.

As you get older
All the real issues become “fake issues” —
Because nothing matters anymore —
You’ve seen the spiritually helpless
Head guru
Stomp on any lives,
Innocent necks,
With proverbial cleats,
And you’ve seen the cluttered masses scramble
For distractions and dark movie theatres
Leaving you to wonder at the
Wishing from the well.

In her voice is like a contrapuntal marrow song,
As her eyes fly a bee line into mine,
Flopping and sloshing as we mix juices,
Brilliant little blues and yellows
Down there in the essential stream of life
And I can imagine what dancing with her would be like
To songs of the city from decades past
While the moment hits her unflappable charisma
And dissipates into shining stars.

The sociological missive is there —
You are CONTINUALLY making something out of nothing,
Just wanting to know your streets,
Just wanting to smile at all the street signs and names,
Have every moment be as in song,
The wild weeds aching to get out of their plastic shells.

Life as an amoral injunction of aggression

Around theoretically informant buildings
Hits you after you’ve seen everything else,
Which you’ve lost so long you’ve forgot what it felt like,
Boredom turning your insides to
Apples moving and oscillating
As droll hazards of individuality.

All of this consciousness is the same,
That’s what LSD teaches us —
All of this energy comes from the same big, brown, bulbous mutation,
Knowing comfort only in this sprawling life,
The obliviousness to itself it’s now come to blend
With virtue and scripture on a blind afternoon,
And an inept girl gives you a smile,
There’s nothing you can do with it —
Her song sings on.

It’s marijuana,
And then we are maligned assemblages,
Erector set like bundles of unscrupulous worldliness,
Set to ambulate and gesticulate under the theoretical canopy of “virtue,”
Which, one must admit, marijuana will help us toward
As we continue
To wonder what the point of THAT will be,
Anyway.

Hi folks, tonight by all accounts I’ve eaten too danged much, and just wanted to vent a little bit about it on this friendly forum (since I can’t seem to “vent” any of this unneeded mass from my despicable stomach right now). When you eat too much beer helps with the digestion, like drinking two or so good beers like Bass or something (which is roughly the equivalent of 18 Miller Lites), but then the snakebite of it all is that you then have to hydrate, both a) to cancel out all the sodium in the food, and probably some other stuff (I always get thirsty when I eat), and (b) to nullify the dehydrating effects of the alcohol.

I worked today, and I work tomorrow, and part of why I ate so much is that I want to sleep soon, but my stomach is beginning to feel like a veritable Mount Trashmore part Deux of Indiana. I got to thinking about the theoretical aspects of hydrating a body with a physical substance, and it just seems so sad and ill-fated, how we’re so mortal, and limited to these physical measurements, when it’s neither fun, nor in this case practical, to even hydrate at all. Maybe after this life when I reform as part of an unimportant part of a celestial body in the sky, I’ll miss the hopelessness of life, the randomness, the seeming arbitrariness of adding a certain amount of fluid to this one part of your body, not any other, in order to do the “right thing” in hydrating. But tonight, it sure seems foolish, and I wish I could just be scientifically hydrated by osmosis by some big weird creature like those things in the movie Aliens. But then, I think we’ve all felt like that at some point or another. Goodnight. Hell, it can’t get any WORSE.

An onomatopoeia

Is a poem
Of virulent 1987 tenacity.

The effeminate hangs from a girl’s beads
While traffic of obligations stirs the masses,
And from my perfect understanding of the weather
As a toothless outsider
I will praise lustful projects,
Will bleed every ounce of me to flea market traders
On forgotten, Mozart days,
The clamoring of the wrens on the topic of our sameness,
Our sameness,
Drawing East to West with lights.

Around every corner, I
Find
Journeys into the enrapturing truth,
.
Like being born
Again and being naked though
Still
On this ride from
.
Albumen to knowledge,
All knowledge,
Paralyzed with a deific
Eye on what should have been,
Blessed, harmonic fanfare.