Seeing past my own bullshit
Saying "No."

Inside the stranger version grows
(fungus).

"I want to be loved."
Don't we all?

Living in a straight-jacket-straight-laced
community

takes, steals it's toll
2 dollars today to travel

Your soul tomorrow
to whither

Let's capture it in a jar
Sell it as sunshine

So what price shall I pay tomorrow
in order to outgrow myself, today?

2 dollars won't be enough.

**********************************************

Resonance;
suggestive power in the reflection of thoughts
scrawled on the subway walls in angry, red spray paint.
Power;
interlaced in the on-off flashing of neon lights,
in the v.d.-t.b. district where flesh is merchandized for green.
Sympathy;
crawling on the urine-stained floors of alleys,streets--
beaten, bruised, bloodied, broken.
Temption;
in the promise of greater things recieved,
traded for individual self-esteem.
Suffocation;
drawn from the intimate walls of concrete,
jagged pieces wedged in arteries, lungs, brain.
Escape;
seen only from skyscrapers
where the city limits are visible through self-pollution.
Hope;
lost in pools, formed on sidewalks;
reflections of people and buildings blurred, forsaken.
Ambition;
ruined in the faded posters of strippers,
hung outside to tempt the public with their faded '80's flair.
**************************************************************
Jupiter smiles upon your icy bueaty;
(the breath of god is upon you)
His thundered lighting washes over thredded nerves.
(the breath of god is upon you)
While Zeus steals himself into your chamber,
(the breath of god)
Shocks you with the anger of HIS kind.
(the breath)
And sweet Poisideon floods your house
(the breathing of gods grows hot)
works against Jupiter; unites with Zeus
(the breath)
With god, with lighting
(gods)
BURNS YOU INTO BLACKOUT.
(the breath of GOD is upon you)
Haze-trampled, pain-this is eternity
(the breath of god is upon you)
"Swin with me," Poisideo offers.
(the breath)
"Let me join and we shall sizzle," Zues entices.
(oh god)
Jupiter stand back, of course, Icy bueaty does not move.
(The breath of god is upon you)
His statues never lie, they shatter. Brake; cut! Flesh and bone.
Zeus laughs, Poisidon shimmers in his lakes.
(the gods)
All this while
(breath deep)
BLACK OUT!
*******************************************************
Okay the following is a test of the emergency braodcast system. This is meant to be a monologue for a scene in a play that I've been working on...It's on here because it's not complete and I want to continue to work on it so you'll see it evolve over time if you give two shits...

2 clocks for 2 states of mind. One clock is a minute ahead of the other. I set it that way. Little ways of driving myself crazy. Half of my life; I meant to say closet (does it really matter?); is organized. At least I make myself believe it's organized. It doesn't stay that way. One thing is always flying up or down. School is for shit. I'm two weeks behind schedule. I can't stay between the lines. It's the little things that get on my nerves. The small things. I have no anchor to hold on to. I am without a comfort zone. As a matter of fact I might be the albatross hanging from my own neck.
I am a meaningles mass about to crumble down, down; I will be scattered by the winds. I feel small. Hidden in the absolute institution of myself. Who needs padded walls when you have misery?
My problem is that I can't use words the way I want to. What I know is dwindling by the second.
I can't play this game anymore. I fail to see the point.
I want to fade away and lose myself in nothingness. Hope is fleeting. Good-bye, Hope. We had a nice friendship; hope all goes well for you.
I choose not to acknowledge you.
Isn't that funny! Sitting in this fishbowl with everyone looking the other way, kinda takes away from the glamor of being here.
Pass the beer around, let's get drunk Hope. My sobriety can team up with my consciouness after we all get drunk. And you know what Hope? They'll kick your ass just like all those other times! And all that will be left for me to do is laugh.

Mellow-drama
freeze: kick to the brain action
Reaction
seduction
grammar does not count in love!
What counts is getting the
close-rip
tight-edge: sharper than bitch nails
symptoms
suggestive exposure
laws do not apply to dreamers
the main function of the world
die-out
breed
die-out
freeze: kick to the brain action
reaction
forsaken
in hopes of reaching your higher under-stand-ing

signal it down mama!
that damn birds gonna get you again
freeze: don't strike me
as the type to mellow out

I can't seem to do it. I can't seem to relax long enough to enter REM. Frustration in this case can be most accurately describe as that feeling you got at the pit of your stomach when the building block castle that you've been diligently working on was knocked down by your 1st grade nemesis. The pointing and the laughing, that's what created that pit in my stomach more than the building block castle lying pillaged by Olga's pudgy fists. That's what I feel sleep is doing to me now. It's pointing and laughing...the bitch! That Palahniuk quote made popular by that one movie about clubs where people beat each other senseless...a copy of a copy of a copy...that's me. Nothing is making sense right now in the immediate way it needs to make sense. Nothing applies that applies to physics applies to me. I feel like I'm falling into the abyss (without bottom, greek). I have to keep making notations to myself so that I don't get lost. But is getting lost the way? Do I just give up? Only to be awakened at 2 am, soaked and hoping what's pursuing me won't kill me? Physcho-analytical bullshit can't help, can it? Maybe I'll make up for lost sleep when I die...well at least I'm being productive with my artwork...there's a bonus.

It's a drowning meditation:
a cow
middle of road.
Do I get mad at
the cow
or
my timing?

I have stepped through
the Door
tip-toed my way
down
and
up
rattled doornobs, broken windows,
screamed
at the top of my lungs.

So where has that Door gotten me?

here
right
here

here the bitch in me stirs
awake
here the virgin in me weeps
again

The Door
behind storefronts
cathedrals
here
hookers scream their wears
in neon red lipstick,
thick eyeshadows
(thick as earth)
tight clothes, dead eyes...

Behind the cemetary
here bodies
turn
rot
sizzle
in stomaches of insects.

Behind backyards of nuclear families
with their
smiles
problems
dead eyes...

That's here
where the Door leads.

So
I tip-toed through it like a thief
made saint
made whore
made saint again
down
and
up the staircase.

I'm here;
I shout
til my throat bleeds raw sewage.

I'm
here
here
here
here

the echo sings.