Just thinking about stuff….


why dont you just go ahead like me and dig the ditch of drama, this years award to you it goes, well anyways i just needed a way to start, everything does, keys, buttons, arousal, passive aggressive manipulating, i know our scooby doo body language is a trait but i think what came up is deflating, the balloon of ballads inspired by compositions that were actually a soundtrack to the town, you were not able to take a walk into the pearl to look at art, you went to the pearl to buy crack and a woman, which ironically, and what the city still cant grasp was the whip of the idea that such a money grubbing district was built upon, named upon, artists that would die for their craft, caring not if one were to see and praise their work. now i’m not bitter, though perhaps i notice a lack of acknowledged reasons, processes, results, and on-going consequences of what the seed of reform wherever it happened here or any city were. neighborhoods that didnt fit the vision of society were rebuilt on the deep eastern side of the circle of the city, generations of families were pushed out into the already shithole parts of newly gentrificated conclusively placed single mothers mecca meth lab gresham projects, the pride of who planned that has only been to school, not through the graduate program of experience, when if you havent been, you dont know shit. this is not typed up from a 50 cent notebook i usually write in everyday, but what the fuck what am I to do not drinking anymore or buying drugs to numb my knowing all this. a DJ i used to buy heroin from once told me to always stay, artistically speaking, 2 steps behind the newest hip new fucking thing, and you will find yourself 2 steps ahead in the end. in 2012, a rock star is an individual that presses play on his ipad, drips sweat on his midi controller, claps claps claps to madison square sold out garden, and is on the cover of rolling stone. and in the graveyards and west hills our true artists sleep, stinking, starving, afflicted and addicted, and would do anything for a cigarette and snickers. somehow i found myself surviving the death sentence of a dull needle. somehow. the road back is forever crippling. compassion builds once you stop suicide planning, you see the ones never coming back, and cant blame them. the dollar bill is going to keep them from healing and will at anytime stop the beat of their heart, like an infant without mothers touch. the highest bridge they trek to, the high building they sneek into and onto the edge of the roof, to soar a life of sorrow away two blocks from Sam’s office into the concrete. he made the pearl and the gallery owners call the police on him, still looking for a smoke. i never thought i would be able to start winning the fight enough to want to hug an old me. though here i am. this is nothing to nobody or about anything. just thinking….. i’m almost 28 years old. 1984. ha. 1984. .   

Just thinking about stuff….


why dont you just go ahead like me and dig the ditch of drama, this years award to you it goes, well anyways i just needed a way to start, everything does, keys, buttons, arousal, passive aggressive manipulating, i know our scooby doo body language is a trait but i think what came up is deflating, the balloon of ballads inspired by compositions that were actually a soundtrack to the town, you were not able to take a walk into the pearl to look at art, you went to the pearl to buy crack and a woman, which ironically, and what the city still cant grasp was the whip of the idea that such a money grubbing district was built upon, named upon, artists that would die for their craft, caring not if one were to see and praise their work. now i’m not bitter, though perhaps i notice a lack of acknowledged reasons, processes, results, and on-going consequences of what the seed of reform wherever it happened here or any city were. neighborhoods that didnt fit the vision of society were rebuilt on the deep eastern side of the circle of the city, generations of families were pushed out into the already shithole parts of newly gentrificated conclusively placed single mothers mecca meth lab gresham projects, the pride of who planned that has only been to school, not through the graduate program of experience, when if you havent been, you dont know shit. this is not typed up from a 50 cent notebook i usually write in everyday, but what the fuck what am I to do not drinking anymore or buying drugs to numb my knowing all this. a DJ i used to buy heroin from once told me to always stay, artistically speaking, 2 steps behind the newest hip new fucking thing, and you will find yourself 2 steps ahead in the end. in 2012, a rock star is an individual that presses play on his ipad, drips sweat on his midi controller, claps claps claps to madison square sold out garden, and is on the cover of rolling stone. and in the graveyards and west hills our true artists sleep, stinking, starving, afflicted and addicted, and would do anything for a cigarette and snickers. somehow i found myself surviving the death sentence of a dull needle. somehow. the road back is forever crippling. compassion builds once you stop suicide planning, you see the ones never coming back, and cant blame them. the dollar bill is going to keep them from healing and will at anytime stop the beat of their heart, like an infant without mothers touch. the highest bridge they trek to, the high building they sneek into and onto the edge of the roof, to soar a life of sorrow away two blocks from Sam’s office into the concrete. he made the pearl and the gallery owners call the police on him, still looking for a smoke. i never thought i would be able to start winning the fight enough to want to hug an old me. though here i am. this is nothing to nobody or about anything. just thinking….. i’m almost 28 years old. 1984. ha. 1984. .   

Cassette


seduction lies in your grin 

when finished connnecting

beauty below the stars above,

our rations of sun

shine months of 3am

Thurman and 24th night

mural dream shadows

 

My northwestern holiday

grey normality prison

camp personality 

of a cloud blanket 

over this Pacific

misty nail gun shower

over one who by

the moment lives

without the frown,

getting beebees 

shot in the ass

where the 15 Bus turns

off Belmont onto Morrison,

Where I smoked 

first joints of life,

where little shits of such

should be at least 

brought into and merely

had the living brat piss

beat the hell in them

out of them,

then would I smile,

be content alone

              any time of the year

 

Without grieving – a place I dream

the loss of lost she’s,

where simply selfish 

I couldn’t please, though

with ease finally content 

                     alone

with no resentment shown

I can be alone

                     now

if must I be        still

         in thought

 

Thanking a poem I can write

to be empty of feeling

ya know, to being lonely,

remembering every being

of life living is

always with me      as

I with them.

 

   Confusing thoughts

negative when had, returning

to remember an invisible 

unseen vibration of sharp

love, has been ordered to

be filled in an angels

pharmacy, for simple

love is always with me

      especially

  when I believe 

love had taken final leave,

I see it clearing up

after me, melodically,

poetically, I carry on 

     dramatically meaning

normally, credit for I

take lightly,     O the spice of my

personality. A green light 

to just simply be……

 

I just need another light

the one from within me

to lead me along a path 

no regrets are had to be

leaving me fatigued, bitterly.

 

Though a holy

humble, something spiritually

assures gloomy me that 

killing what in the past 

haunted 

hunted me, says

       killing life’s demons

was its proud specialty.

After a  moment, asks I,

genuinely to practice

mine, and to keep

on scribbling my unique

           musically poetically.

In return I wrote

quickly

d

o

w

n

a poem proud to 

read about out loud to

this healing, enlightening 

           entity

though humbly responded

that it asked me so 

I would when finished

writing it down, have

something of my own

to do what I could 

      had I need to

found alone. Though

now enlightened own-ly

to me if thus had

be, Life layed quietly

next to me. And I 

         slept.   I go now

awakened I smell

the bacon, and on my

face from an empty

vast sea of itself 

a sky, still more bacon,

and I dance a jig to friends

funny n’ known. That sun,

known, the star of 

our life, I know to the least

mine.

 

And today because of 

this day will be but of 

one extremely fun,

and I am done with what I

had in fact found, on

the tips of a dirty thumbnail

of a god, that again had again, 

my human fun is a scream 

rollercoastering.  

Off to it, one with one