywriting.blogspot.com .

recently went over the remnants of the sandbox and they finally closed that down. google wants five bux a month to have me continue to not delete the 3,356 remaining mostly spam emails in my official email of existence. which is why i'm deleting old things and ran across the bloodbath. ello has left the building . 

these all are  my poems from the sandbox. i don't understand how or why they say there's malware or virus. malwriting perhaps but i never went viral.

i also want to download the pics from my current phone and google drive onto this laptop and into a backup. but i'm sure they'll be lost none theless

sand fritting away, i should look up how much medicare is gonna cost me. i edited some of these, mostly changed the name of the rag for the story on jack. lol . i was so close.

 at first, it was only sand filtering away

the wind took the door
the dropout rate increases
past tense becomes present
and the long silence was upon us.
well, how to make it clear to you?
when you sang your song, i heard it.
nothing evil in that/ you whisper/ then
why are you whispering?
drifts began to pile, then form.
they got annoying because they were so cold.
it was ok, the case hardened, went slack
then flew into the gutters and became home.

pizza chronicles 7.
 so they're counting the boxes 3 times each
and the MANager says the number's wrong count em
again. and again. we could do this till dawn.
my rollers ping ,it's been slow tonite- dan, the boy, & fred a-crackin
fag jokes and the boy sez to fred i think he is listen i got a plan
& they walk off to do some dishes. a very slow nite
meaning less dough to take out the heat. i'm
the only slave in this place works all night,regardless. At the end
of a nite like this my racks
contract from a more
fluid state too fast. i get cramps. they don't make oven ibuprofen and these guys obviously have never had training in gear
maintence. i'm mullin this over, wondering
what i did in my last life to merit this particular hellish plane when
a sound like a tazered buffalo comes from the back
where they've been counting boxes for the tenth time.
michelle runs to the back and they all come out half
draggin dan, bent double but still walkin, and he's all like "i didn't
do nothing what the fuck" and fred's all "you fuckin fag you're
lucky i didn't cut you grabbing my balls like that i'll have
your mutherfuckin job you cocksuckin assfucker" michi's speed dialing regional practicing we have a situation
and the boy's all i-got-your-back with fred all
nodding his head and i can see
i ain't gonna get the no-stick bath tonite.

Self is an error of the language.

this is my line she sez o yez
i built it, they would come

a dribble castle on the edge
of the tide pooling on top of itself, crennelated sugar
tumbled and melted in wavewash admitting to nothing
like permanence,immanence. it melts. i build again
coquina corpses thickas the beach grows . breaking out
further, water that licked me yesterday.same ways, different waves. jonny
cash sings about why he wears black.jack introduces the birds to his cat.he's foaming at the brain, like thru a soap bubble wand with too many holes.froth, popping from he center out.froth on the face of the water
sizzling burgers heavy on the salt.
white stripe down the center of my ears.
crank that muther upwe got a skimboard and boogie board
and the ocean's not getting any younger.








*


and there's the sky. blue. uncluttered by metal
or other falling objects. i have electricity.
my li'l shell's color is the last purple before dark.
i feel squishy and ready for dinner.here comes the tide.


oooooooooooooooooo

the domain of attraction of the super-attracting fixed point


we thought three lanes

would be enough. but we kept being born, and each of us needed

avehicle. cloverleafs shrink

bypasses expand, the angels wings

are concrete but they fly

us above birds and smog alike.let us give praise.

888888

once you've entered the maze

it's cheating to step over the bags

where candles glow inside fireflies

 with elephantitis. you can sense frendly

faces beckoning to you

 outside the half lite cast

murmurs at the periphery of concentration.

you learn to ignore them, follow captured

stars along a path whose substance

fades beneath their light. you find yourself

beginning to hope it's a very long maze.

a minotaur at the center.

* used to say "time enough to sleep

when you're dead" . i check my pulse.you close my eyes.
*

paris, having tried everything else

tries celibacy. it's the third time

i've heard that word in less than 24 hours.

keith says it, and di asks if he masturbates.he says yeah and she explains that's not

celibacy. no sex. that's celibate. then she says

i'm celibate too. i ask, literally.

 she says, no, i'm his kind.


*


it was time for the equation to go negative.

she could tell from the way the waves sounded less

like sponges than before. she pictured him walking

up the hill backward, to the flat part of the story

where they'd once shared an apple pie cut in thirds.

his caterpillar eyelashes, his hair spun of metaphors

he's asking her to cut it now. she thinks of temple

sand destruction. delilah and divorces. with each curl he falls further from understanding

just like she didn't, then. but now

then begins to crumble like earthquake, higher

mathematics lose their glow. the fractals

take their bongs and go home, petulant

lovers with their livers eaten out.

she remembers to kiss prometheus

just before the sun sets.

his hair is so sixties.
*
what if i said it was all cooked up

would you feel tricked?i have a hat

 i like to wear.

it makes me squirm

but no king except the mad

will kill the one wears it
unwitting
he said you made me

write a haiku, then stood to

push the window closed.
she said

i look at you because i cannot bear to look at me.


*
you see the last luminary

the one which beyond

there is only the dark wood

where your friends have gathered

with cider supplied by the priests.

you know this but have forgotten.

its glow grows in your eyes

a cinder's pulse. you hesistate to leave

the maze but it rushes toward you, warp speed,

you wanted to linger between jupite

rand saturn but now pluto looms in its wrong orbit

and it's calling you home, some place

you've never been before.


vizit wit jack--excerpt from "koi alors!" salonist magazine vol 35, issue 6

reprinted with permission

...i visited jack on his forty acre estate, rimbaud, in what used to be part of the great smokey mountain national park. The purchase was made after the landmark supreme court decision caucus v. north carolina, and jack gave homage where it was due."the caucus case was not only the most important case I'd ever worked on, it was the only case in my life for five years."He must have noticed my consternation, "no, no, not the land case. The case I'm talking about was several years before that. Able Caucus came to me with a immigrant issue. Look it up, it's a matter of public record"Later I attempted to do that, but the settlement details were closed. Suffice to say that mr caucus' not so famous case provided the funds for the purchase, and his famous case provided the means. As we walked through the main compound, jack pointed out the koi pond, his "meditation place". There were huge imported japanese lilly pads covering the surface, beneath which the koi glinted like molten precious metals. He scooped a handfull of fish food from the head of stone budha and tossed it into the pond which erupted with splashes and bubbled like a witch's cauldron. I said as much to jack, who laughed and insisted I "put your feet into the water." Although it was 35 degrees outside, the water was warm as a bath."Heated year round to an optimum 72. Best temp for koi. Remind me to take you to the koi plant on the south side of the property. This little pond is peanuts compared to that". We never did make it to that plant, there was so much to see in the compound and I was on a limited schedule...

...sipping his earl grey tea, his silk dinner jacket co-ordinated with the mist beginning to rise over the koi pond, which could be viewed from the elegant dining room. His lovely wife, Jenni Russel, the author, joined us. I was almost more thrilled with this meeting, being an aspiring author myself. I asked her how it felt to live with jack's elegant pragmatism. She demurred, "jack is pragmatic by choice. He tried to be a poet once" turning to jack "didn't you babes? But poetry almost killed him, and there's no money in it, so he threw himself into a provider role. I keep telling him enough's enough, but i think money and the power it brings is his poetry now". I was non plussed and said so. I had never viewed jack as being particularly interested in power. He had the popularity to run for office, but he lived as quietly as he could, given his level of fame. I said as much to jenni who laughed and said, poetically, "power comes in many forms, not just the clownish ones, and my husband is not interested in playing the fool"...
...the stars were incredibly bright from the drive of the estate. I stopped just outside the gates, after they'd closed and waved goodbye to the cameras. I don't think Jack and Jenni were watching, but maybe they'd ask for the tape. I stood there in the North Carolina darkness, in the cold watching my breath rise up toward those lights. Pragmatism had purchased the darkness in which i could watch them shine, forty acres of wilderness, tucked safely away from the jungle of amerika. they twinkled like fish jewels in a pond.
Edited by: trashpo at: 10/14/06 10:12 am

lunch at the historic last chance cafe of the death row museum just off I 75, georgia, usa.

you plotted the murder of a friend

his rescue was the shiny roads of america.i flounced to his side like the cartoon that i am

shaking hands with all the motorhomes along the way. we went seventy in the slow lane all the way cross georgia. antebellum houses snored in their sunday best while you and i tortured disney hits for their lunch money.for miles we thought of tifton whenever the signs told us to. tifton, the reading capital of the world.
you amused us with gifs, but the cell service cut out near the cottonfields. so we had to rollour own jokes, starring billy bob and the national arts council & education bureau.
fired after the first year, the ads still stand.think. tifton. in the summer. think hell. think god it's october and the weather is stunning. after the bar b q, i drive. the sun is warpaint thru pines lining the roadside with bright bladed vestigial memories of our genocides.
i want to eat three cigarettes on the edge of the cotton while i stare at that light. i wanna be a winnebago towing a race car trailer, i want to be a miniaturized double cargo truck weaving across all the lanes --just ahead of a turn off i wanna fire up the sneaker pimps,light a cigarette, limp toward that distant x where my history is writ trailer large and flood plain jngled . the next iteration of desire.

5 minit

i don't know why

i don't write anymore.

it would do me good seeing

how messed up i am

so close to being gone.

what will i do under the money sender

what do i want but travel bender

i just wanna win the lotttery

cuz otherwise i'm 

yeah

oh fucked

unknown umbilical

 ah who am i kidding i know about it

been tethered for years now 

sucking in lives that aren't mine

revel in the distaff wooly and flaxen

spin out yarns, clothing, blankets, family trees. 

i know about it. hand held , scroll by scroll

binding minutes to nooooooo action 

a mind faceted , reflective, refraction 

gleam in a flea's eye.  i know about it.

pumping life into the not ready yet

the half baked, the uncertain outcome.

sooner or later it shrivels or gets dropped

in a full washing machine with all the other dirtys.

then where are you? alone, searching for nourishment

maybe a podcast or movie on something bigger

than a notepad.  the taste of other lives lingers

black on white specters

paragraphs with wings

 sentences with brokens.

maybe i've been, maybe you've been or he's been

feeling maybe she's been feeling or maybe there's

something akin to a feeling.  billie eilish channels

the barbie in all of us. post covid pathologies 

on the warpath sung in ethereal teen. 

_  

cuz yeah, the incubator's out there providing

from who knows where. maybe teeth, 

maybe shrink a few inches here, girth a bit there.

maybe conjure it directly from unsatiated blood

through a series of recursive tubes that's 

 somehow  been keeping me alive or

thinking that i am  

i keep quiet as a 

moribund feotus, i don't\ have much to add

and besides, all options have split into opinions

no one cares about. i never vote. not even at 69 or 420

sometimes if i think i've got a unique facet i 

just keep reading till i find it already in print. 

the really outlandish ones are often as true as they are

false. i decide they all provide nutrition 

though the wedding cakes are a li'l too monotonous

and rarely sweet. 

(((

all this to say i cut it again. 

with water. a full load

now it's up to rice and time

or i gotta go back to the dealer

for some more.

detatchment

 sun down orange in a blank sky

the inside of my eye

crow caw above 

child whine outside

show me some love

i'll show you endorphin slides

since it's all just chemical 

i'd like the right ones 

with this bitter medicine.

i suppose i should fix dinner though

the flesh wants, the breeze wafts

darkness never far.

I'VE filed my taxes

 well, almost. it looks better so amybe

we can keep this dream going i need

her to be responsible, family girl, pandoraed

into art successful at something

so i can let this go. i am just

not capable of doing it all

but i think we should get glasses. 

everything i've put off credit wise

gonna stay that way. lol. 

put off. we need glasses.

someone needs a fix

someone needs to get a crippling grip

 { nice that i 

have this time, this room.

i turn on the music and 

im in my selff made world

bits and pieces i've kept of other's lives

to spark my own imagination. 

now i'll be outside for a moment

smoking the evil weed waiting on the good. 

(

close brackets.