I shake until I break
And then I wake
And then I bake
Cause I just don’t know how to take it
But I sure know how to fake it
It’s a riot, it’s a laugh
All these people passing gas
As they spread their lips to spray their words
They do not hesitate to curse
And though I know it sounds reverse
Their empathy just makes it worse
While words and curves and all their worst
Come raining down upon our berth
Of loneliness
This cursed earth


Insecure Dwelling


, , ,

I cross out lines in this tattered book

Like the web in my window where a spider once took

But no longer is he; my spider, my friend

They say all things come to an end

And now in his place an albino moth dwells

Bulging eyes that look straight out of hell

As I look and I write my pen runs out of ink

Each deliberation causes my body to sink

And give in to this pain, give in to this ill

I just wanted to sit and look at the sill

Where eight legs once fed on the living dead

And a beautiful web hid the hole in this shed

– MS

Shit, nothing makes sense. Still, I must think about it.


Yesterday I unwillingly (no one likes a party pooper) joined my work in attending a baseball game.  Do not mistake me, every bit of will was bent toward making a good run of it.  Despite my not hatred of sports, understanding of spectacle, and general desire to please people, circumstances beyond my ability to immediately alter insured that I am still exhausted and miserable.  It has been days since I have slept more than three hours.  Be careful, saying that, some people think it means more than it does.  Perhaps there have been times in my life when a person would have been correct about certain assumptions made, but days of continued alertness and an inability to sleep well have plagued me long before I was old enough to think I could ever want to kiss a member of the opposite sex.  More to point, much of last night was spent in my being handed swigs of Tang and vodka, in an attempt by a co-worker to increase my volubility.  This doesn’t work, for many reasons, but there is only one that I want to share.  Much of my life is spent in silence, I am merely an observer of events.  This role has led me to make many flaccid yet poorly considered choices, as well, at times, as preventing serious injury to my person from occurring after these actions of poor judgement.  That one thing, though, the reason that everyone is always waiting for me to say just one more thing, is that the words left unspoken would, in my mind, confirm a diagnoses most often gifted to me frivolously by associates and close relations alike, despite sever implications.  What am I saying?  I’m crazy.  But only in my head, as long as I never say a thing out loud.  The laughable part is that, in reality, the state of my reasoning plays no part in the matter.  Am I right to think that just as I am pulling together the loose ends, shedding years of an unhealthy lifestyle, one in which I previously had intended to end my life, and making an effort I imagine to be fruitless in this battered and scarred body to do a thing that is good in the world, that events and people beyond my realm of influence would conspire to drag me down?  For the first time in my life, I don’t care if I am right or wrong about the things that keep me awake at night.  Insanity is not a failure of reason, it is a failure to subsume your thoughts to another without any factual evidence against them.  Whether your IQ is 140 or you become part of the jail system depends on your ability to maintain a logically functioning thought process.  Others, professionals, have assessed my ability to think logically and given me the gold star of approval, a B+ at the local community college.  Why, then, am I lying on the floor worrying that it is all over?  Worrying that tonight was not a coincidence, or a simple event, but a contrivance.  A contrivance meant to lull me places I wish with every fiber of my being never to see, experience, or be overwhelmed by again.  To those who are listening to what I am saying, this is it.  This is my full surrender.

My vow of silence over, not yet at peace


Food for thought:  Does choosing not to call your therapist at twelve thirty in the evening because it would be rude and selfish contribute to or detract from the obvious instability of a near paralyzing, back-breaking tingle that says you should be afraid, and on your knees?

“I haven’t slept for seven nights and I’m not tired. Who protects the ones I love when I’m asleep?”



, , , , ,

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
you want to blow my book sales in
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
and we sleep together like
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do



, , , , ,

With myself, always myself, never forgetting. I’m waiting for cigarettes to get so expensive that they eventually become some perverse status symbol for the ultra-wealthy. I can’t for the life of me decide, as I sit on my porch and look out at the rain, a trail of smoke from my mouth floating lazily upwards and becoming the fog in the sky, if I’m depressed or just incredibly lethargic due to some outside force like the weather or the pile of dishes in the kitchen sink that continues to grow. I can’t do anything anymore. My thoughts only exist in the form of singular sentences. They dissipate like the smoke from my cigarettes. A scattered, quickly fading cloud above my head. My words fall flat like a pebble being dropped into a deep well; these days, I think that by the time sounds leave my lips, people have already stopped listening. Everything comes out in whispers. My housemates have stopped asking me questions. I don’t leave my room. I don’t see my friends. I don’t want to. I’m thinking ahead even though it’s in my nature to reflect. Everything is temporary. Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s “reflecting” so much as it is self sabotage. I still cringe over things I said in grade school.

My mother and father had a weird way of parenting. When I was in high school they tried to discourage me from every dying my hair or getting a piercing or tattoo. They mentioned articles in magazines they read which shamed modified women. Girls with piercings and tattoos were promiscuous, had no self-respect, would never be taken seriously, were good fucks but bad wives, damaged goods. “What would a man think if you had metal in your face?”, my mother would say.

While reflecting on this, I’ve come to realize that even my most depressed state here is nothing, comparatively, to feelings of the past because I have had time to become more comfortable with myself than I ever have been. My sadness is caused by outside forces that I sometimes choose to internalize because I am sensitive, while putting on an air of being tough. I think the most important and uplifting part of being here, away from everyone and everything I know and (some things) that I love and spending so much time inside my own head is the realization that there is nothing more liberating than being damaged goods as long as you are also aware that you can rebuild yourself. Scar your body. Pierce it, mar it, cut off all your hair and make it yours. I’ve learned to find the beauty in broken things. It’s the only way I know autonomy.

There’s an application for that


, , , , ,

Having a sense for the absurd, and of the inclination that you may as well, I thought I would share.

It was the fifth store I had visited. My eyes were just above my toes and miles away as I reconciled my mind to the inevitable outcome of this quest. Without guidance my feet carried me into the building, arms recalling their necessary employment just in time. In limbo, disdaining even to observe the multitude of lead filled trinkets crying to be purchased, I thought about the possibilities of lunch. I agonized over the paltry bowl of grain with which I had broken my fast. I envisioned that, contrary to my presence here , it would be far more expedient had I currently been patronizing the place that I soon would be wishing had been the place I had first visited. A cashier became available and my body was drawn forward by some law of physics or economics.
Determined that this time, it would not be I that was made to dance in jest with bells tied to my hair, I took fully thirty seconds to raise my eyes and cast the scornful glance of one who expects instant gratification upon a face that… Is it possible for a human to chew their cud? Having been faithfully informed that this time, they had what I was looking for, I simply smiled and waited for the yellow bearded, spittle catching dunderhead to open the box. Piece by wretched piece he pulled out trivial accessories as if to whet my appetite. Finally, and with great flourish, he presented me with the palm of his hand, upon which balanced a cylindrical rubber boot.
“No, sorry. That isn’t what I need. ”
“Yes, it is!” The self deception is strong with this one.
“You see, my problem is that the boot I am looking for splits in half. That is just a solid boot.”
“Now listen, I was told specifically you was looking for a boot. This is a boot.” You can imagine I watched as murky brown eyes slowly blinked in a head that was waiting for mine to light up in understanding.
Know your enemies or you will be imperiled in every battle. Flag lowered, I conceded that my business must be accomplished elsewhere. It was then that I saw this:


Today it is popular to remind people that it is okay to fail, as if most of them had any choice. I often find it necessary to remind myself that it is never acceptable to err when it is wholly within means to be irreprochable. A motto branded on my soul from the moment of birth, my nature has always been such that I cringe at the thought of allowing another sentient being to continue in the purgatorial existence of perpetuating an acknowledged falsehood, and, it must be clear, I needed no source other than the one between my ears to suspect that our dear German physicist said nothing of the sort. Despite this absolute certainty, I took an entire five hundredths of a second to ensure complete veracity.
“I’m fairly certain Einstein said nothing of the sort,” were the words that came out as I looked up from my tablet, considering the absurdity of the man synonymous with genius wasting breath by decrying the paradigm shift which must occur after every new pandemic of information.
Eyes locked for a second time, the cashier responded, “Yea, whatever.”


Extracurricular reading:


If we were really a virus we’d be better at self-replication


, , , , , , ,

This year I have been reflecting on the nature of perception as it relates to function.  One mundane facet of this fascination is that recently various forms of thought expression have come to my attention which deal with the concept of learning.  For months, now, I have been immersing myself in time-proven methods of achieving an understanding of the learning process.  Watching a three-year old use a smart phone, reading the perverted confessions of dying, old (dead), wise men, falling asleep to the dulcet tones of a union established upon both dickering and bickering, they have all left me with a strong sense that there is something there.  Or, perhaps the thereness lies in what I find absent.  Something beyond a bunch of monkeys chasing bananas.  My insight, if I may use that expression, came however not from any extraordinarily abstract thinking on my part but from a seemingly throwaway comment made to me by my brother.

“How is learning different from change?”  The (insert fancy word for question to appear more appealing), required penance in the ritual of achieving a Masters in Indoctrination, did not mean a thing to me.

“How is learning… different… from change,” I repeated.  Still, no sense.  If there is anything on this godforsaken rock that, regardless of any higher state of being or intoxication that I may or may not achieve, will bug the shit out of me, it is anything that does not make sense.  “If learning is a function of change, then to learn is to change from a state of unable to a state of able, learn being unequal to know.”  We began to divide and define words and thoughts like an arrangement of unicolor M&Ms on a mancala board that I then carried around for the rest of the day, orange palms and a sticky feeling in my mouth.

It was not until later that night, whilst patiently explaining to my lover that Olav was the King of Norway from 1957-1991, the same year three people were crushed to death at an AC/DC concert in Mormonville, that all of eternity came crashing back to the one singular thought that haunts my every living moment.  Afraid to yet utter the words, I will instead illustrate.

Two thousand years of cerebral evolution and K-12 is the best that we have come up with.  People who are serious about physical fitness run, for Christ’s sake.  I have never, once in my life, seen a bottle of rice wine that contained a depiction of the crucifixion.

Listen, and I will tell you a small part of why you (probably don’t) lie awake at night wondering for what it is that you fall asleep just to wake once more in this dreary cycle of life.  It simply does not matter.  Stuff any amount of knowledge into a person’s head and it will change zero.  The best advice I have ever read is that reading advice is useless (http://www.life-hack.co.uk/2014/03/10-painfully-obvious-truths-everyone.html).  In order to apply this to my current preponderance I attempted to recall a lesson I had learned which contained the possibility of change.  The one I found is this: All things are created from the minds of men.  Our minds work with equal ease a literary description or a literal hell.  Look not to the poets of the past for their perennial philosophies but to the dreamers who dare decry the future we doom.

One more time.  I’m talking about the Matrix.  Forget about whether they infinitely expanded memory storage capabilities or succinctly compressed the knowledge of kung fu to a few hundred Gigabytes and realize that it doesn’t matter.  None of our educational programs will service because all of them espouse the principle that we are in need of knowledge.  One day, and this will, with the caveat that we continue to exist, already have happened, knowledge is universal.  When that day came it will hit like the submarine that crashed into the Louvre in 1870.  The problem is not our brains overloading with a surge of information that is quickly outpacing our cognitive abilities.  The problem is not that you were[n’t] bullied in pre-school for being the straight kid with bad grades.  The problem is this:

We are doing it entirely wrong, and no one gives a damn.


Extracurricular reading:


Untitled Poem.


, , , ,

I am an iron maiden

of thorns.

I am still bleeding from intentions that you carved into my back.

You liked me low enough to step on my bones,

you liked to drown me.

You once told me we were lost together,

but whenever I took the time to find my way,

you held out your foot without warning

and I tripped over it.

You liked me angry,

bruised, and empty.

You liked me slouched,

you liked me closer to the dirt.

You liked me weary.

You liked me thinking in wrong directions.

You liked me miscalculating the distance

between being better and being worse.

You liked me shattered.

You liked me low.

You like me less now than you did

when I had forgotten that I had the ability to rise.



, , , ,

Friday I will be moving for the seventh time since January, 2011.  My goal is to fit everything I own (excepting furniture, and Marlfox) into five boxes.  It averages out to one move every six months, but I did stay in one place for 20 months, so there is that.

Here is this.

V Bridge

||||||||||||| Venerable V_____ Valued at Great Value.  Wanted to No longeR live in a Vault.  Though V_____ is young, I call V_______ Venerable because ________ the mind of an experienced parent, type.  [GrampawRick Rubbing off onto]u  Some of us just are, “FAT.”  AS you are!  FAT is an acronym that means Faithful, Available, and Treachable.

VAL is FAT hahahahahahahahahaha

Yet Veryily, I Say, you have a great physique.    V____ I wanted you to write me a letter.  I was trying to get a visit with you, before I was picked up.  Anyway, that is not important.


I don’t know what kind of information you got or get from any Source about me, but it’s never as accurate as what you’ll get asking direct. FOR INSTANCE: when you asked my mother ______; of my whereabouts.  (where I am) She probably said; he’s in that place, OR on Vacation.  Something to that effect!  Rather than just saying he’s in prison.

Instances like these run rampant in my life.  My mother is very co-dependent, and knows nothing about it.  UP until NOW I made matters worse.

I got an Edumacation – I am Teachable

I would like to learn about my child.

That I may fit into your life as Value.

-That is God‘s will —OVER