scraps of paper relay this:

July 2, 2005

Leave it to us then,
to make our arms strong
let us sweat
and push our uncaloused hands to the tasks
in which we can become builders
and learn by the bearings
of such an earth

Let us be men,
as we swagger in between
the wombs of our own children
and the beggars we should meet

Let us too, find God
within splintered skin, where we reside
for the glory of love is only known
by unsheltered men,
who don't fear their own kind

Let us stay here
beneath scarcely lit skies
with their invocation of terror
shadowed kindly
by a morning's reprise


July 17

We move through these things
carelessly shuffling between
the good gifts presented
and the necessity of one's needs

antenna fingers press the petal cheek
and run down the solemn chin,
to the other half, mirroring

those lips,
which carry the truth
become petty thieves
when allowing such a construction of
words to pass through

a dialect of defense
concrete letters to an
articulate inflection
of barbed wire fences

the uncertain soul held HOSTAGE
by willful intellect
just to keep the others out
no as not to be vulnerable
to a soft heart's hard attack

but I am not the undertake of your scarlet lined fears

i am another,

not the others

for a mute's safety net

for the one who makes love

our bellies were full
we wept over this great fortune
as if it could have been
more than humble skin could contain

all hunger ever satiated
fleeting skin to remain

in tact

Keep it together, kid

This is what I've been trying to tell myself, and convince myself of in recent days and weeks.
Simple concept. Hard to do. Highlights have included:

-being sentenced to my bed, in a prescription drug induced horrible body cramp, ache, shake, that took half a day to wear off. twice.
-during this time, sleep was impossible, and excessive analytical thinking was copious....and that burden made me even more ill than the physical disfunction
-Walking out of the art class I've been taking in the middle of the session, without justification... leaving my drawing paper behind with some slightly psychotic cryptic message about art not having purpose. After staring at inanimate objects (pots, pans, a chinese takeout box) with light flashed on them for an hour, I couldn't take it anymore. I figured that there had to be something with more purpose to go find before jumping out of the art studio window....
-coming to the conclusion i never want to make a record again unless someone else, or lots of someone else's, can fucking deal with getting it recorded, produced, and completed in a packaged, buy-able, cd format. my brain and body have been sucked dry, and I can't take it no more! it almost makes me hate music all together.

Dear World: Fuck Off!

I had lunch with a friend of mine, and I indulged in a sympathetic ear and finally admitted to my declining state of mind, and general disinterest in being a being on this earth. There's nothing more repulsive to me than being pathetic, helpless, and complaining about it....admitting it to another human being. Acknowledging the condition just makes me worse off, as the original depression just gets partnered up with a completely gross self loathing euphoria. I know, I should have no reason for complaints, I have more than I need. But that doesn't make things better when you feel that you've completely exhausted any good thing you ever had in you. You're at the end of the toothpaste tube, and it's just getting messy and depressing at this point.

I've been a blogophile today, perusing through the lives of dozens of people I don't know, and upon reading more about, have decided I don't WANT to know. I don't get the blog phenomenon. I hear some of these bloggers are celebrities in certain circles.... where does this exist? Do THAT many people really read any one given blog (even the "cool" ones) or is this just some bogus perceived value we've hyped up to ourselves because we're young, or hip, or just tragically doomed? Or maybe it's the manhattan appeal? Like all those really fucking cool ny based magazines that no one actually reads.

In any case, I feel certain that at most, maybe two or three people read this here blog, which of course would make sense considering I'm highly anti-social, post infrequently, and usually don't have much of a point or current news of hipster happenings. So, if you will humor me, if you are reading this blog, leave a comment. Make your existence known. I just want to know how few people really do read this. It would be good for me.....it's the least you can do, i mean I went through the trouble to spell check this post and everything.

See I've been thinking that maybe art and creation (including these writings) may be nothing more than some lame mental masturbation in which all us "artists" forge some "meaningful" life from. Dark thought, I know. And I'm trying to save myself from actually starting to believe it. It's a dangerous prospect.

Please fucking prove me wrong.

someone!