expand upon

“this is denial

i feel like”

(says jonesie while walking thru the park alone [he’s always alone] his pants are falling down and he’s worried about other people around him seeing him and making fun of him in their minds but in reality no one notices him and he hasn’t figured this out yet that he lives in a new century where people don’t pay attention to other attractive people let alone ugly dirty lonely old men and the saddest thing is that he isn’t sad he just forgot to put on a belt this morning)

“what i must express

or rather how i am expected

to convey this is what i must say

and also predicate

this is what i must express”

(says the student who doesn’t think who only mimics who only consumes)

this is what is deemed expressible

no images

only pixels

this is what is only digital

no more meaning

only structure

[i would like to say that i have felt something through this process this microcosm of nothingness this of course being life or rather my perception of my own experience as an individual this is a footnote and is completely unnecessary like all footnotes like human life but it exists and because it does it is and since it is it will in some way and it has and so this is not a justification or a vindication or an any kind of vacation this is not logic this is not surrealism this is not post-modernism this might be meta but that’s not the point the point is that it doesn’t matter that this is pointless there are some feelings that seem like forever and that makes things okay for a fraction of an instant so that has to be good enough i guess]


One of These Days

how come when

you walk the

streets you get

tired but when

you plant down

your roots don’t

take hold one

of these days

you’ll get


for public


one of these

days you’ll be erased




Harder to be obscure

Or to organize


But it may be better

Because you don’t know

Who, or where you are


Maybe your liver

Will get better

Not likely


Even though

This Oriental glow remains

Drinking just the same


Fucking god fucking damnit

Charles Bukowski

How I realize


How similar I am

To the likes of you

When I’m deep into brews


My poetry is awful

More than raw

Dripping mediocrity


Oh, Bukowski

How you disgust me

And how I hate myself as well


Sudafed Beach

Sitting in a pitch-black attic for decades.

a perfect place

cough medicine and shame

yellow skin

fit in

to him


no one can relate

self-revelation forgotten

illumination faced

daily basis

lost temper

dissociate with the same anticipation


Dissociatives have never been so welcome.


When You Were Young You Made Mistakes and Never Learned From Them

reaching an impasse with blackness

an eternal abyss


too many nights spent with strangers

avoiding bliss


no home to have


too broken to think succinctly

and leaking quicker


generosity breathes again

you cannot admit what you did to her


seconds filled with repentance


showing off with a full stomach

even though nothing is there


revelations running through rivers

another blood-soaked mare


it is bitter cold and better left unsaid


poor and wetter

immaterial benefits


iron objects penetrating

wooded penitence


expecting an embrace and only getting violence


reaffirmation of disbelief

these words carry similarity


reemerging lack of self-confidence

recognized redundancy


continuous self-aggrandizement


coughing up pretentiousness

increasing testicular pain


every endless night

hunger penetrates the brain


caged in this country


is it blue balls

or a green heart


eunuchs sharpening scythes

fuck your art


skill is not involved in this endeavor


yesterday morning she needed you

don’t talk about the weather


tonight she couldn’t wait to get rid of you

nothing is better


conversations carrying insinuations


using tongues as swords

misguided notions prevail



to no avail