wondering...

I wonder if writing on electronic paper is really just a form of textual decoupage, if the digital layers could be peeled back and separated, one would find a collated coagulate of thoughts glued and sealed, stamped with copyright... or not.

I wonder if the current ideological landscape is about to experience eruptions and fiery flows and gaping fissures beyond what can be painted over with oil.

I wonder if falling back on a hedge is more like shoving a wedge up someone else's ass.

I wonder how many people awoke this morning to find something zoned erogenous erect that wasn't the night before and can remember how it got that way.

I wonder if lunch will occur before someones first agenda-based leverage will be applied.

rehab...

Last night, under the trickle-down of a full moon 3 days past, and with oyster stew in a coconut brew, and roast beef, and wine so fine with a leafy green pipe-packed chaser sublime, two birthdays were honored with a toast from a host so kind. And there was cake, chocolate as a matter of fact, and it had a major caffeine/sugar infestation going on. And it was good, and we partook en mass. It's Sunday now and am I the only one dragging my ass?

I'm plopped on the bed and foot forward toward the east. I've followed the day across the mountain, sometimes I moved. It's not as if I'm in pain. I just need to flush any responsibility down the drain... for today. It's a residual thing.

At 51 I'm not so dumb to think I can keep this pace up forever, and especially since I started it around the age of 18. That's only plus or minus 30 and if McDonald's has it's way, I'll be flipping burgers for another 30 and at minimum wage to boot. It's their contribution to longevity and health care... sort of.

In the meanwhile, I'm happy to know I probably won't pass their urine test. Can't be stoned flippin' Chinese steroid laden beef deboned. Nope. Not allowed. Whoohoo!

unreal...

tivo programmed
compilation
reality tv nation
best buy capitulation
flat screen
plasma spasma
have you seen
my bonanza
loren green
hoss
little joe
where did the fantasy go
this reality shit's too real
what the fuck's the deal

dancin' with the stars
is playin' in the bars
survivor freak
emaciated chic
the dirty
the conniving
the soon to be fed
amazing race
is really good face
much
much
better than head
so it's said

brought to you by...

I don't have a sponsor. It's a wonder I'm not indigent. If I had a sponsor... say, Bounty Paper Towels, I could say that this trip to the grocer is sponsored by Bounty... the quicker picker upper. But without a sponsor, my trip to the grocer is brandless and therefore not worthy of mention. Without a brand, life itself is unidentifiable.

I have thought of walking around town with "your ad here" stamped across my forehead but worried that people would see me as desperate. In the world of marketing, never let them see you sweat. I used to think that only wearing brand named clothing, the ones with the name bold and label oriented letters and emblems stitched on the fabric, would be sufficient and then I thought that since I was a walking billboard, I should be compensated for providing a medium for the products display. The manufacturer said I had it all backwards and said to wear their product required me to pay more for the privilege of sporting their label.

Thinking that was a little unfair, I stopped wearing clothes advertising the maker's brand. I no longer was operating within the required perceived fashion consciousness and found even shopping at Goodwill thrift shops to be limiting. Stream of consciousness clothing, the anti-mental environmental kind needs to be handmade. I don't have time to do that... or do I?

subsidized...

Awhile ago, I think almost three years, I first felt a twinge or something resembling a consistent minor discomfort emanating from my upper-right arm. I didn't think much about it. I have twinges all the time. They likely occur wherever I have a muscle or ligament interact with a hinge or ball and socket. The therapist trained in detecting such things said it's because I have multiple layers of scar tissue in practically every joint. He wondered if I had played professional football at some time in my life. I said no. He said I should have. I would be physically at the same place but with more money for retirement and maybe some trophies. I said oh.

When my upper-right arm got annoyed enough to where I couldn't sleep on that side, or lift anything, or reach, or hold on to the dog leash, or have sex in the missionary position, it was decided I needed physical therapy to work the kink out. When they decided it was more than a kink, like a torn bicep, they then decided it was best that I stop doing the work I had done for 25 years. Since I bent pipe, light, and copper, I became quite bent at the notion my next economically relative ascension was possibly a career as a Wal-Mart greeter. In Ohio, Wal-Mart is the largest employer. They were the last swing state for George Dub. I don't live there anymore.

The State of Washington decided it was best I went on L&I (that's short for Labor and Industry workman's compensation) until it was proven I could return to work as... say, a Wal-Mart greeter. In the meantime, L&I would pay all of my upper-right arm associated medical expenses so the insurance company didn't have to. They also paid me enough money to buy expensive health care for times when I needed something else; like anti-depression and high blood pressure meds, or if I were to fall and break my other arm. L&I wouldn't pay for that but they would give me money to pay the insurance company for coverage just in case something occurred that wasn't upper-right arm related.

While the State of Washington was subsidising the insurance industry on my behalf, I was able to convince them that throwing me out into the work force without being retrained for something sustainable was a wee bit nasty. They agreed and put me on a two year program to decide what it was I was best to be retrained on. During the last third of the two year discovery program I was placed under surveillance without my retraining discoverer's knowledge. At the end of the surveillance period, the State of Washington decided I was not acting as a proper L&I participant should. Sitting at a bar drinking all day is considered okay in the way of acting like a proper L&I participant. I chose to play in the wine shop and mow the yard with my good arm. They now want me to repay everything they said they gave me back to when the surveillance program began.

I now have a lawyer. He gets 30% of everything he saves me from giving back to the State of Washington. So when this is all said and done, the State of Washington will have nicely subsidized the insurance industry and a lawyer of my choosing. In the meantime, I'm retraining myself in the art of retraining... something I have been trained to do.

go forth and be guilty...

The psychology of force is instilled deep within the enforcement collective; the one that brings compliance to authority.

Compliance is a nice word for fascist application.

Humans with badges and weaponry with salaries and benefits are given total discretionary control as to how they treat the public. The public is then left with the expense of defending itself after the fact.

We call that being innocent until proven guilty.

These enforcers and their enablers feel the need to proceed in such a manner outweighs and negates any individual injustices, because the system must be maintained.

I think they call that acceptable casualties.

The system believes that if people have the potential for not being in compliance, they probably aren't.

We call that mutual respect.

Now add race and class to the mix and those acceptable casualties are elevated.

We call that being flexible...

http://prorev.com/2007/10/pregnant-black-school-principal-says.html

I've seen the light...

I used to bend light as part of my living. It was the most interesting thing I did that afforded me the luxuries associated with regularly compensated economic compliance. I got to manipulate the direction of the energy, maybe the origin of the universe while I was manipulated by financial entities. It seemed like a reasonable trade off at the time.

Actually, all I did was contain it. Well, I didn't really contain it. I pulled and pushed and hung the container in an acceptable manner that the people who designed the container thought would allow the light to bend. They were users. It wasn't the light they were concerned about but the data; the encrypted messages that rode on the light. They only wanted to make sure the information got from A to Z ASAP and if the light was not bent right then that was deemed inefficient. I also fitted the attachments designed to couple the container to the end devices. I cut and glued and polished per specifications. Sometimes I spliced. Sometimes I used something called a time/domain/reflectometer. It made sure the light was behaving the way the upper hierarchy wanted it to. With contained light, there can be no anarchy.

The light was taken for granted. As being the origin of the universe, it already existed and was there by the grace of something and that made it a natural resource. The emphasis was first on the devices that resided on each end of the container; the ones that shot the light from one end to the other. Light when contained, has a beginning and ending. Then the devices got to be boring, and the emphasis turned to the way the messages that rode on the light got written and who got the legals rights to that written word.

Somewhere within this process, my contribution was deemed a commodity that was considered a necessary evil. I didn't improve anything in the way of efficiency. I just became a constant... a constant drain on the bottom line. Light was also deemed a constant. But since light didn't need a paycheck, it was okay for it to stay. When I left, I turned off the light. I'm sure someone found the switch and turned it back on. When the light isn't right, a trouble ticket is issued and a person responsible to get the light back to working right is dispatched. For that moment the light was off, I only hope it enjoyed the break.

anger management...

These things ricochet off nodal internet islands at the speed of nano thoughts. They load much slower because we are the end user and the primary users rule and trickle-down really doesn't work no matter what they tell us... whoever "they" is. I rarely give these mindless bandwidth gobblers credence as I find them a little too kitchy and more of a brain fart filler than not. Every once in a while, one comes along and I laugh my ass off and must share.

The caption came through as:

"Sometimes when you are angry with someone, it helps to sit down and think about
the problem."

I wonder if we could apply this to class warfare. I wonder who's on top?

stocking up...

I played the market today. It sometimes plays me. This is not investing. That is for people who want more than what they have now sometime later on down the road; like, right before they die or even later on, when they are dead and gone. I like now. I won today because I have lost many times before. I won because I new this retail equity I bought was too much pounded into submission beyond the rational. Humans are short term irrational. So is the market. I knew it could still drop into further depths so I only bought a third. It popped up this morning and stayed there all day. That tells me it might do that for a couple more days. It might. If it pops tomorrow, I'll sell. If it drops I'll buy another third. And the game plays out. It's just oddities turned into odds I have learned to notice from times when I was learning how to loose. You can't learn to predict. Prediction is spewed from false profits. You can lessen risk. You can up the odds. So when this trade shows too much interest, too many people involved, and the volume of buys and sells get too frothy... I'm out. I've also learned about the need for greed. And I don't need it. I just need to pay the rent so I can write all day. That is why I play.

foothill shroonin'...

incarnate truffle hog
straddled across moss covered log
to canapy floor drenched
from snuggled warmth wrenched
we arise
to our surprise
it's a once a year thing
when the chantrelle sirens sing

porous spores amung us
deep under woodland thatch
hidden blooms of fungus
a sprout here
a pout there
time to bag the catch

time to trudge
to crawl and nudge
to snort and grunt
cedarlings don't budge
horny thornies harbor a grudge
best be a statured runt

too much fun
and with harvest done
chilled to the bone
soaked zombie drone
don't care
don't dare
foraged wealth to share

soon garlic and tarragon
sauteed almost to oblivion
did someone mutter
something about butter
reduce the juice
coagulate obtuse
a primal scream
then add the cream
whalla
chanterelle mousse

hip apocalyptique...

There are certain words that give me a raging cerebral hard-on: eloquence and immarcescible are a couple currently wrapped around the base of my medulla oblongata and in fact, they just so happen to flow together when accentuated twistings are applied.

"What an eloquent immarcescible bastard he is."

"With his relentless immarcescible eloquence, George Bush again forced the global consciousness into a full frontal collective gag."

Sarcasm helps.

I wonder about the fragile nature of our current heightened human existence. I wonder if mechanisms were to fail and infrastructures collapsed, would the 600 or so years of painfully slow eloquent gains we have made as a species disintegrate within nanomoments before the eyes of those of us that care about such things. I wonder if we have already reached and now passed by on the downward slope our eloquent peak, or if we are destined to occasionally dip into dullard gullies on our way to something greater.

Elitist backlash is a noble pursuit. It can be done eloquently without tar, feathers, or guillotines. Elitist hate being administered a tongue lashing by non-snobs. Their perceived entitlements are anchored institutionally contrary to the concept. It's an oxymoronic semantic that usually doesn't warrant their attention. I mean really, who invented eloquence if not the elite? And if you are eloquent and strive to apply eloquence in all things, are you not really just striving to be part of the elite. You gotta have someplace to hang, bro.

I'd like to think there are some rules. I'm not into homogeneous thinking but for the sake of not trying to create an absolute, let's say the following might apply:

Having a large stash of cash with contractual residuals over time with interest does not automatically make one eloquent.

Being in authoritative command of other peoples' existence and well being by using fear and loathing and as leverage is in itself, not an eloquent application.

Being an intellectual gives one access to tools of eloquence, but it doesn't mean the instructions for usage have been properly followed.

Writing a painstakingly poetic love letter by hand, on stationary, and with unabated passion; now that is fucking eloquent!

falling about...

Something big and brooding barreled in from off the northern sea yesterday; dropped out of warp just in time to slam into the mountains. They called it a depression brought on by low pressure. It got highly riled about the impudent impedances offered by the Cascades so it took its anger out on the valley: pissing and huffing and snorting. I'm not sure what it had in the way of expectation, regardless of what pressure it was under and how depressed it was, shit continually happens and even inanimate anomalies are not immune. You would think it would learn as it has done this before, over time, with frequency and velocity. What a dis' to the ways of the linear.

The winds clocked in at 60. We know this because millions of dollars worth of techno-termed gadgets, tweaked and tuned for applying the art of prediction, procured and placed in the hands of pie-eyed professionals, properly primped and projecting a pious propensity for being first with accurate accumulated info, told us so. And with no accountable remorse if they are wrong, they rest on laurels abundant enough to secure themselves jobs as game show hosts if this particular gig doesn't work out. They call this science.

Whatever this storm wanted, it blew away any residuals of summer that were still lurking about. I think that is really the juxtaposition of my current disposition. Quite some time ago around 1am on a particular Monday, on a hill in the near center of Ohio and in a room garbed with institutional stainless steel chic, with odors of the disinfectant permeating my unaccustomed senses, and me just being ripped from the blissfull warmth of my mother's womb, still dripping and smelling of afterbirth funk, I bellowed my announcement of arrival just as summer gave up it's last gasp. If I were so inclined, I might proclaim myself some spawn released for the intent to remind humans of the cyclical redundancy of things dark and dank to come. How pagan.

Instead of accompanying the arrival of things anew, flowering buds, and warmth, and notions of fertile seedings, I arrived in time to miss the bountiful celebrations of harvest, signaling the flushing out of radiators, the cleaning the furnace filters, the hanging of storm shutters, the emptying out of dead annuals from clay pots, and the rush to gorge oneself with sugar infested coagulants while dressed as the dead and demonic. How even more pagan.

And now these storms roar in each time of year, each transitional season with ever increasing veracity as mine seems to equally and oppositely diminish. There is something profound in this; something ancient, unforgiving, and uncompromising. It is probably even beyond the comprehension of The Invisible Man and yet it is most likely so simple. In the meantime, I'll ponder it all later as I am off to get a tube of fake green blood and other such things apropos for the witching hour.


dropping out of warp
a sub-light flicker
no adherence to any a corp
or market manipulative ticker
an impulse driven cruise
unintentional acts still bruise

luck of the draw...

I blame our Western European culturally genetic migratory judeo-christian protestant inclinations, the ones particularly associated with a maniacal work ethic that initially had little to do with greed and more about getting into heaven, and has now been twisted out of proportion the last 200 or so years... the one now morphed into our current neocorp capitalistic dominion...
the dominion that defines we as us.

Commitment to the work has somehow mutated into commitment to the cause, the greater cause of ascension worship, in most cases pertaining to an ever deflating currency, causing us all to define our worth with something that is becoming more worthless every day... just because.

How oxymoronic to want to ascend to possess something that is deflating into an inflated nothingness. Take buying a new car for example. As soon as the papers are signed and you drive it off the lot, it is immediately worth 35% less than before you financed your payments with the inflation deflated currency standard used to calculate your accrued annual interest. We work extra hours for that privilege. How fucked up is that?

In the meantime our passions are not real or valid unless they afford a forward thriving living; otherwise it is the day job that matters as a valued cog in the dominion mechanism, and the rest is just unproductive spare time, a hobby, or play. Extracting money in the form of a subsidy while one pays the bills for subsistence as the process of perfecting one's creative expressive craft is pursued is generally considered most heinous. It is condemned with attached labels such as "slacker" and "fraud", regardless of what energies are expended, what tolls are extracted, and for what end beyond acceptible return in terms of revenue.

For many of us same type folk (there has to be more than we think), worth is defined beyond acceptable practices. How does one obtain those sustainable commissions without compromising the work... the work that is the journey... the journey that is considered worthless unless it sells... paid for by a deflated currency?

That is why I think we should all start to ascend toward Attention Deficit Disorder with more of a passion than previously attempted. It would keep the drug companies, a sector on top of the current dominion's heap, happy and off our backs. We can build on ADD and create new product lines for them. We could also get Erectile Dysfunction. We would then be ADDED and really worthy of pharmaceutical intervention..

How can you expect to maintain wood if you are not paying attention?
If you are not paying attention, how can you expect to maintain wood?

ramblin'...

I'm trying to rewind the weekend, not that we get one being retail slaves and all, but even in pockets of north pugetropolis some people don't show up in mass everyday all day with conspicuous consumer pockets ready for stuffing. One here or there is not reasonable enough to justify staying open all the time. I can't get past certain hurdles, gnarly brambles with razor sharp attachments snagging me at every turn. This time away from the shop should be my productive opportunity to commit to the work I want in my life, the one that matters the most to me... my art. I get distracted. I can't seem to stay on course. Any built in persistencies fades into procrastinations of the ugliest sort, and when I should be pissed about my lack of fortitude, I instead sink deep into self-loathing. I want to give myself a good ass-kicking, but my knees don't bend that way.

kapitalist karma on ten bucks a day...

time folds in such a way
when a far left page overlaps a far right page
and the corners touch
and someone pinches the fold
and something becomes halved
until the process is repeated
and then halved again
until nothingness is achieved

thus we age by standing still
returning from whence we came
and somewhere in-between,
that place,
space
we call existence
is where we supposedly got a life,
a life full of choices

we choose to deny healthcare,
we choose to deny education,
we choose to outsource,
we choose to consume
and war to secure more of the same,
we chose to blame everyone else...
for their own predicaments,
we choose to call that a free market,
and then we choose to go to heaven

the predator rules within this existence,
it gorges on the by-products
of manipulation
and because it believes,
it is beyond the grasp of hell,
and wouldn't it be funny
if those that get to choose more than most,
will wonder why they start their next existence,
a chosen atonement...
as an aphid

beyond the treeline...

The rains are early this year. One could say they never left. Northwest summers can be so fleeting. I'm not sure how that affects the leaf colors. I suppose I should know about such things, things such as: how low the bee hives are hanging, how thick the moss is, where are the tides, and when and where the Cantharellus are popping up.

The leaves are mostly yellow and the many shades that make up yellow. I miss the reds of the Midwest and East, there are speckles here and there but we don't see many. The moss grows on all sides of the trees so it's best not to get lost in the mountains, as that is one less direction locating weapon in the arsenal for finding one's way out. I suppose the best way to cope with the predicament is to consider myself one with the woods; the eerie quiet, the vast in-differentiation, the loss of the need for total control being the real comfort zone and the panic would then likely start upon return to civilization. A compass helps, stops you from traversing in circles, but I could imagine myself walking due north and finally finding myself far into British Columbia before I cross a road. Wet, cold, exhausted, dehydrated, starved, and filthy are descriptors that come to mind upon being discovered by search and rescue folk pissed at my lack of wilderness sense. And how would I find myself in such a discombobulation?

There are sirens that lurk in these mountains, a fairy folk, demonic wood nymphs that coax and lure the perceived innocent away from the safety of marked paths, comrades, and a dry car with a heater, CD player, and snacks and a cheap bottle of Malbec. They are shape shifters, transformers, and they use their insidious abilities to lull the unsuspecting into a trance, a hypnotic stupor. They play upon our lust and greed for those are two of any a mammal's greatest potential for sin. Within the confluence of these weaknesses are when we are the most vulnerable to their treachery and they know why we are there, why I am there, and though I have on many occasion nearly succumbed to their hunger for my soul, I have become wise to their lies. It is so difficult. They do know of my lust, my unfettered pursuit for the divine, the immaculate, my desire to possess, to saute', and to devour a delicacy worthy of such risk. They know this of me and they switch and bait me into depths of no return.

Around a wind-felled cedar, bark desinagrated over time and covered with a furry blanket of moss, deep moss that your feet sink into searching for a bottom, and maybe it is a trunk still attached to terra firma, and then not immediately there, only near there, somewhere under a young cedar sprout or in the subminiature ravine or crevasse nearby where gravity pulls moisture a wee bit faster through the soil, and only under a thick canvass on the downward north-face slope of something much larger; that is where they are. And if you find one, there will be more, maybe under a leaf or some other woodland debris. They glow a mesmerizing orange against the backdrop of evergreen, and yet you can stare right at them and not see them. When the conditions appear the ripest, they are not there, but they should be, and maybe the next moss patch over by that next tree, down that next gully they will be there, more than just a few... the mother load, and even then you cannot stop. The fairies play this game, fading in and out just over the next log and deeper you go into the forest until you realize that nothing and everything looks familiar. Is that a patch or just a new scattering of like-colored leaves? How can you chance that to be the case? The sky is blocked by the canopy. The shadows are circling. You can hear only their laughter at your pending doom.

But then you're home safe with bags full and you brush the ancient earth from the gills beneath their armor. In the pan they release their water and it overwhelms your common senses. You want to drain them but you resist. Patience is paramount as the juice finally dissipates, drawing itself back into the texture and when the pan is dry and a sizzling is heard, that is when you strike. Olive oil, Walla Walla sweets, garlic, rosemary, salt pepper, then meat... something gamy, earthy, and then at the end... butter. The fairy folk lost today. Maybe they'll win tomorrow or next year. The Chanterelle knows no such agenda.

I came across the following here: http://www.ebogjonson.com/

I imagine him trying to write late into the evening with the constant distraction of sex noises reverberating off the walls and this, out of sheer frustration is what he came up with:

31 things about the neighbor who fucks too much

1 - You and your live-in girlfriend are pretty high on your sexual high-horses until you realize that in the loft next door is one of those neighbors who fucks too much.

2 - You figure you and your lady have a sex life that is the cat's pajamas until you start keeping tabs on the neighbor who fucks too much.

3 - It's a little embarrassing riding the elevator with a neighbor who fucks too much just after she's been, like, fucking.

4 - It's a little annoying when one of the many guys the neighbor who fucks too much is fucking knocks on your door at 2 am. Coming or going, you wonder. He is drunk enough to be either.

5 - You are grudgingly impressed that anyone that drunk is able to fuck a neighbor who fucks too much.

6 - The neighbor who fucks too much is white. You are not. You want to make something out of that fact, but keep coming up dry.

7 - A neighbor who fucks too much is disquieting. She keeps her windows too open for December in LA.

8 - The neighbor who fucks too much is, like you, unbounded by normal clock time and so soon starts invading your late night writing oasis. Usually DSL and pROn are your biggest nemeses at that hour, sneaking into your apartment on a wire and then launching an offensive via the closest unguarded eye, but now the neighbor who fucks too much is bringing the ruckus through your earhole. At that hour your ears are always open, alternately eager for silence and streams, and her attack strikes
you as a Wrath of Khan-type maneuver. Montalbanian. Could she be trying to
control your mind? Is her orgasm an invisible, burrowing wig?

9 - The neighbor who fucks too much makes you 10 again in the middle of the night,
except you do not have to hide in the bathroom to call the 976 number. There is no undoing on its way to your parents in the mail with the monthly bills. You are a grown man after all.

10 - You and your girlfriend thought it was funny that time your IPod started whispering "hey bitch, wait till you see my dick" while the neighbor who fucks too much was fucking. It's the only time your girlfriend ever laughs at the Ying Yang Twins.

11 - You make a playlist for the neighbor who fucks to much. It includes Cody Chestnutt, the Detroit Grand Pubahs, Dj Assault, Peaches, the Fat Truckers, The Ying Yang Twins, Fannypack, Missy Elliot, Luke, David Banner, Lil Louis, Akinyele, screwed and chopped Khia, and Kool Keith, shuffled and in no particular order.

12 - The neighbor who fucks too much has stupidly gynormous, theatrical orgasms. You think: liar who fucks too much. You think: or not?

13 - It really has to be on purpose. She is just too damned loud.

14 - On days your girlfriend seems porn friendly, you tell her the neighbor who fucks too much sounds like a bad porn actress. On days your girlfriend seems porn unfriendly, you tell her the neighbor who fucks too much sounds like a sick cat.

15 - It turns out that neighbor who fucks too much has an awful singing voice. She sings Carly Simon tunes while she fries eggs, feeding her partners at all hours. You pat yourself on the back for your endless ability to be surprised by human vagary.

16 - As far as you can tell, the drag queen neighbor in the other loft doesn't fuck at all, until the day he does and roars like a Broadway lion. It makes you smile and blush the next time you see him. You pat yourself on the back for your endless ability to be surprised by human vagary.

17 - It's a good idea to wait until (at least) two hours after the neighbor who fucks too much has finished fucking before trying to initiate any sex of your own.

18 - If the neighbor who fucks too much starts fucking while you're fucking, try not to lose focus and possible wood by debating (internally) whether or not you should stop.

19 - There is no competition with a neighbor who fucks too much. (Is there?)

20 - If you and the neighbor who fucks too much are fucking at the same time, avoid any and all appearance that you are indulging yourself in any kind of aural transposition or fantasy. Vary your stroke to put the neighbor who fucks too much outside your circle of intimacy. If her bed is creaking, switch to cunnilingus.

21 - If the addicts in the alley are shouting loud enough to give the neighbor who fucks too much pause, they are shouting loud enough for you to get involved, at the very least by calling the police.

22 - The neighbor who fucks too much has a strange ability to make your fucking quieter. It's not so much that you are listening, but ashamed. You wonder why.

23 - You swear for a week or two that the neighbor who fucks too much just has to be some kind of call girl. Thinking that the economies of scale at play next door are market-driven seems like a good way to maintain an upper hand, but after that every time you see her the slander shames you.

24 - You have a sneaking suspicion that the neighbors at the far end of the hall are trying to figure out if you and your girlfriend are the ones who are fucking too much.

25 - The neighbor who fucks too much went from dead silence to 3, 4 times a day just like that. You wonder if she was listening to you and your girlfriend all those months. And if so, how would she rate the two of you?

26 - Is it cheating if you started masturbating BEFORE the neighbor who fucks too much started fucking?

27 - None of the neighbor-who-fucks-too-much's partners make a sound while fucking her. They just smoke on the common patio before and after, use their cellphones. Their calls reference proclivities and interests that strike you as gay, either that or they all work as low-level assistants in Hollywood. You don't share any thoughts about their banalities with your lady love, as these thoughts reek of comparison and transference.

28 - You have a long, difficult conversation with yourself about whether or not you want to fuck the neighbor who fucks too much. You realize with some relief that this is a question that can be abstracted and generalized out of existence, in so much as
it can be legitimately asked about just any porn star or stripper you have ever seen. Your girlfriend, who you love because her timing is so perfect, decides about then that they are making porn next door. It helps your girlfriend forgive the neighbor who fucks too much. Everyone has got to make a buck, she figures.

29 - The neighbor who fucks too much keeps a dirtier apartment than you
do just like your girlfriend expected her to. Go figure.

30 - The neighbor who fucks too much often wakes the cat, who thinks it's morning and wants to be fed. He curls up like a kitten in the crook of your arm once he's
full, leaving you awake in the dark, alone with the world. You wonder if this is
what fatherhood feels like.

31 - If you lay bed awake, saying nothing to your girlfriend while the neighbor who fucks too much fucks, you and girlfriend will drift slightly apart the next day. If you grin at your girlfriend in the dark and say "she sure does fuck a lot", you will drift slightly closer together. This ebb and flow is wholly you and your lady's, and its rhythm in no way reminds you of the neighbor who fucks too much. You are grateful.

I have an email address that originates back to the dawn of internet time. I now only use it when probing into sites I'd like information from... free information usually by relinquishing my email as the only reasonable reimbursement required. I look at the residuals of the spam filter in the bulk mail bin and at about 500 a day, I'd say someone got more out of the email for-info-swap than I did. The filter does a good job, but like all objects real and virtual, there are cracks in the floor.


I get important notices now about how my anytime soon potential inability to achieve and maintain wood could affect my social standing. To accentuate the need for a whole crate of blue pills to quell these unreasonable ills, I am then bombarded with sites to go to for hot teens waiting to do all sorts of things for me in the privacy of my own laptop... after I get the blue pills, of course. Otherwise, what's the point? Actually, it's rather obnoxiously pretentious that these mass spamoids think a teen could do for me what my extremely experienced wife and play partner could not... and vice versa.

So with this inquisitive arsenal in hand, I intend to start another chapbook based in theme on middle-age sex angst or bliss, depending on phase and angle and whatever marketing trajectory applies beneath, above, or regardless of the sheets and all points between. This is a place I have literately not really ventured so it should be fun and enlightening... as long as the hot teens don't get a hold of any copies floating down at the foundry or in back of the bowery. Do they hang there anymore?

art walkers...

We ventured to Seattle Thursday night, gallery hopping to be exact and the cultural spasms are so extreme contrary to that here in the delta. The art, even wrapped with expensive frames and hung in the most of eloquent fashion is still off the scale edgy compared to what we find on monthly art walks here at home. When craftsmanship meets fringe, there is a magnificent melding for maximum expression. I find one without the other leaves the observant me wanting more... sometimes unable to identify what is missing, where the gap is, and why. Art has to be more than just expression. It has to be more than well crafted and aesthetically decorative. There has to be reason for inquisition or the medium becomes dull, subject to duplication; immunity from mass marketing threatened by the pull of the collective supply-side generic. There has to be talent. Talent is the separator, expression the coagulant; and art flexes this way until a balance achieves it's center where there is no left or right... just perfection.

norm...

this is my time,
my season
when cloud cover lops
off mountain tops,
giving us the illusion that climbing outside is unreasonably limited
and climbing within is the preferred ascension

as the visual ceiling descends,
my mind expands

maybe it's the blanketing of distraction,
because the beauty is as equally awe inspiring
as any a clear pristine day

maybe it's the effect on people around me
as it dampens their life force
and those with,
migrate to more favorable climates
and those without,
retract into hibernation

and with all that, I find more space;
space to breathe,
to spread out,
to sample the torrential cleansings,
or the resistive weight of mists
as I walk deeper--
further down into the regions
where the core of reasoning exists

so I search out the like-minded,
beings whose purpose rolls with inclement discomforts,
those of the dark and dank,
the chills riding on winds that penetrate the weather resistant,
because comfort is a dull place
and a place only for reflection on the stings of discontentment,
the catalyst that spurs the creativity of such creatures,
the inspiring twinge to action

as I sit and write this,
the clouds drop further down,
engulfing mount anderson before me;
the afternoon rain overtakes the morning mists,
and the wind searches,
probes
for previously thought invulnerable nooks and crannies to invade
and my late morning slumber wrapped in warmth must soon end
as the need to feel alive calls me into the waiting elements

I will not long for the sun in the foreseeable future

D-E-evolved...

This place I deposit thoughts, this digital E-doodle where my synapses have coagulated directional perceptions and they are for any or all to read that stumble here has been up and running for a few years. Like all manifestations it has had its evolutionary moments. I've trashed all the visual aesthetics for the purity of simplicity. Any complexity is in the word. No bling. No artsy jpegs. No promotion. I've killed the archives. I'm putting them into print and depositing the results in places that does not require a phone line, electrical outlet, or wireless connectivity... maybe a pair of glasses and a cup of jo. I thinks this new medium is a cyclical redundant rehash of an old one, a chapbook of sorts. The message is not categorized. The print may end up in certain specific places, but it doesn't have to. So if you need to read more of what was or is that's no longer found here, send me a note... causticyak@gmail.com