i write. a lot. and i can say that wit a face so straight, you'd swear ice-t was doing his best imitation. it's windy. and what the fuck do you know? you ever felt the sting of a thousand angry w(hite)a(nglo)s(axon)p(rotestant)s gnawing at yer precious gut? maybe. and what's a mountain FEEL in the rain? a myth. there was nothing left in the box, so we pitched it. left it, really. a skull, two bones, and a fat white woman dragging a cross down MLK. it's not even noon, i've been up for hours. i'd be honored if you'd join me, if i had any ounce of honor left. i spent the last of it a week ago in portland smoking joints. i get re-upped on the 8th, though. this wind iS a modern man's dream. us old schoolers, papers flapping, arthritic hands aching every letter written, let our hearts hurt openly in it. i don't even remember you, your physical presence. but that's no jab, i wish i did. i wish we could all always enjoy joy. and i'm saving my third wish for a bargaining chip with my critics. though i'll prolly get high and waste it on more wishes. eternity seems like a long. fucking. time. and everywhere i go with you, all that stops anyway. but, if we were to do this for a really long time, i wouldn't be upset. not upset like when i got told pete's legs got chopped off. not upset like a poet with no words and plenty of paper. not accustomed to this much sun. this, like all others, iS a rough draft. i'm into the unfinished. the thought that can't just be stated and instantaneously responded to. the tree's roots, so to speak. the wind's disposition, strong and unwavering. my gut iS a stress microprocessor, the updated model. feeds off the shit like i dream off the grid. catch me if you can. i want to read this to you constantly. at bus stops in multiple cities. i want the dogs to know, but, just so you know, i don't plan on telling a word. my feet hurt, and i'm strangely uncomfortable. i wanna grow stuff with you, learn to enjoy the taste of wildflowers, teach you what little i know of poetry. be crafty. make crafts at least.
embrace the terrible. i don't need to be known, i just need some relief. the kind i don't catch on tours. or in spirits (american or plastic bottles). there's nothing more american than plastic bottles, and if you saw me in yer dreams, i'd love to hear about it. really, i just don't want my book of notes to sail away when i stop to crack knuckles. that's all. never a dull moment, today i've woken up, gone #2 6 times, eaten an apple, a rice cake and some beans, talked to my father, read, and written this. so far... i'm sure womyn don't think of me as no outlaw, no savvy criminal wit enough sex to sport constant beard. i don't flaunt tattoos on sleek, strong muscle. shit, i can barely swim. but i'll tell you the truth for free, and make no one do no thing. this iS my path. when i started writing, i had no friends and knew nothing of writing. it's safe to say that's changed for now, insofar as my now iS as safe now as it was then, ya dig? pianos. waves. the world's biggest microwave. 46 chromosomes, a cigarette butt, 6 bottle caps, some sticks and another cigarette butt. no answers. the tourists run amuck here, and i don't even know where i am. shooting the no-dope in my no-veins. getting real tired. dozing off occasionally. but can't shut lids. this wind iS heading dangerously close to that ocean over there. but we don't piss in it, cuz they got public bathrooms here. i would know. i've shit six times today, you can't quench my thirst for attention. i can't stop thinking of sean. and i can't believe my surroundings. the 1st nite, it scared me to tears. last nite, i slept 10 hours. by tuesday, i'll be clearing jungle for a room and a bed. and some day, i'll finish my masterpiece. and only one of those iS a lie. i can put it to ya like this, u don't own me. and even if you did, the market's low on me right now, what with me trying for some peace of mind, or at least just keep a piece of mine, and all these other cliches, like looking for help in all the right places and smoking copious amounts of medical marijuana on the west coast. that's all boring these days, you gotta make rap videos where you hang yerself and tweet and shit. you gotta humblebrag as postmodernly as possible and be a 5-tool player, a multi-sport star, just to be considered a valued commodity. well, last time i thought about hanging myself i was 13 and i couldn't even tie my shoes, and if i could keep it that way like i keep yer secrets, my future aint all that bright.
flapping tree leaves and she makes me like canned corn again. all this would amaze me if i didn't know her. gusts must be up around 40 miles per hour right now. i'm shaking in my hammock's boots, and if these boots had eyes, then these walls were made for walkin on. and work iS a terrible thing to waste on a job. studies have shown, that if you quit yer job today and focus on yer health and well-being, yer crazy. seriously effed up in the head. i read that on a blog, so it has to have some truth, even though the government tried to cover it up. twice. but that only sells books these days. shit if i could sell one book for the price they charge at border's in the political revolution section, i could be happy for weeks. assuming i get to keep my food stamps. otherwise, $34.95 can barely get you a shit-encrusted sushi app on yer smartphone. i'm dumbfounded, i found my stupid. it's silly and makes up names for things that don't need names. it went vegan in college while donating plasma and got diagnosed with appendicitis, the cause of which iS a known unknown. it don't believe in opposites which iS the opposite of what i believe. but it can smile on weekends and eat whatever it wants, so i'm intimidated. i'd bore you another, but a womyn resembling my moms just passed and i'm sick, headed homein 3 weeks. i'm not sure what that man has folded up in that towel, but it sure reeks of a dead kid. just by the looks of it, there's a tent city going up at the county park we're at. i'm calling it (white) occupy kauai. what's an oceanside view without some good ole fashioned st. loser negativity. don't answer that. ignorance iS bliss.
ok, i can't hold this in any longer, there are roosters EVERYWHERE. they crow all day and night, stalking the beaches for tiny flying bugs. my pops says i'm in familiar company, but i never heard of them. do they deal in friendliness? social capital? what's their abbreviation on the nasdaq? who am i? and if i've changed so much, why can't i get rid of this voice in my head? where's all the freshwater, and how come i can't find a job? mentally well people annoy me. i'm eccentric with little energy for ego. or neo-freudian context. just write yer thesis already and be done with the dregs of struggle. i struggle wit dat errry day.
meet james, early 20's shaved head, big island lookin dude. used to smoke crystal meth. hears voices in his head. real nice. doesn't like to speak hawaiian, though he was born of this land. he thinks mahalo (thank you) sounds too much like my lalo (my dick), good enough reason for me i guess. a rooster just ran up to me kinda slowly and i'm feeling more acquainted with need-based living. i can barely ever be alone with the wind anymore, it turns my stomach in knots. and though some creatures we encounter make us think darwin was right, i still can't fathom explaining the economic divide that way. i'm twisting and turning, sitting still all at once. my power animals are all on the mainland and a balding 40-something just walked past in nothing but a speedo. he wishes he was someone else and secretly, i don't. i just want a goddamned good night's rest and a cold glass of ice water. we all want what we cannot have, that's what celebrities are made of: that moment in which we escape ourselves, transcendence abound, into a pseudohyperworld of gadgets, and g's that look like q's. cheers to you lil bain of my existence. there's a part of me that wants everyone to be hear with me. there's a part of me that knows that's foolish. and there's a part of me that wonders how the bathroom poet said it so well when he said, "HAD FUCK MY WIFE ASS"?
my notebook just survived getting wet by hiding in my hand during a windstorm. the blonde woman to my right iS not as beautiful as i originally intended to write. the wettest spot on earth iS inland about 20 miles from here, and that damn wind won't quit reminding us by blowing water out to sea. this morning, i woke at 5 AM to see the most amazing starlit sky since tahoe. ah, tahoe. there's a personage quota, we're approaching it fast, as the 1-year old reaches into a hot wok looking for what i found in a milk bottle 23 years ago. there's too much fucking talking under this pavilion and i'm seriously considering joining the rain in driving the people away. today there's been 45 minutes of sunshine, 1 foot cut, 1 hawaiian monk seal (equipped with orange koans for safety) 1 amazing counterpart and 2 doubts. my spelling of cones (koans) and my use of counterpart. i'm reading wet, torn-up Leroi Jones, well really i just read a review from playboy which states he "has actualized the struggle of one man for self confrontation". i can only help to spell cones right. and i eat conagra foods from cans, but can't complain. or explain for that matter. i'm rocking my $3 tope-a-lope hat, catching stares from warm kauaian womyn and eurotrash tourists alike. hold that thought, the womyn's still warm, but this eurotrash dude might not be so eurotrash afterall. he's playing the mandolin, a favorite of mine since that bitch ellen was truly one of my best friends. i don't even think he's european any longer. that goatee still sucks, though. i feel like amerotrash sharing my rawness with this page, and have dreams of can openers locking locksmiths in hotel rooms with beds and all i want right now iS a hug and a fucking tums. a tum? a tim? a glim, faint, or that word's grim. and we all want hope to come next but it has no purpose in this story. i want chips, too. the dentist says i need 4 teeth pulled and he can't believe i don't remember my wisdom teeth coming in. he's not european, i just heard him talk while i'm covered in rain, sunscreen and one itchy tattoo over my right breast. her breasts are amazing, tan lines abound with cute little hairs around the nipple, my backpack around her back. she's more personable than i, but assures me that makes me no less of a person. imagine this, no eurotrash man iS cool as shit. first, there was the mandolin, that was enough to bring me a fond memory of ellen (no small feat) now he just said he likes the shirt i have on, which lauren ikon made me, that says "prose before ho's". now, a lot of people have gotten a good laugh out of this shirt, but i like to tell myself that they're all cool as shit. i wish i was lying. in a bed. not just any bed. scarlette's old bed, the huge, soft thing i kept in my room for awhile. if i had my way, someone from my past would appear right now and tell me to stop writing this. closed eyes. deep breathely.
fucking nothing. it's strange to me to think of the ocean as being anything but west of me, which reminds me, no matter how much i travel, what i see, who i fuck, i'm still a south city kid with very little understanding of the world. and if that's gloating here, its an embarrassment elsewhere. oh, i wanted to mention this before: may all our littles become lils in the age of the text message where the average something or other does some stuff every once in awhile. it's fact, dude. i read it on wikipedia. i'm still bitter about things not worth being bitter over, like the fact that i own a 1983 chevy g20 van with my name on the title that someone else drives to work everyday. and fucking crohn's. and the 1996 playoff series against the braves where the cards were up 3-1 and lost the last 3 games by a total of like 72-3. and i liked the braves that year! but still. i wish i was lying. in a bed. with yer mom. the best poetic device i picked up from my best friend: mom jokes are still funny, and if you repeat stuff, the crowd feels more comfortable. there's 3 baby chickens hiding under a rooster who looks to young to have kids under a picnic table. i hope it's not one of those situations republicans have made infamous in which an older sibling iS forced to raise the youngens, cuz i'm not ready for talking heads to invade salt pond. oh, and i wanna set the record straight. so i push it up against the wall and it breaks. and you thought poetry was just a fad in st. louis. and you thought poetry iS for faeries and queers. i'll just clean my fingernails til you all go away and find something better to do with a beer in front of yer face.
there was a birthday party for a 100 yr old last night here, and one for an 88 yr old tonight. may i never be so lucky unless i were to be so lucky to be kinda like phil gounis iS now, at those older ages. cuz that would actually be kinda cool. younger womyn have always been attracted to me anyways. the sun iS emerging from the clouds, the kayaks are coming out, and where i want to go, they say the goats and pigs are bad and there's an airport where white people take skydiving trips on biplanes, but i wouldn't wanna jump today. sometimes, i feel bullies by the winds and the buddhas and setcho and tasty but acidic foods and the stinging smell of thick urine over even thicker cigarette smoke. if you can't tell, i'm trying to quit. again. i'll ask myself at night why people don't give a shit about poetics or zen or the ocean, and instead complain about people's feelings or hipsters or wars or other things no one's going to stop from happening. but i know the answer. most people are retards. and fat at this point. i can't even justify that last statement, it really has lil scientific background and therefore i can't stand by it much longer because the racist nazi pope would love it. oh, oh! moment of clarity. stop fucking with people you love or stop saying you love them. love has become some sort of meaningless adjective to most and i for one hate its contemporary use. overuse. do people even use love as an adjective? i always passed english with an A but in the st. louis public schools that's about as meaningless as the word love and it's contemporary overuse. don't tread on me flags are on yer team. have you ever thought of all the old cell phones in that trash heap in southern illinois? or in the southern pacific? you have now!
sorry, i'm just feeling protagonistic like nenad kristic. i miss gary. and we hung our towels to dry in the wind, but found only rain. and wind. there iS some food smelling so good right now and a baby with 4 moms screamin at it makin it scream louder, and i'm thinkin, 'why can't the word palindrome be spelled the same backwards and forwards' but words don't believe in logic. or magick. or me. as a million baby bird beaks fall from a towering tree. and the land of the paid wage slave aint so free. here's a surprise: there's a mistake! i shower in rain and look under the surface of the ocean for clues to who REALLY killed michael jordan. jackson. as a kid my favorite bull was john paxson. in california, it's illegal to put on makeup while you drive. it's called farding. you can't make this shit up.
hand on face. head in clouds. don't call it customer care if you just charge extra and can't be open on weekends. so, there's a tree, two thieves and some people speaking pigeon, eating ramen noodles. and they all lived mediocrely ever after. there's 43 reasons i shouldn't read this to you, only one of which involves a stereotype scenario in which you all try to call authorities on me, but the call gets dropped. i haven't seen one flag on kauai and i can get down wit dat as a man in a shirt reading, "if no can, no can" glides by in workboots smelling of fresh airport mall cologne. i'm listless, a rooster licks it's foot 5 feet away, another crows 50 feet further. behind-the-back-pass to cohen for 3! sunk it. a sign iS posted with the 2nd bullet reading: "no rubber balloons in restroom", guess that's no place to fill them with drugs to sneak to yer friends in prison in yer stomach, either. i don't smell great. or good, even. the wind just brought another storm in from north. it's hitting me the same as the man with tired face and keystone light can in hand close by. i don't know my neighbors back home anymore, but they probably drink keystone light when the weather gets real similar to this. we're camped out, cooped up and crouched down over tables, writing frantically, ignoring margins and reality. we're tired. i'm ill. not like a beastie boy, but more like a beaten boy. my mood iS in swing. this iS the most i've written in months. this wind may never stop. i don't really want it to. it brings with it a certain sense of godliness, that joy stuff only a cool breeze can sneeze into yer hair. and it would be so cliche to say i'm not there or i don't care. but i never really got dylan in the 1st place, and thought i once befriended the nihilsitic urge more than i can say i do today, we've got more porn than choices. voiceless prisoners with gory oratories and faceless, tasteless christians teach fashion tricks at their missions. i'm just stuck wishin, for the final wick's end of burning civilization. i knew i could bring it up if i kept you waitin. so cockel-doodle-doo, and fuck it i'm dope, she was cussin me out, i was kissin her throat, make so many damn songs, it's makin me broke, why the fuck's my damn shampoo bottle say the word hope? where's that rope? nope. i tried to tie a knot and it broke. i scan kauaian radio while kauai county pigs take away a man i cannot exactly call a friend from his tent in front of his family. the womyn cry and i long for ice. not crystal meth. and not to infer he was taken away for that drug somehow so viciously rampant on paradise. and i reflect. and it's gard for me to write. because what the fuck's a struggle without a real life witness to strife? and who the fuck am i to know another's plight? the joke's on me, a rooster without a hook. and i'll leave one blank page in my lil green book.