To be returned to...

the return of duck and cover? what the fuck?

untitled

Newborn infant?

   There’s an app for that.

  It’s a strange new world, Jack;

and it’s nowhere near

     the Arthur C Jetson

  post-war dream, once promised.

      1+1=5;

and in December of 2012, you’ll

      be two—and the world will end.

The earth and sky fell to the Capitalists

        who put write name here

    in the White House/Capital Building.

Most recently, on the home front,

   a Tranny from Alaska

 shows that “she’s” the biggest

        swinging dick, squatting

in Monticello, with a mob of

  blue collar picketing dipshits,

       denigrating the corpse of

a founding father, mocking him

  as the embodiment of his fear;

 teabagging the rest of us, jaws

        agape in disbelief.

Public discourse is dead;

        wanna go ride bikes?

  Plastic Glow-in-the-dark Christs,

American Flags (made in China)…

Not much is sacred, Sobrino.

       We bankrupted your education,

   your future, your freedom, your planet;

all for petty family grudges…

      my friend, Benny, died

          for their feud.

Nearly a decade of war; but

   as long as someone else pays

 the price…

  In this banana and apple republic we’re

    building [no war but class war],

  filtering bullshit will be

          the only full-time

   job you won’t be able to outsource;

and it will be low-paying, hard work.

Your great-grandparents were

      part of the Greatest Generation.

    They understood that there is

                    nothing

         without hard work and sacrifice.

 In such a short time,

      we’ve forgotten their lessons;

  but who’s got time for thermodynamics?

    It’s such a dry subject, anyway.

Our call of duty is to buy buy buy

  (read: borrow borrow lose the house).

     We can blame this manifest pathology

   on past destinations—my obesity

  has everything to do with my genetics

  and nothing with the exercising of my

  freewill…

Forgive us, we are but helpless

      crippled victims.  You’ll have to

   solve the problems.

But you have to laugh, Baby James.

      You really do.  Find the humor:

  A naturalized Aussie pushes

        propaganda against immigration—

   a subject your mother may have a thought

      or two to share.

And then, there’s the women of the GOP…

       Irony is the foundation of most of Life’s

                punch lines; you’ll figure that out

            soon enough, I’m sure.

Beware, but don’t be afraid, Young One.

   They’ve had The Bomb for over

  half a century…

        Live, laugh, love,

     because life is an adventure

       of endless discovery,

   full of honeysuckles, bee stings,

        ocean waves, mustard seeds,

              and girls.

You’ll figure that out, in due time.

Dependability

It's good to know some things are dependable.  Jackass 3D was all I had hoped for: an hour and a half of juvenile high jinks, nut-shots, puke, poop, farts, fat asses, midgets, and Bam being a prissy bitch.  And it was in 3D; what more could you want?

It would be nice to get the same from life.  For better or worse, life loves the curve ball.  One minute, you're Dudley Do-Right; the next, your neck is sore from being cast as Snidely.  Sometimes, the change comes from out of nowhere; but more often than not, the signs were all there, you were just too wrapped up in what you wanted the world to be to notice that you just got left behind, bitch.  But, oh-bla-dee oh-bla-dah, so it goes...

Karma is heartless and mechanical; you get what you deserve, even if you don't think you deserve what you got.  Same as it ever was.

FORA.tv rocks!

check it

two poems, six years

1:58am sobriety:

What is this

           need to reject history;

  the need to self-animate,

 to self-sustain?

      white chip tokens of loneliness

               and porch swing longing…

    Once upon a time, I

          could love myself;

yet, as true as neurochemical changes

     yielding new identities,

  the past is no more real than—

        She is but an icon

    with a billion different names to learn

and I hate my face,

      photographs make this only too real.

    I just need someone to be there

                                     for me;

     but I’ve found no way to silence these

sledge hammer synapses pounding

   in echoed harmony

         with dopamine deficiency,

a ringing distraction in my hollowed out

                cranial cavity,

           like a gangrened ghost limb, still itching

to be cut off—

          I play.

      Love is just an organic compound;

               drink deep.

2:04am stumble:

Is this the last swig?  Just

      one last pull, another shot to the gut…

         a twinge of jealousy and

  I’m reeling. It’s just my way; or simply

      chemistry and biological drive.

   Tell me, when

                will I feel calm?

With time, head throbbing pound
      dulls to a hum, and
  red vision gives way to

      low light, eventual

  hindsight: I know I was wrong.

Apologies, broken wings,

   just two birds lost along their way home…

Cynicism tells me

     it’s just an evolutionary trick.

And yet, I yield.

    The icon has, now, only her face,

          only her tattoos…

Here’s my ten bleeding fingers

    cradling broken bottles, my

  bruised knuckle tokens of

     openness; yet, blood
  runs dry and scars, too, will fade

        like photographs kept

                 in shoe boxes,

     blacken to faint memory,

and she’ll shine in another sky.

Will I disappear?

As days go by,

 my mind clears, revealing me

        stunned

by my own reflection

      looking back

                    too clearly…

I swore I’d never go there, again;

   dragged myself down, friend,

    down, down, down,

                                  down.

Love is an organic compound;

       may our cups overflow.

Shouts and Echos

When all is tangentially related,
   pushing and pulling,
  shining
        reflecting—
   Self becomes a metaphor

Am I not
         what I am?

So, where is the meaning in "Tree?"

   I am shouts and echos.
        My reality defines
             and is defined—
                              by me?

Intention is subtle, discrete, hidden,
    when causality governs
  an ordered cosmos,
             as below and above...

Chaos is a product of
    sequential thought
        and perspective limitation;
  but all is meaningless
      without a reference point.

  I am a fractal, started circa 1984;
     yet, my bones are much
                        much older.

I was born on the cusp of Aquarius.
I enjoy high speed
               burns
           —stoned—
     to the beach to
               catch the sunrise
          to clear my thoughts.
Would you believe me if I told you I get told I have an old soul,
a lot?
and it only matters when I think of one
other human being on this planet of six
billion, plus, schmucks and assholes;
myself included—
infants, though, are exempt.
    you're probably not her;
   so, I don't fucking care for your
   fluff.

Tell me, Boddhisattva, if I shatter
        I and I, erase ego,
     mute myself
            do I exist to cease;
   become something else;
                   or...

University

You, standing on ivory towers,
 do you believe in your gut,
     in your answers,
   in your paper, brick, mortar...

Can you tell me the way to Enlightenment?

 Your theories are disjointed;
     that is from ego.
My thoughts are disjointed;
   and that is from ego.

An Academic, an Autodidact, and a Sophist
 are in a bar;
      who's the one serving drinks?

I want to shout my throat raw,
   inhale until my lungs burst,
  beat my chest until my cage collapses,
 explode

I want to sit
   until I dissolve.

If I am my own metaphor—

       What happens if I finish that as a statement?

So it goes...

It’s fitting or
  fucking funny;
        don’t you think?
You slipped that note to me,
    the one about touch,
as your hand
     cupped to shield the
         flame
   as I lit your cigarette—
 sparks leaping
across that slight unbearable
               gap
        between our skin.
And now, I’m the one
      who must remind
    my self
  to keep my hands
     to myself. I must
        remember
 not to run my fingers
    through your hair;
  not to touch the small
        of your back;
    to ignore the cut of
          your dress;
to overlook your raw
            thumbs—
and you stay just
          out of reach…
 Now, my breakfast of
     nicotine and caffeine
  is just an excuse to
 skip on brushing my teeth;
I fall asleep to self-indulgent tokes and
     trite poems about a girl;
  and my future's not so clear.

C’est la vie, no?

Petal and Chaff

       Late spring bloom wilted
   well before autumn, questioning
patience and faith in serendipity;
   begging questions of latency
 or laziness; since I stood
    there plucking—
  She loves me…
      she loves me not…
I am foolish.
  What sway could the destruction
     of this simple thing of beauty
          have over Fate?
None. I'm grasping at straws,
     not binding wheat for harvest.
  Soon, the leaves will turn
and fall from the trees,
     like the time that slips
             through
               my fingers…
But talent and aptitude only
      get you so far, boy. Ambition
   and hard work, they are
               the crucial elements…

Butterfly Screams and One-handed Claps

Well now, James Douglas,
     what have you?
  Prancing lion, slinking black leather,
      shedding snake skin
   for whiskey bloat—
the sun sets in the
                                 west.
Some might say; but really,
     is booze the muse?
    Not to mention,
  who wants to be
       another drunk cliché?
My scars mock like a
     clown's face paint.
Philosopher poet, self
        taken way too seriously,
               bottled ego boost, sped
   self-destruction.
I am no saint.
     I've fucked without
   emotion; and
I've had my heart set
     ablaze,
  snuffed and torn from my chest
    and stomped.
Learn to forget, and life
                         is beautiful.
     Just the same,
   I grow my beard to
             hide my face.

Stand, Crawl, Walk

Again, I'm left asking,
    Where do I stand?
 The repetition of this question
   makes an abstraction of
   firm ground for foundation...

The foolish man builds his house
          upon the sand;
An idiot dreamer sets castles
             in the clouds;
   Drunks and junkies hit rock bottom...

If the earth is in motion,
   where do the wise settle?

               ***
Teetering backwards,
     running in place—
   this place stinks of
                   stagnation.
Fall again,
        raw knee crawl,
   up again
            and shaking.
No, I suppose it doesn't
    take that much
       to shake us
  to pieces; not when
 she moves and earth
    trembles,
  the ground crumbles
     in tiny quakes
        beneath our feet.
When the dust storm settles,
   what will be left
                for me
                         here?
               ***
   Tell me,
 when is the time to
     walk away?
When should I light
   my way with
 bridges burning
      behind?
Am I free?
      26
   unmarried/single
     no kids
  If so,
where do I go?
  The limtless horizon
  is dizzying;
loyalty and tacit
     devotion
  hold heart strings
    like anchors—
The world won't stop
   without me,
     nor should it—
  So, again,
 when does the time
    come to
walk away?

I still can't think of
anywhere I'd rather be...

Paths

A major question I've been asking myself, as of late, is "where am I?"

It's not the most comfortable question to ask. Honestly, I don't like many of the answers...hardly any, in truth. But it is an important question--only by knowing where I stand can I hope to pick out my direction, my path. I could say that "here I sit, brokenhearted; tried to shit but only farted." It's somewhat true, right? Something's brewing in my guts...

I don't have the concentration, right now, to finish this post. I'll return to the ideas later.

a horoscope that reads like a long-winded fortune cookie written by my mom

"Take the direction you know is best for you, and leave all self-destructive paths behind. In fact, go ahead and erect barriers and 'No Trespassing' signs, if that helps remind you not to tread ways that ultimately proved to be unhealthy for you. Some might accuse you of being 'too good' for your old friends or old ways, and they're right--you're far too good to waste yourself on behaviors that wreck your potential. Your instincts are wiser than any outside influence."

Generally, I'm of Jim Morrison's opinion of horoscopes. I read them, they amuse me, especially reading multiples for the same day, from different sources--there's just one night sky, right? Overall, they're way off, or to quote, "bullshit;" the one (from the same source) for yesterday sure as fuck was. This was from my phone, my MEdia Net page, from astrology.com--funny enough, while trying to be lazy and copy and paste, I found that this wasn't the horoscope on the astrology.com web page; perhaps it's proof of quantum multiverses: check one reading and it's one universe, check another... I digress.

I've been very good at self-sabotage over the past decade, much to the chagrin of friends and family, and myself, when I step back and think about it. It is exhausting. I've long since been tired of it--eventually, running with both knees and both feet shot out by your own gun goes from "romantic" to "just plain fucking dumb." It's an easy pattern to fall into; perhaps, even so common as to be mundane. I'm not the first person to back down from pushing my potential as far as I can, for fear of failure, thus accepting safe and predictable self-prophesied and perpetuated failure. Admitting your problem is the "first step;" I'm really good at that one--think of me as a martyr for hire...

I don't seem to be much further along than I've been since somewhere around 2003. That's frustrating. I dig myself out of this hole just enough to have more dirt for burying; I get my head just enough out of the water to find some more weights to strap on. But, again, I'm good at admitting; and even better at the resulting self-flagellation (but how else does one get into heaven?).

So, where am I? What are the self-destructive behaviors I've come to think of as just facts of personality? What the fuck am I supposed to be doing with my life?

Those first two questions are pretty easy to answer, at least compared to the third. Given that it's now 7:30am, I'll give an answer to the second: staying up until 7:30am is a self-destructive behavior.

Well, here's some topics to return to; maybe I'll have some intelligent words to go with my ranting. Maybe, I'll write with some regularity.

For now, bed.

4 years later

Well, here it is four years later. I've finished that fucking epic, still haven't finished the degree, still in fucking Chapel Hill... working on it though. Bush is gone. Obama's a politico. A chunk of glacier the size of a small European country broke off of Antarctica. Rights to Arctic Ocean shipping lanes are being argued over. Justin's going to Afghanistan tomorrow. Things change, things stay the same.