Tuesday, March 22, 2011

lights on shades drawn sunlight peeking through

My life is not my own and so I agonize. The sun burns my retina in another junk sick afternoon in a dingy version of American paradise. Who would choose this shit? This pisspoor offering of bloodmoney and bad taste. If only I could really turn to drugs, to booze, to artificial means.
"Death is light as a feather."
1. It all relates. Everything has equal meaning; is equally meaningless. A chocolate stain, an ass itch, a cotton swab, a glass of cheap wine, being bored while reading, then inspired.
2. There is no ethics. There is only the moment and the memory; regret, impulse, and the grumblings of the mobs.

We call up our darkness and our pain because it is what we use to relate to society (the source of our pain and darkness; the shame we feel under the gaze, the averted eyes in the originary face2face, the beginning of our denial of ethics, an unchanged and unchanging avowal to remember to remember to forget).
"This tastes significantly better than sardines."
We look at life, at our lives, at the wreckage of history, of all that has gone before and crumbled into the sand and concrete from which we build anew. We look out first through one lens, then another, another. We look out looking in never seeing, never seen (always watching: a society of voyeurs never exhibiting, fear, shame, denial, anger, resentment, depression, the acceptance of inevitable failure)

3. I am better as myself, than myself, it is better to be me.
4. Sustained contradiction is the basis of thought, happiness, humanity.
“… to be a rock and not to roll…”

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Morning Production, idle thoughts

... pushing through the rumbling streets, the matadors & master races ...

She hums Chinese work songs; off key, soft but too loud to ignore. The Colombian used to sing too. In Spanish, whatever came to mind. Corridos, boleros - unless Xtina or Shakira came on the store radio (& he'd sing along).

Half a tank of blood for oil: I have a long commute. The black foetal balls of vestigial munitions or -

"How can I help you, sir?"
"I want a roll."
"Ok."
"An inside out roll, I guess."
"Ok."
"With spicy sauce."
"Ok. What kind of rice?"
"Whole wheat."
"You mean brown rice?"
"Yeah. That."
"And what do you want inside."
"Avocado and cucumber and um ... What's a crabstick?"
"A fish cake that tastes like crab."
"Yeah, I guess I'll have that. With extra ginger and soy sauce and the green mustard."
"So that's a California roll on brown rice with spicy sauce and extra ginger. Anything else?"
" ... "
"3 minutes."

That humming is really starting to grate. Like the afterbirth of a syphilitic reptile. I've got to get out of here. The only entertainment: plastic surgery disasters, fully erect boob jobs, facial injections from cartoon sweatshops. I've got to head for the door, walk out like I walked in, hit the ground, "got a wife & kid & Baltimore Jack" -

"Here you go, sir. Thank you."


Oil the gloves, this avocado is well past rotten up.