"i'm not a ladies man i'm a landmine
filming my own fake death"
speaking of days and personal thoughts, as usual, post-class sat outside the coffee patio bored and jittery grumpy to myself bitching to myself cus i still play the ratrace up in rush hour post-moterm suburban traffic jamming impossible hubcaps of cheap sedans together everybody a tense purple hardon, sitting in a sardine packed classroom, because fuckit i lay in the sun the other twenty three hours a day, so i pay my catholic guilt penance by staying in college today, remembering on the coffee patio/stoop how in grumbling to myself i located the precise deminsions of a bad grumpy dream where i was grumbling to myself on the coffeestoop/patio still shrugging off the baddream where i sat like a sardine packed in a luxurious canister writing impossible rhymes to myself outside the confines of world history 100, the cosmic joke being that that was not a bad dream that was reality, a catholic penance, a cat and rat game i play by occassionally living in the real world in exchange for rollicking on the anarcho undersides of a swiftly decaying babylon lookalike for the other 23 hours out of the day.
i was sketching the inner contents of my brain thinking of going home early, hittin the hay again, because i was getting sick and sentimental about when i was real sick and by sick i mean according to a rigid societal definition fundementally insane. and how good it felt outside the fishbowl for those occassional moments of bliss when i got to write my favorite poems about how good it felt outside the fishbowl. living in a tommorrow tommorrow land of me and sarah k and jake and coop and dom and mike's dimensions all alternately crisscrossing, the way you imagine 20 something artists and artists of life to live, like the way the graffiti writer SACE died of a drug overdose and they eulogized his LIFE in vice magazine, the way he lusted for that shit so much, it is the not much milder version of this that you'll only hear if one of us gets mega-published and at this point all bets are off as to who that is. i don't mean to glamorize the schizophrenia and the vomiting and all that that will make you uncomfortorable when i read this out loud and will let it pass as some sort of "gritty tome", only to say that march there was voodoo around and when we weren't busy at driving ourselves all the way the fuck up the wall, when we synthesized it, it was black magic, that fire/good type. only to say i was feeling sentimental for it. until it hit me, i was sentimental for it cus i'm feeling it again, sentimentality as a filtering mechanism for yr current reality. the lautremont thought process. the utter and infinitely glorious madness bounced around. it's not suppossed to be safe, it's just suppossed to be. not to alarm my close friends reading this, but i was lusty for it, the same way i'll always be lusty for...poetry, the juicy glorious meaty poem where you grind all the way down to the rough bone of life. and we are doing it kids, we are doing it.