untitled poem from 3/5/14 (tentatively, on killing me)

You can't save yourself

There's something doubly wrong about that

To insist there's something wrong

implies the dream of right

and I have found myself old and flightless

and not in the right

the left has it's problems

embezzling wealth from the multitudes

in the dissemination of dreams

and the right stealing in the broad daylight over the horizon

the strength to be sure

and science has claimed the authority

filtered through the fundamentalist's multiple lens

and I have found myself old and flightless still

caring less and more and has never been more complicated

and the taste of scotch more alluring

faced with wreckage everywhere as dwellings

I feel sick and depraved from so much color upon color

and color upon color upon color

and color

in my dreams, mundane and with animals everywhere

in aquariums and other containers

like humans in so many containers

as animals

that cannot speak

and humans that cannot speak

always smug and present

and always killing me

I'm nobody

and killing every part that was somebody

with every last mundane smirk

and expression of boredom

my hysteria

framed by their disinterested presence

trapped in so many containers

and other containers

as animals

and animals beyond fantasy

are trapped by reality

and know a freedom of reality

that is one large sigh

of a breath

every one thousand years

The older I am

the more easily I get scared

that I will be left alone

without myself

without others that know truth

how can I know truth?

Without others that know truth

to have guided me all these years

how was I to know?

I've studied and studied

practiced and practiced

and learned and learned

and it is as if I know nothing at all

and the hysteria I cannot circumvent

overwhelms

From the mystics to science

I can only denounce so much

before I realize how much I've believed this whole time

and how my beliefs seemingly atonal to yours

are what can truly destroy

it would be unfair to channel this harm

or die so early

against the grief stricken wishes of the beloved heart broken

no matter how broken their beliefs

I am one of those ridiculous souls

that may never stop searching

for something they were never meant to find

if poverty were the problem

then we've missed the point

it's not that the beauty is in how things really are

or sadness be in how things really are

I am one of those ridiculous souls

that may never stop searching

for why I never get away from wanting

and always in poverty

I'm close though

to something

I not so secretly wish it was money and stability

and so on and so forth

and for years always close and never...

…

When I talked to you last

I must have been still a child?

Or perhaps about to turn 21

Just kill me now

I saw

it's been a long hard time

and you never kill me

on disentigration

Craving is a powerful thing.

Desire and need compress into this irreducible gap to lacking.

I sway to the pressure of societies rediculous standards.

and make choreography to the forms of others.

All these pictures and why isn't anyone looking?

All these faces and where is the applause?

Once a performer, always a performer...

The constant tearing down of life does not tear down the years.

time is the only thing that doesn't ever really decay and replenish.

I often sit and wonder about my discontent and wish to want nothing and have no disappointment.

Always, you can have so much and with an inkling of doubt there is unhappiness.

I'm ok with unhappiness, but happiness doesn't make sense.

coincidently i focus on what doesn't make sense.

I want rapture, I've said this a hundred times.

I probably want peace more.

and with complications that are forever this or that

I guess theres something

to standing and walking anyway

without conscience

on transparency

I am like a ghost.

I move through the living and know nothing of living.

I am like a memory, I see myself only faintly in others...

others who are lost in the infinitude of the present.

Do I know the future? I only wonder because I feel as if I do.

Not by my inclinitions, nor by instinct, but by my knowingness and despite of it

I continue to wander about as if without one.

The extremely wealthy are only dreams we shape from a million desires.The fraction of the 1% that comprise them, who control our lives, control nothing more than our own dreams do. We will never see them, or touch them, in most cases, we would only know them through stories and images, and statistics, and these are no more real than any symbol from a thousands year old cave painting.

This is not so spoken often symptom of today: dreams are imbued with lines thought to be crossed towards reality. But they are not the same. And in this way they rule our waking lives.

Somehow it may be that i am more real than dreams, but in being so carry on the quality of being a dream myself.

People see through me yet still sense my movement, albeit only in fragmented moments.

There are things that are always empty and things that are always the same.

these are where ghosts tend to arise.

on pool parties

Black night sky and moving lines of highway and building lights. It takes a lot of this to get back home here in LA. I like watching all the lines, of the horizon, of the architecture of the highway, as well as the highway itself. It makes me feel like I'm going somewhere.

Going to the party and seeing these friends I've met now years ago, reminded me again how I can't quite remember what the hell I was and how I ended up the way I am now. Bottles of beer and other liquor piling up by the trash cans. The grill fired was around the corner. Straight people on the other side of the pool, and the gays on this corner, none of them swimming except for a few, one including me. I didn't dive, I sort of slipped in from the side and sank as I always do deeply to the shallow bottom, and it brought me back even further to those days in my childhood and in the river swimming with the cousins and I'd lay there at the bottom my body unable to stay afloat and I'd be peacefully enjoying the odd silence and blurry surroundings.

This guy I use to see that same amount of time years ago, was there and would stare and chat nothing important to me then move gestures elsewhere only to return to me in brushes of touches that seemed to be both buddy-like and entirely more. My eyes would only partially roll unnoticed as I returned the same touches. He had just broken up with someone, he told me. And I had to cut it off with someone else I was seeing recently. I was a bit concerned of what two guys in these predicaments would do. We ended up on the couch later with their friends all around watching a ridiculously large tv playing a sentimental movie. We sat together like we did those years ago as if those years had never passed. His arm was around me and my head on his shoulder, or perhaps his pec. I was thinking about how bored I was hanging out with these same friends from years ago, and how bored I was now. And I was thinking about doing this guy I used to see that same amount of time years ago, knowing that I probably never will again.

This crazy little dog was running aimlessly around all the guys. It didn't know who was who I think, or he wanted to know those of us that he didn't know. He was doing all that much to get to know us, really just running around. There are animals that are just so excited they can't do anything else but run around. I wonder what that is like.

The string of lights of traffic close to our exit was perplexing. I was glad my friend drove. He is a good quiet guy, albeit outspoken at times. Particularly when drunk. We left in part to him saying it felt intrusive to be there- meaning the party host's place, where we all ended up around the tv, as one host was already sleeping in the bedroom and the other of partner ready to doze off- was a statement I liked. He was a polite, considerate guy.

When I got home I texted the guy that I recently cut it off with. He said he was busy, so I proceeded to clean my place and went online to potentially meet the guy of my dreams and/or a guy to hook up with. All this anxiety with the guy of years ago got me horny. I msged a few guys and got a couple msgs from other guys, but I tend to know that I'll never get anywhere with these things. It's like driving, I think, I just like to motion and lines. Makes me feel like I'm going somewhere, even though I may not be going anywhere, new anyway.

on being forthright

from 6/8/2006

let me be forthright

Afterward
the commentary of a new day
as an assualt on all sides from media
and media and media and the information
hear the delay
the cold reality of broken synapses
am I feeling?
or am I not working?

It's as if I've bled myself to death for more than a century
and being filled up against my will
what I want is not what I want
and what I want is somehow so deep.

I am an iconoclast
I am the sundry usage of inefficent means
I am one of those leftover from ideology.

in the morning sunrise that I have ever seen
or the cracking of someone's smile
that plays like an advertisement
you'd have no idea the multitude of convictions
that place upon all of us
the need to be subjective
(isn't transcendence no longer vital?)
yet I am rendered confused and purposeless

I chuckle at the persistence of others
yet feel so oddly in debt
for the tragedy of my spirit
mirrors the triumph of these lives
and the continuance of blasphemy
that seems to fuel the motion
of progress
of antinomy.

I decided recently, after seeing a movie
that motion is more blessed in the dream world
with the lucidity of no gravity

see what I mean?

I perish with every incongruent breath
and breathe a sigh with every perishing
I think I laugh when you're not looking
which means I must be laughing most of the time...

for while my image is tainted by society
my base, past the inclusion of anonymity
savors the security of incompleteness
even while my desires yearn for your approval.

on self preservation

Break up line for the depraved:

[along the lines of “I've done just fine without you”]

“My life sucks the same whether you're in it and out, so what's the point?”

Once the phone has hung up, it's hard know just what happened.

–

Did he really just say that? Or not say anything?

After years of therapy, maybe they're wrong and I am just the monster I seem to think I am.

And maybe I just need another monster and i'll be just fine.

–

In my dilapidated little apartment, there's something I tolerate that so many others can't.

It's myself.

It's quite funny to find that actually I tolerate myself quite well.

–

Somewhere out there there are writings that talk about how only out of repetition can the new arise. Every revolution had failed attempts prior. And every revolution has been a failure, really, as well as a triumph. What if everything was a triumph? Still there is propulsion towards repeating the triumph. There's a propulsion in repeating everything, but every repetition is actually different. The new is in between the repetition. Indiscernible many times. I don't know for sure, but I think I find hope in the indiscernible.

–

When someone tells me you could have told me earlier, my thoughts is that there is never a right time to tell someone that what they're doing is stupid and hurtful. Not only are they telling you that it's actually your fault for not telling them earlier, it also is a way to say it is therefore permissible for them to continue on their stupid and hurtful ways.

It's absolutely ridiculous that because you're the one who is utterly of the most attractive that I have ever held in my arms, that I put up with your stupid and hurtful ways.

I often think I'm getting too old for these things. But I find that I'm never too old from taking a walk to get away from you and everybody else.

on hook up sites part 1

Things I really want to write on a hook up site profile but probably never will:

damn, some of you really need to get whatever it is up your ass out of there, and once you do you really need to fuck yourself really, really hard.

i really just like dicks around 6 inches. seriously.

holy shit? where am i?

looking for a guy that actually communicates who i can also fuck really, really hard every once in a while. 

i just want to cuddle.

for those guys that say, not into playing games.... let me just say a few things about playing games: people play games even when you don't think they are because ultimately guys don't know what they want, and in trying to figure that out, will throw a lot of aimless txts/msgs, phone calls, et. al. to elicit responses to appease their underlying need for attention and confirmation of involvement in another's life. what you don't know is you need the same attention and confirmation and undoubtedly don't know what you want and end up playing the same games. so get whatever it is up your ass, and once you do fuck yourself really, really hard. 

most people bore me, so drama is ok.

into guys that read.

i'd like someone to admit they actually want more than fb's [fuck buddies] and "friends" yet feel inadequate in their own skin and lives to actually "see" somebody and be in a relationship. You're the guy I want to fuck, really hard.

i'm a masc guy but not into sports. i don't feel i have to be into sports and that horrific media driven industry that contributes to the vapidity of contemporary society to prove that i'm a masc guy. And no i don't believe your pansy ass is really into sports.

taking 20 minutes or a day to get back to someone doesn't make anyone feel better or attractive.

i'm a non-white, older, short guy with a small dick and average body, who is poor and depressed most of the time looking for action and fun times. Not into games or drama.

i'm a vgl guy.

i'm into guys that don't like me for who I am.