a ways from home. but, will be further soon.

a bit of jerk, sometimes.

hungry, most all the time.

a slob, but only when i'm alone.

radical in my beliefs and style.

not trying to be anyone but myself; whoever that is.

searching for answers to questions i can't read or write down.

not looking for help.

institutionalized in grief.

fed well by societies requirement.

taught in Thoreau and believe in nothing.

trying to disappear when i don't answer your calls.

155 pounds of uncompromised uncertainty.

disgusted with the way of life of others.

no relation to you, though.

moving to California

in May



I watched the circus roll through town.

I saw it through my dining room window, the circus I mean. On wheels, they were, moving quickly in line, down the street. And then, they were gone. Out of the sight of my dining-room window.

So, I looked down at the snow. And the house across the shared-apartment yard with the neighbors dogs shit everywhere. i don't really mind it, I just noticed it was there. Just because I acknowledged it, doesn't mean I mind it. I don't mind very much; I should be easy to get along with, but I'm not because people don't know that I don't mind much.

I thought about going to the store to buy groceries and didn't. I don't like buying groceries. Food costs too much and I can eat what food I have. I don't like paying as much as they ask for food. I'd steal it if I could, but I'd get caught. I'm terrible at stealing food.

Seeing things is hard when you're locked inside all day long. Well, not really locked, but closed in all day long. I don't mind it though. But I mind not writing. And you have to see things outside to write about them. Don't write about things if you haven't seen them. I need to see things, so I can write about them. I can't be locked inside all day long, well, not locked but closed inside...all day long.

Where'd the day go?

There’s a hippie in a dead shirt and red toboggan, smoking a cigarette and talking to himself, strolling anxiously through the melting snow, down College avenue.

And that’s the problem with people; they’re always looking down at their feet when they’re walking, disregarding what they should be looking at. So what if you slip and fall down; you’ll see more that way. Feel more.

Is is creek or a river. I don’t really know. Some people say a creek. Some people say a river. I don’t really know.

I’m not waiting on the red light to turn, they are. I’m walking. I don’t wait for lights to change when I’m walking. I just walk.

I get caught looking at my feet when I’m taking a walk as well. I catch myself looking at them, as they are getting more and more soaked. I need shoes with better soles, but I don’t care about better soles. I only care about fashion. That’s why I wear sneakers. They aren’t fashionable. I hate fashionable shoes.

Running homeward to write down my thoughts, I fear I will lose them. I run like I’m going to lose them. I get in the door, peel off my soaked shoes and I’ve lost them.

There’s a blue shopping cart down there in the river or creek, whatever you want to call it, you can call it. I call it a shopping cart.

I take walks to see things. I want to move to see things so I can have more to write about. That’s where the writing comes from, from seeing things. They say I haven’t looked enough and should stay here, see things and write about them. I say, you haven’t looked either, or you’d see that there’s nothing to see. That’s why I’m moving, because I’ve looked and there’s things to see there. I need things to see, to write about.

People seem to be smiling a bit more today. People always smile when something is changing. It feels good to change. I like to see change. Stagnancy is scary. Humans are scary. Humans are, for the most part, stagnant.

I can be whatever I wish to be. The possibilities are endless. You should have endless possibilities, as well. But you choose not to. That’s why I’m leaving to see things.

To decide if it’s a river or a creek.

To not wait on the lights to change.

To not have to have soaked feet on a slush-covered sidewalk.

To wear my dead shirt and my red toboggan.

To make it home, not have to run and not forget things I want to write about.

To not be stagnant.

To not be human.

a rocked gut
fly-over without displacement and/or acknowledgment

a nasty disputation and a violent wind sweeping under a dress

a rustling rodent, striving for warmth and we have much
settling in alone or

come now, pray the prayer they've taught you to pray

of all is understanding and faith in reason
when there is none.


The news seems dead as does the surrounding landscape
but we press on into the darkness ahead

no one really knowing what's lying in our way.

Why is it our way, I ask myself
don't ask so many questions, he said once

You'll be much happier with the answers if you don't ask for them
they come easy
and free.

They said you'd be here, you said
I say 'no' but, she said
that i was coming and I haven't made my mind up
because I don't care.

Deliberate actions speak enough and the children run, even when told not to.
into the street and to the neighbors porch, you don't trust.

What are you going to do now, they ask
my indecision scraped on my forhead like a scaring wound emblazoned by choice and not

I don't answer but let the actions fortold of, do the talking
while they keep

Chicago night wind

I run to the subway but,
it waits anyway for me and everyone else.

I sit amongst strangers, either too tired to smile or not caring

A young man stumbles in soiled pants and tattered camouflaged jacket, asking for a nickel
when i'm sure he wants much more.
As i do.

We take the red-line 15 stops to Howard, exit and start all over again, running
and yet, the train still waits.

I step outside to the uninvited cold wind and the snow starts falling.
I've got a mile and a half to walk and no one is around but the fleeting train and passing cars.
I pass the cars as I walk, or they pass me
They see me but I hardly see them; smoking a cigarette one honks and I say 'thank you.'

The snow is cold and I don't wear proper shoes, as the ice seeps through the cracks in my worn soles and my soul aches with the thought of it all. I
step back down onto the highway and make headfall toward my destination
before another round of cars coming streaming by unseen and hardly heard.

I'm here for that one, I tell the man and he throws me a key.

I miss it, but I don't miss the chance to feel bitter on a blustery night.


Finding the Time

When Alvin asked me to pick up his 'billfold' from the iced-over drive way, i thought: "A literal move!"

Never properly prepared for life on the ice, the human race invented slip-on shoes and I have embraced them. They wear more quickly, but they only cost $10.

Alvin greeted me again today: "Young man, thank you for getting my billfold," as he chipped with a spade at the 3 inches of death at his feet.

"You're welcome, sir," I said.

Mr. Mays (names have been changed to protect the homeless) then started talking about how he'd climbed over the fence - in his apparent feeble state - only to slip drop the wallet in hand, err, rather, billfold; before slipping and leaving it. Luckily I was there to help him out or he would have had to call the fire department.

I have walked around the block twice, spent countless hours searching for cars and talked to people in all places not here amongst the Siberian-esque conditions. Or is there just a lot of snow and chilly temps in Northern Russia?

I'm afraid my music has annoyed the neighbors due to its inconsistency. But we all know when a song hits you right, you have to peck at the volume button to raise it past the point you already know doesn't exist.

The only thing that has remained the same is that I've listened to Modest Mouse's 'Dramamine' and Radio Dept's 'Clinging to a Scheme' album about 27 times.

At present The Knife greets those in Suites A and C.

However, amongst the anxious upheavals, airplanes flying overhead and my kicking the chair-frozen to the ground, perhaps spraining my largest toe on my right foot, not to mention nearly slipping and breaking my own feeble body, I've gotten quite a bit of nonsensical writing done.

I try to be happy with it, but what fills moleskins is 'for no one' and is literal illustration of that which attempts to seep, sometimes does, but mostly remains locked up in the inner clutches of the soul.

As the sun sets, i take note of the strange color of Alvin's house and the birds that aren't present upon his red roof.

An pink (faded red) piece of tape tied upon the top of an electric-metered stick, flies with the cold wind as if someone running to battle, flag in hand, got trapped under the ice.

The lights are off and the furnace kicks in, though I keep it low because who needs heat anyway?

I think as I slid a few feet, readjusted, slid again and then tip toed in my black Urban Outfitter slip-ons, that this could be my final few days stuck within the clutching of the aftermath with blizzard-like conditions. Warmer weather is on the horizon, and though I don't complain as those who choose to live here forever, I will say I don't like the inability to sit outside whenever I want and read or jot things into said moleskin.

I mused about driving to the store to buy some more food, salt for the sidewalks and cheeto's but thought better of it.

I do need to cook something, eat and take out the trash - risking my neck and my warm feet - so I must go.

Have a good night everyone.

In two days

I've scraped for hours
eaten things

drank heavy
and left thoughts
of you in the snow

I see
out my bedroom window

Days and Nights

'So, where does the story end,' she asked?
When the nights come cold
an answer is waiting
for how the
sun sets on the days
it precedes


I've seen all this country has to see
and I've
seen naught, but
And you don't see
but, look away when i approach.

'Don't be an ass,' you say.

We wind the streets unfolded and down until we reach the

Where'd the year go, so fast and slow as the rain falls where it's
not meant. The time has come for slow cars and even slower minds.

And, you're neither, but a dream unescapable in the daylight.

afternoon naps and restless nights; we're meant for neither.

every writer has one good novel in them is bullshit and you know it
focus is waning
and this cigarette is too short and too long.

they had it in for me and you never will.
Oh baby can't you see.

and, but knows nothing
falsehood in the life of saints
truth in the lives of manics
kiss the death goodbye and arise to the truth
one knows.

A hairy belly

Lift your shirt and do you have a hairy belly?

A small pooch is nothing if it's not a leaping gestation.

Are you ready for rejection, non madame

Finish your tea and get out! East we'll go if we can stave the cold. West we'll go if we're not ready.

You're down and I am too, why not shoot for the moon?

kiss death goodbye and live.

A man paces, in anxiety of brilliance, but doesn't know what to seek. Feed that itch, young man
let it

Eating he goes out, and not knowing why.

Why then, he asks himself. To find what you're looking for is nothing but an overarched struggle of resistent to truth and you're gone.

If only for a moment and their we
and neither knows what to make of it.

I ask and you don't tell.

I observe and try to soak in years, as they're only moments.

I know you'll be gone and apart we'll be the most of this life and yet
remain seperate

I need you so much closer, exit through the entrance we've created and come back to us in an instant. you said just write and so I

I'm sure we'll be and you're still not sure, I dwell and you
repeat your unobservance to our truth in love.

"Calm down," they say. "Don't go," says another.

They don't know you and the light of justice on your brow. We spent so many times knowing and denied.

I was an idiot then. But no longer longing.

There'morethana life tolive

The pain of the artist is the escape before the entrance.

naked truth and sacrament.

I've become what I want, now take and don't let go.

no one has the ideas I've. and no


The rain falls deep and so do you.

Chardonnay and cigarettes.
Slowing down
my mind
that's not yet yet defiled.

"You're so warm," you told me, i remember as i hold my hand out from the porch wondering with it freeze on me. Surely not.

One sentence. One word can mean eternity.

I step off and try to slide, embrace childhood lost and stumble; making sense.

blogger templates | Make Money Online