Three Napkins I Scribbled My Soul On

Recently as I was filing my chaotic pile of notes that clog my writing desk I came across three napkins with sporadic red sharpie on it. I remembered that last summer I was at a huge party to see a friend’s band. In a fit of something I have yet been able to describe with words I wrote down this stream of consciousness on the materials available to me, which as I said were a sharpie and napkins. I read the gibberish on them and decided that they offer a good look into what is going on in my head, constantly, all the time, every day. Even at a super fun raging party filled with stuff I like.

What is the point of all this,

What am I doing here?

What is the point of these kinds of gatherings,

Is there even one?

Perhaps that’s the point.

The goal.

The goal is to have no goal, no aim.

Just release.

Freedom.

Sigh,

Why am I so deep in my own head?

Why can’t it just shut off

And just be tonight?

Probably the weed?

Who care, it

Doesn’t matter.

I am enjoying this.

I am enjoying streaming the

River that is my thought

My consciousness

Onto these sheets of scrap.

Who cares, do what you love,

Fuck the rest.

“Freedom.”

Now there is a word that is bastardized by the right.

That is what reactionaries do.

They just take words.

Words,

Words that matter, words that are important,

Words WE need.

and they bastardize them.

This is what went on in my head at a fun party, full of drinks and weed and good friends, yet this is what was rushing through my mind. Maybe it was just the effects of being so goddamn crossfaded that night, but I don’t think it was, because even without liquor or weed in my system this is what is constantly ringing in my intuition’s ear. This is what my mind is doing all day, every day, without stopping.

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A poem for Trump

President Trump

Got a big bump

on his wittle head. =(

And so his combover

Is bound to blow over,

oh fuck this I wish he was dead.

The Story’s Answer Epilogue

I am waiting 

for a show

that will give me no answers

only ideas,

but what comes with

ideas?

Perspective,

new soul,

satire of the ex

soul,

ex self,

self,

not self,

know the self,

to remove the self?

Does this make sense?

Do humans look for

philosophy by nature?

Is it pertinent to

the human condition?

Some say philosophy

is dead,

well science is a

philosophy.
So take thy nature

and shut up,

fuck off,

to always put on a

show, to always

dictate some kind of self

to be bon self

to be self again,

my words are trivial,

but to me therapy,

to some nothing,

to me everything,

there is only one thing

to seek,
No,

I am wrong,

There is a one,

we are all

and 1.

Balance,

something we all

forget,

we all forsake

find,

and forsake

again, this is

word,

This is thought,

This is action,

This is balance,

This is redemption

but only by self 

until a profit is made.

To be charity

is to be selfish?

Damn Wall Street!

Damn capital logic!

It bares no question,
No questions

means no self,

no self means

slavery.

No more slavery,

no more of this torture,

external,

internal,

nor in between,

no more of this,

my body seeks out,

but my self, idea,

it only seeks in,

and not,

ah paradox,

you are my only

friend,

my only reprise,

redemption,

self,

idea,

and etc.

I only try,

at least I did,

it is now about

action.

Pitiful words,

intrigue, interlude,

It is no embarrassment,

to hell with 

the self indulgence

of self hatred,

it bares no truth.

The clock strikes the hour I dread,

Anthems I try

to forget ring 

again,

I only ring out

of boredom,

Another forgotten

anthem,

Sure, shedding of self,

superimposed,

self withdrawn,

ideal, or deal,

revealed,

ended, static,

consistent thoughts

aren’t crazy or

inconsistent if 

it’s a poem,

The world shows 

its true self

soon,

it ticks on,

the night marker

is barren,

but holy,

prepare yourself for

what the night

brings,

and what it doesn’t,

no more rage,

it is a waste,

I am not who bore

my fruit and seed,

I am me,

but I am.
The introvert extrovert,

if such a thing exists,

I am that,

I am this living paradox,

I am, I always

have been, and I should have

known,

should have known there 

is always an unknown,
So eager to finish,

yet always so sad,

so weary, so full

of hindsight,

so full of withdraw,

I will escape, the 

times withdrawn,

post-haste, and

evil exist

again.

Relativity does not 

mean no existence,

The most refined of orders,

yet slovenly all the

same, retributed

return,

Its time to bare minimal

knowledge,
And minimal knowledge

in minimal space, in

little reality, no

more self, and a

Moved self.

What is responsibilities reward?

Is such cramped space

worth any reward?

Any fruit? Any marker?

To know people care,

To know one matters,

To know self, and 

be so lucky.
Is it luck, or knowledge,

to know luck itself?

Another mark of 

drunk and foreign

wisdom,

of trivial matters

he is right,

sitting around

brings no fruits,

I should thank this

drunk

for his wisdom,

I would gladly escape

my midnight hours,

to a place of drunk

paradise.

No more turning heads

just for the sake of it,

no more self,

but only my self, I only

bare truth, but be late 

for required fault,

and fall,

I will make the most of

my final hours,

I will tell her all

and so will she,

for those whose terms

and labels are mixed

or do not exist,

you are due justice,

you are due truth,

It is not justice,

nor truth to be 

forsaken or

forgone,

I am here because

of choice,

I will always be here 

because of choice,

I am only here for

that,

I am tired of being

selfish, I am tired of

the selfish, the hours

pages, and ink all run

thin, I must make 

these hours count,

even if they are for nothing,

The narcotic influence,

the people, the atmosphere,

why is this what drives

me?  Why does this

inspire me? Is not

what I endure an 

inspiration?  But why?

because it is yourself,

it is history, it is 

truth,

it is a self,

it is my self.  And

I love this self.

This self has purpose,
This self, has meaning,

gives meaning, and even

escapes meaning.

I am here only as my

witness, only ever as

witness, but no, because

you witness my word

and wind with deliverance

not nor ever due 

others.

The pages and ink grow

thinner, with each

page, and ink I leave

a self, a page, an

hour a mark a minute

a self a way a word

a deed or act and

action.

This is my gift,

for you and for self.
It comes to its close,

Its due, its hour,

Its mark, its fun,

Its word, its deed.

My work, my due, my deed,

my word, my self.

The clock strikes midnight,

It has come due.

The ending,

The filler, the word,

the deed, I am only

as fortunate and strong as

my word, self, and page,

this is my story’s answer,

This is the story’s answer,

I am not your contemporary,

I am your witness,

but I am both.

I am my own story’s answer,

for all I am, is my self.

2/15/13 – 9/7/13

The Story’s Answer Part 6

Evolutions artistic plunder,

fort me my due free film

my art

my propaganda

take your chair

and look away

to another means,

ignore self free

of thy fate.

Here is my tale

fallen 

and risen.

Rise

chant

Rise

Rise

Rise

fate

love

Rise,

Rise,

listen fortune,

to do as told

but not done,

never finished

never undone.

Yet free

no novelty

and to be free.

Free,

what is in a name?

What is in a word?

Is each word done?

Done.

For now as each idea

begins adrift without

the form of language

Peoples manipulation

Power,

all power,

no responsibility,

There for no more

power,

abandon power,

abandon authority,

yes dare not abandon

my word of health

and love.

So, This is it,

This is my end,

my Werther moment,

but the opposite,

This is me,

burning the last drop

of my midnight oil,

for the last time.

My last drop,

my last time,

my last gleam, and 

fall, no hour will end

without me ringing every

word

until I am 

blue in the face.

My voice will sour,

my veins will burst,

My body will collapse.

But I am,

I’m here

and I will,

I will to have will.

But I am lucky,

whether I know it

or believe it

I will always 

be lucky.

What is fair is only

luck?

Justice is real

but subject

to luck.

It is no test of

body,

It is what it is,

When did justice become

an abstract?

When did evil earn

respect?

Always, when does

power begone power!

Never!

Yet still one

presses on,

presses forth through

each page.

I will work.

This is work.

As much as I try

there is no removal

of self,

but back to paradox,

Could it be,

that saying “you cannot remove the self,”

you have removed 

the self.

Is balance real?

Is suffering?

Are my questions 

real?

To put any thought

to its logic is to remove

the romance.

Is there logic to 

romance,

to love,

Yes, and no.

Love is its own logic.

It needs no chemical definition,

It does not need 

your cynical scrutiny.

Love is,

Just that.

Love just is,

Love is that inherent

connection to

all and above

and below and

everything

that is.

It is love, it is

the ideas that drive

our body.

Do all or none

have these thoughts.

The interior monologue,

well, to end our

soliloquy is to

end too much.

I need liberty,

but I must earn it

for some reason,

slave here,

bow here,

and apparently I 

will be rewarded.

NO! I AM NO

SERVANT!

I AM NO SLAVE!

With my chant 

and chariot

I move on

and move to 

where I need to

be.

I go where need.

My self is only

free out of luck,

and privilege,

Others,

Nah,

all deserve this freedom.

What I have,

my luck should be no ones

privilege.

What is inherent to humanity,

to personhood,

to only treated as

a privilege by evil.

The midnight oil burns on,

almost like

a miracle,

almost.

What happened to 

Ginsberg?

Leary?

To Kesey?

i cared in high school,

now I wonder

did these and all

believe there own

words.

Do you not question

the genuine nature

of others.

Or do you march on

with your thoughts

in sync with

nothing but your thoughts.

Your thoughts

mean nothing

if you do nothing with them.

Harsh but true,

if you do nothing,

if you have no thoughts,

your existence will mean nothing.

Nothing when history

writes the pages of our time.

Nothing.

To live a full “productive

life,

and to learn nothing.

Who can accept having

no trace?

All humans,

nay,

all living creatures,

deserve to leave their

trace.

Sweet angel,

have I left mine?

To carry on as the object,

Is the enjoyment

genuine,

or will there be a fall.

A fall from a height

no man

woman

or human should see,

you are no more

a professional than

a profit nor

a wiseman

nor a professor,

It is the mother

and grandmother who

had the wisdom that saved me.

The second street regulars

back from F troop and 3

pronged hellish force

Zen is not for marketing

and enlightenment 

does not come at 

$30 a hit.

Thompson was right on that matter,

we live in the age 

of the accidental philosopher,

and the disillusioned poet.

The greats had theirs to 

but it’s all one sided.  

All wrong,

all a product,

and all, quite often,

is never all,

what is all?

It’s a fair question,

with a fair answer,

a rare service to these days,

a rare gift not

to be spoken,

I prefer the mystery,

maybe a little too much,

can you order a strike

when you are not the 

king,

not even a pundit,

and who gives these 

pundits any such

“authority.”

There audience!

It is all yet not all

audience.

Who is this audience?

Who takes such matters

so personal?

So trite, yet not

so by consensus.

My end is only a matter

of self consensus.

I endure,

I try,

I pursue,

I seek nothing

I seek everything

I cannot abandon

this I 

this I,

I am

an I

you are a self,

and so are we,

we are,

we are,

Do we need

any other thought

any word,

any rule besides

this one.

We are!

We see!

We feel!

We all do!

How can any forget

this!?

Yet they do!

Would a rule exist

if there is no issue?

Yes!

Would fare!

Harsh fare!

May fare!

Harsh words!

No deeds!

No truth!

No nothing!

Yes I do,

hark Mercutio!

Horatio!

My friends

writers

and artists!

My soul bellows

no service,

and  will leave no

true marks,

no true self!

No more repeated nights of

self imposed withdraw

I mark myself

for my Warhol minute.

Social contact is an

evolutionary need,

Human life,

to some beautiful,

to others expendable,

tortured to all with

ignorance or not.

But real to everyone,

no more selective,

all or nothing is easy,

but empathy is 

a burden.

And so is ego.

Does empathy mean ego?

No,

How could it?

Besides marketing,

but doesn’t the market show

the people’s self

and cater to a human 

desire.

again,

yes and no,

paradox no paradox,

self no self,

invade no invasion,

no more control,

none of it wanted,

I will not fail.

We will not fail,

we are not going 

to fall,

I will catch you all

even if you won’t 

catch me.

I am only here as a servant

of the inherent “sprit”

of all humans.

Man does not mean human,

there is much to change,

much to work on,

much to seek,

I will not spurn 

and I will not

fore sake.

I give you my word.

I give you all

my word, my deed,

my act,

no more 20/20 hindsight,

It wastes the

summer

and the moments 

we have,

just because they

don’t speak to 

you,

Doesn’t mean they

don’t look at you,

notice you,

sometimes even love you,

I am destined to live

this life,

not cursed,

never cursed,

no more cursed,

no more tortured

my suffering is 

not my master

it is my guide.

And only at my consent,

consent should never

be a matter of luck.

No matter what distraction,

I spurn every page,

like they mean

nothing,

They do,

They did,

they don’t,

and no balance.

If you can’t

find what you look

for,

you will always find

something else.

 

Short Stream of an Amatuer Yogi

Silent witness, bare fruit,

no fortune, old words

wasted again.

Always wasted, both literal and 

figurative.

Timeless time and other repeated

sceneries.

Loop upon loop.

Repetition mass trivial

repetition in cylcles,

Acting as no repetition at all.

What is repeated,

is reworded.

And the logic of rhetoric

is extorted.

No weakness, only the shortcomings

of our strengths.

Only, that which is thought

is real

Only that which is precieved

is thouught.

Gramercy, The Journey of Jack Lewis. Chapter 14

Chapter 14  The Happy Couple

 

Jack had finished the story by the time Kate was long out of the shower. Now that he had come to, he decided that although the author of these stories was very talented he was also greatly disturbed, or at least in a very dangerous state of mind when he wrote these.  Jack figured maybe it was a fine line between genius and crazy.

Her return broke him out of his feast of literature, and he directed his attention to her lovely, curvy, soft pale body.  He grew hard as instinct began to take over.  He wanted to be with her now, and not the books any more.

 

“I see you’ve got quite the collection here,” Jack commented on the room full of Poe and Shakespeare. As he got up and gently kissed her on the neck and snuck a soft hand down the back of her towel.

 

“Oh, well thank you,” Kate said in that tender, erotic whisper that was her bedroom voice.   He had such strong hands yet such a delicate touch.  Jack’s kisses slowly began to trail down her back.  “Yes, I really love reading.”

 

`“Me too,” Jack said as he moved her arm up, allowing the towel to fall so that Kate stood naked, wet, and helpless, Jack’s lips got closer to their target.

 

“I try to read everything, classics, contemporaries, obscure authors and works, essays, journals, but my personal favorite, are my art books.  I love art, Oh my god!”  She wasn’t going to be able to contain herself anymore.

 

Jack began to dig his tongue deep into her as she tried to carry on, but she just couldn’t.  For some unknown trail of time Jack buried his tongue and two fingers into her body as fast and gentle as he could until the inside of Kate’s legs were gushing and sopping wet, and her screams of pleasure echoed throughout the house.

 

The two needed a minute to catch their breath in between their loving and congratulatory kisses of climaxing.  “Would you like to read with me?”  Kate said in a sudden spur of smiles, love, and inspiration

 

“Sure,” said Jack as the two laid down on the bed to rest.  “I read that last book while you were in the shower.  The guy who wrote it is pretty twisted…”

 

“That’s nothing, you should read Naked Lunch,” Kate interrupted

 

“Anyway,” Jack carried on.  “I’m kinda tired of reading, so why don’t you read to me, while I just lie at your side and kiss you until my lips are sore?”

 

She kissed his chest in order to signal that this was a splendid idea.

 

Kate picked out a book and the two made themselves comfortable on the bed.  Kate made herself some tea and Jack poured himself a strong full glass of bourbon.  Kate showed Jack the book, it was a collection of essays and poems by the same looney who wrote the other stories.  Jack wondered why she was so fixated with the author,  but he didn’t care. He was just glad to be with her and to listen to her read.

 

She carried on  and she began in that amazing theatrical style she did so naturally while Jack cupped her left breast and kissed her neck, gently finding his way down her stomach to the bottom of her leg and back again.  He did it soft enough to make her smile and not distract her from the reading.  She selected her favorite poems and began.

 

wishes by crazy modernisms and former external instincts.  

By natural unnatural intoxication knowledge.

Depraved yet smiling on another winded day.

But so of another wandering light of love on milton forgotten days.

What so can be said of a forbidden lust and wandering capture.

What escape and what a love of such a word of that and what!

By lyric

By center and by try these all and forever will and will not,

ever by light of the modern, and the former, and the knowledge,

 

and the forgotten days.

 

“Beautiful,” exclaimed Jack.

“Yes, it is a good poem isn’t it?” replied his love.  “It reminds me a lot of e.e. cummings.:

“No,” exclaimed Jack.  “The way you read it.”

His love blushed and turned the page, carried on with another poem as he continued his kisses up and down her body.

The Story’s Answer Part 3

I did not mean it,

I did not mean to,

I did not wish to

burn my scripts

and lines

but I did, I did it

as a projection of

my own dreary 

ways.

Blue hearts to black,

that is the lyric,

that is what I did 

with my poetic paints,

So forevermore,

I must bare your witness,

I did not mean to be selfish.

That is Fear!

Fear is selfish,

Fear is the only cruelty.

All Evil stems from

Fear,

and all Fear is from Evil.

All are spawned

of deeds or an ignorant

and fortuitous self.

There is no pride in this past,

but there is a lesson,

there is knowledge.

Its truth not relative,

nor subject.

The opinion of the dregs 

means nothing,

but to a smart messiah

it means everything.

It was only to get by,

it was imagined,

it was a mistake but

those mistakes are lessons.

Strength can be weakness.

No apology will do what

needs to be done,

Apologies are only words,

not actions,

what actions?

It was an act

in retribution in

attack and attacks

are out of fears.

Shallow fault and

disposition.

Parchment fall of

the victim’s victim.

There is no more I.

Self of thy in equation,

in the so called

so called

of the cruel social standard.

What is a culture’s construction?

Why be ye cruel world!?

To give birth

to such an evil concept

known as fate,

known as greed,

known as isolation.

Who will hear these words?

Will history?

Will family?

Will narcotic rages?

Will the fate transcend?

What is one question too many?

What more?

What else?

So many narrated floats

and drifts,

Thoughts sworn trumpet 

and fluid.

No verb nor lineage

royal or not.

Never tell a child

to prepare for the worst.

Never tell a child

you can’t trust anyone.

Trust and love,

be prepared for the worst,

but don’t expect it.

Patience isn’t fun

but it’s worth it.

No new chapter,

No new story,

I need isolated conscious peace

Humble readings from patience

later misspelled

respelled 

and uncast

undue

unwanted

unexpected

unneeded.

Yes each work 

lacking flow

piece peace or

piece 

Peace’s repeated

understand.

What divides me from

such drawn and defeated men?

Once self delusion,

now truth,

Personal drawn conflict

in the presence of

or a thought.

Have hope,

victory assured,

conflict,

Oh, indeed a must

is not even 

a humble comedy

true comedy

the slaughter of

the gladiators.

Was not a story’s

suffering the reason for your escape.

No more out to

abridge certain lies,

personal delusion,

drink up, you are beyond safe.

I feel victory

is not assured,

it is a guarantee

why escape only

to return,

besides habit.

Do not think 

of exemption,

Think of effort,

think of the timeline,

think of escape,

think of every-time

who truth did

sting

but ring beautiful,

I will not end my trance

I will not escape,

prepare and drive,

drift self,

carry on the path.

Escape from these sights

I have every reason to ask

what escapes.

Nothing, witness it,

only witness.

These names slip,

but so do yours,

bare no judgement

this is pattern,

this is habit,

this is what

Thompson was talking about.

Three Thompsons in my life,

my past,

one wise, one crazy, one drunk.

Bare no wisdom,

no true wisdom,

bare no pride

no true achievement,

is old war propaganda true?

Do loose lips not sink ships?

Does not careless talk cost lives?

No true word, 

I despise the words

witch,

whore,

slut,

fag,

nigger,

these words burn my tongue.

I renounce nothing, 

but i hang my head,

but no guilt

I apologize,

but I have no guilt.

Simply responsibility.