fucking, an elaboration, or, dribble into hopelessness don't even bother reading this unless you're in a really godly place

no one will ever know what you mean and what does that mean and why does anything have to mean anything? living is for the living. what is so fucking difficult about finding a sexy faithful intelligent cool partner? too weird too rigid too selfish too married too christian too scared too stiff too self conscious too scientific too boring too head in the sand.

shut it down or keep going. i keep trying. keep on moving. that's my fucking family motto. science vs. faith. the ecosystem is fucked. basically, we're all fucked. rent is fucked. the banks are fuckers, racist haters are fuckers. trump is a fucker and every fucking stupid fuck who votes for him. work is ridiculous. 

strategies and boundaries and lines - the universal symbol for do not pass.

the only human i care about losing about knowing about being known by is lying in my bed uneasily resting and i'm uninspired.

how to stay tits up in this world.

how to even believe what you say to yourself. marianne williamson is pretty fucking sure of herself.

you are right where you need to be. you don't need to try so hard. just be a nice fucking person most of the time, clean the body regularly and try not to take more than you need, and pack your trash.

you are the creator of your reality. shit happens and you deal with it. i don't know if we attract the shit that happens. even the dog in family guy and bill maher made fun of manifestation today as harmful self help propaganda.

is it weakness to call the dreamlife your permanent home?

it's for me only. this. i'd rather be having fun.

i'd rather be in love. making art. laughing, so you know it's time to yoga the fuck out of this.

heard on the street

creative people don't live here anymore really

#badastrologyforcreepin lol

but the sky! the blossoms! springtime. 

... letter to the once lover

once lover, i don't want to be creepin. but i was curious. nostalgic. y no puedo dice todo en espanol. i didn't mean to be in visible mode. you said so many things about us, i don't need to memorialize it but it is a famous love story. and i still love you. i know it wasn't going to work, and you had more to lose than i had, you only had to cut off a toe or two to keep your body. i am still patti smith wing, i am free. it is beautiful. 

everything s still beautiful.

my friends didn't like you. you may not have liked my friends. but that didn't matter. when i looked in your eyes, at your hands, when i dreamed about you in little shorts looking irresistable and gay, when i asked if could lick you, that was pure innocence. i trusted you. hence, the art, the double fuck you, the stickers, i made stickers. dark dark dark day dreaming, oh if you knew what it meant to me. down with OPP. thinking thong. your laugh. and those occasional times when you were rooted in earth, clear, knowing. 

purple rain. i wish you well.

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the syncopation was off; one more pack of blues

white soul:

the best worst car alarm. horn style, cracked, strained. laughable. 

left coast represents was mindblown when boss' wife said no r & b no hip hop AND no disco. and new devil music. mindblown. 

florida always seemed faux from over here somehow. beyond belief. indeed.

you used to

you are everywhere!

we are creatures of light.
born badass. heart and eyes open.

once we get to be about two, like today by witness, you might find us licking a glass door, and later, around age forty, we tend to become entirely less likable, especially while driving motor vehicles.

what is your why? who are you? who do you want to be? do you want to be that guy?

shout outs to oingo boingo, erykah badu, aries, leo, gemini, taurus, virgo, and KPFA 94.1, and to all loving arms, college radio, and baby feet.

"i know what the universe looks like"

he says.

i do too. [dominating the narrative] it's black and crystal and rainbows. a grid, old tv static. pixelated. abstract. and flame blue.

i know what it feels like too. it's the feeling of a warm lick. it's lava rock sticky, gritty, english muffiny. it's our skin touching, soft grass. it's freezing. it's a bullet entering the skin. the slice of a knife, the snap of bone, water rushing over rock, bubbles popping out of a hot spring. it is a tickle.

bodies. insects. lizard skin. music.

it's grief without trying to get away from it. it's reverb. holy shit. endless boredom. shivering. sweat. whisper. the sound of moths' wings and of stone.

yeah so i did see the old man at 8am on a mostly empty street with a razor blade scraping - what is that other other word for unnecessary? - superfluous?* muck off the street poles, as if his civic duty or one remaining purpose. first amusement, then existential funk.

but what i really want to emphasize is, this bullshit has gone too far. power yields only when there is demand. and in the spirit of change, it's all so fkg crazy amazing.

*punctuation. vision. maple fucking syrup.

he sleeps

and the planets are where they are.

if you have a child, it's clearer to know, you create miracles.

i give my love of music to my father's second wife, and to both my first parents, who played piano and guitar, respectively and of their own souls, while i fell asleep in front of the fireplace or in my room. thank you life. musicians. skin. eyes. roberta flack, john prine. beethoven.

patti smith

all the things, the bits of string

crass reference.

you unraveled me and tangled me back up again

washed ashore like a mess of colored fishing line

what is a bundle of string to do, new life, feathers and seaweed all imbedded



memories of the swell

dry