raeganism is paganism

that's the number of the beast,
not in the least.
fight or flight.

i wish i knew how to react
and not betray my loathsomeness.

a fish gasps for oxygen when it's all around,
just because it's not in the form it's used to.

things become clear and refined when i think of this from time to time

and that all castles made of sand are washed away eventually,
the castles, and the prisons. all washed away by hugeness and routine.

the great, and the small.
the good, and the bad.

in time, all is dust.
the echoes of words fade in darkness,
and that's okay.

our songs will all be silenced.
what of it?
go on singing.
i think of you with annoying regularity,
like the erections i always wake up with.

and when i put on my mask of solidarity,
my thoughts remind me it's just a myth.
your song, it fills the air
in a giant open room where
a statue hides it's derriere,

sometimes i wish that i was there
at other times i don't
a part of me thinks that in a million years i'll still think about you
a part of me thinks that i won't.

but, in the middle,
it's a riddle with which i play,
not knowing what to say,
ruing every day
that goes by.
and these thoughts, the ones that i avoid avoiding,
tend to disappear in obtuse awareness
of your presence, which i'm in,
and my excuses are growing thin.

you're a beaut',
you're acute.
you're astute.

in the furrows of the mountainside
there is a hermit wand'ring,
and down he comes, amidst the thundering,
to do his blundering, which he enjoys.
off kilter,
i smoke to the filter
when the heat burns me.

i manage to keep going
straight until something turns me.

the way that you forbid
just the things that used to spurn me.

in practice,
it's like lying on a cactus
trying to reach what concerns me.

baby, let me follow you down

ragged, muffled, strangled, weak.
kite flies overhead,
down here wafts the smell of dead.

high voltage piercing stare,
a defibrillator in reverse.
I'm embarrassed, man, to have all these Post-its.
Once, my attempt at asking a girl out was described to me, in retrospect, as specifically "not a debacle... yet."
Cold Pastoral! was Keats' way of saying "Holy Shit!"
You don't have to report to me, Helen.
Please, sit down.
Please, Please,
Bring them here.
I swear to God...

Cold Pastoral!
Maximize this profit model!
"Myopic Motherfucker"
New rule: if you major in business, you're a motherfucker.

Who is you?
You is you is you.
If I were Baker...

- in Paterson, that's just the way things go -
shown how to feel good and told... to feel bad.
(speed is the absolute value of velocity)

This is all an allegory of sorts.
One time in math class- Adam's head:

What retard said 16?
Uh, I guess it was me.
Something strange is going on in my mind.

Announcer: "In this corner, coming in at 5'7" and 120 pounds, [Girl #1]! Aaaaaaand in the other corner, 5'4", 115 pounds (figures are estimations, as asking would be rude)! Now, the time for words is over- there's just one more question to ask: Are you ready to rumble?!"

The jello wrestling match begins.
Who prevails my affection wins.
These two girls, both filled with pride,
Now expose themselves to gain my side.
I told you that my head was freaky.

After all, who takes risks for me?
there are no words with which to say
that which is on my mind today
perhaps tomorrow i can tell
that which today i can't expel

my name is not my name.

simply orange:
come, senator.

What if it's all up to INTERPRETATION?

i am so not ready for that responsibility.
I wish that I was requiem.
Table, chair. Instead: PM.
The nobleman sits on his hands
as a band marches past.

There's nothing I would rather do
that just to hang around with you.
Where the hell are you, sergeant?

That special self-aware perspective
which accompanies all self-respecting retrospectives
into the realm of desire.
It's times like these I realize
that in the process of caramelize
I am preaching to the choir.
In my mind I oft meander
Through and through the oleander,
Preparing flowers which I'll hand her
If I ever get the chance.

From the journal


Often, meteorology
compensates poorly for the
lack of an umbrella.

This is indicative of a larger
rift in the national state of affairs,
namely the uncompromising
nature of compromise that
permeates the collars
and the bells of the land.

Or, perhaps not? Perhaps it
is the sinking ship of state
which clouds the rays
of sunlight flashing
one the deck where
waves are crashing
And the crates, colliding,
up against the iron lashings of my inner mind.
you supply the witty repartee-
but what would renee descartes say?

nothing, he's dead
In comes the jury: sound and fury.
Whose responsibility is it to symbolize anyway?
Some percussionist's! but then, aren't we all?

Some, more than others, are eloquent.
The talent is venting
That sound and fury as beauty,

But then, doesn't it all come down to definitions?
Judgment is based on the degree to which definitions overlap.

What is your good? What is my freedom?
They're both a possessive pronoun and a noun.
I think about this and it makes me frown.
At this stage, I'm still in formation-
Is my "self" just imitation?
It's a little hard for me to swallow
That all I'm choosing is whom to follow,
But that seems to me to be the case.

A sin is misrepresentation-
How many curtains remain to pull back?
It's a stable perspective I lack,
And this cannot be gained through contemplation.
I am so frustrated. And frustrated is just the right word for what I am.

The CD player in my father's car is broken, and I hate the radio, so now when I drive his car I am alone with my thoughts. And in these quiet moments my hypocrisy is realized, and my failings come through to the fore, and when I just can't take it anymore I turn the radio on, just in case. That happened today and "Let it be" was on. I feel like the electric guitar solo ruins that song.

I realize that I am just what I claim to despise, or at least what I am frustrated with in the world- is it each man's lot to be his own enemy? Probably not. Time remains to reform, but see! that's the thing: I am static. My time is uniformly wasted, and I have no claim to righteous action at any time. I feel so horrible. "Let it be" is just the wrong message, isn't it? I mean, it's a song about passivity, which is just the problem in the first place, is it not? Tell the Jews in World War Twos to "Let it be", see how far it gets them. Fucking Lennon. Fuck him.

My plan is to change. There is something new I'm trying out: Whenever I see anyone, even a stranger, I am very happy to see them. It's interesting. I like it. Perhaps through love, my position will improve? I hope so. It doesn't make sense, but, like communism, it's never really been tried, so despair would be ridiculous at this point.

Frustration with myself and with others come together- this is no coincidence.
The former is the cause, the latter the symptom. This is how it always is.
To love oneself is to fight society, because our society makes people hate themselves, or not even know themselves. It is this kind of person I wish to not become. And I am irate because it's happening anyway. If only knowing better were enough!

Just because a marionette knows it's a marionette doesn't free it from its strings. But its hands are tied! How can it cut itself away? Maybe there is no productivity. Nihilism?

But reason to get excited, the thief he kindly spoke
There are many here among us that feel that life is but a joke.

No reason to get excited. Only seventeen and a little more than a half. If I put too much pressure on myself, I'll definitely wind up a peasant. Can't let that happen. But yeah, I don't know myself yet, so how can I build on that foundation? Is this what trusting yourself means? Probably.

Okay. But see... I can't just be like "yeah. I'll wait and see what happens." IMPULSE.

All we have to fear is fear itself.

If only knowing better were enough...
Thomas Jefferson visited me in a poem:
I almost didn't know'm.
He asked me how things were these days,
But I couldn't think of the right words to say,
So I decided to just show'm.
After all, since we're in a poem,
Travels are just turns of phrase.

We walked down a road, and saw a vet'ran
Finding a meal in a garbage bin.

We traveled to the once great plains
And to the Mississippi's now dark veins.

We flew high above our greatest cities
And inside tumors, itty-bitty,
And they looked the fucking same.

We sat on my couch and watched TV
After a while he said to me
You know, in my day, I fucked some slaves
But nothing then was this depraved.

I asked if he'd like to see a show,
And he checked his sun dial said, you know
It's really time for me to go.
So he clicked his heels and off he flew
Saying you know, I pity you.

"We hold these truths to be self evident..."
I sit and wonder where those words went.
Massive thoughts make passive boys.
Passive boys don't ask the questions they're supposed to,
Don't express themselves when they should.

I smiled: "What?"

Speak your mind, you idiot!
Windows close,
Want outlasts hope and possibility.

I'll never know what to do-
One day I'll act anyway.
Thoughts - ellipse
Mind wanders slips.

What was it that I was thinking of?
Oh yeah.
With recollection comes disappointment,
and I judge myself of a few seconds ago.


When does substance begin?
Will it?
Will I know?
Should I?

What should I do now, having thought all this?
I have thinking to do.
Action later.

Forsaken folks from foreign lands stand still in circumspection;
I among them, ticker off the smells of faint affection.
Frozen feelers, feeling frozen, fooling fools into being frightened,
while tightly tightened, lightly lightened, fighting fighters lightly fightened.

Intrepid girls who know their cunts distinctly from practical use,
Are met with scorn and nasty porn when they try to protest their abuse.
Why the fuck do folks not see that things were not always this way?
And that the reason for the season is just the ability to pay?

Relationships are torn apart by bleeding hearts and money's farts.
While the rich just sit and bitch 'bout taxes when folks are fucking dying.
I see an SUV and think the driver must be rink-a-dink,
And by "rink-a-dink" I mean ignorant.

The aphorism "All we have to fear is fear itself" is only true
Because we don't know what to be afraid of, or who.
Passive minds and massive behinds are harbingers of a coming revolution.
And don't think your dicks will save you, fellas, they won't be part of the solution.


Whither comes this latest aspect?
This harkened ingenuity!
This echolalia, division, ect.
Baseless, grope idolatry!

Be this youth? Be this pride?
Be this the tooth of the divide
Between the slaves of old (of now) and me,

Who am I asking, anyway?
No matter how gre/ay, every man
Must throw up his hands.
What is not a rain dance?

This world is the bicycle to my fish.
Dish Wish. Squish.
Retarded sense of here and now,
Look up, and wow! whoa!
Die verhltnisse, die sind nicht so!

Paganism seems absurd
until one ponders alternatives-
What makes less sense than a negative surd?
Why, incentives!

Pluto was a planet, was a god,
Now its's an orb with no distinct distinction.
Lose your label, trust, et cetera,
What you left with? Minutia!

You troubled world!
I reject your sense of identity,
Your definition of obscenity,
Your offer of amenities,
And selfless, rapt serenities.

If I'm to be an entity,
truly, perhaps quite unduly
Myself, and not some Delphic
Oracle's prodigy- some strictly allegorical effigy,
Maninfestation of some corporation,
Some raging person's toothache,
Then I must cast off the brutal chains
Put on me by John Maynard Keynes
And his disciples, those archetypals,
Who are the idols of themselves.

Throw the baby out with the bathwater.

Declaration of Princles

The first premise is that there are multiple levels of consciousness.

The second premise is that, at some point, we cannot control ourselves.

I think that people are both totally control of their lives and hopelessly controlled by their circumstances. I think that the only meaning is human meaning, and I also believe that people cannot control what meaning they see.

Meaning is like taste- religion is a matter of taste, just like whether you choose to live your life believing that buying shit is the way to happiness, or making shit or writing shit. Everything is exactly the same, in that it fulfills the same desires and needs within people. Now, some involve lying and delusion, and maybe all of them do, even love. I'm still thinking about that one.

But my current point is that, like taste, values depend on what one is exposed to. There is no way that I can listen to all the music that's ever been produced, so how can I say, with certainty, that Blonde on Blonde is my favorite album? Of course I can't. Similarly, I can't think every possible thought- so how can I know that anything I think really appeals to me especially, because it's true? Or: truer than anything else? How can I believe that I am meant to think anything when my consciousness is so limited? Because of this, I ascribe things like values and taste to chance. Except...

Choice comes in: when I listen to new music, how do I choose what I want to listen to? Hmm. And, for the racist, who chooses not to talk to black people, and thus is able to have his prejudice without having to question is, choice is important, too. So, the extent to which I control my values is the extent to which I choose to expose myself to new things. As soon as values become exclusionary to new ideas, they become nonsense. Right?

Sartre says a man can be anything he wants to be. I think so, too. Attitude has a lot to do with things. But aren't emotions delusions? Isn't that the point of emotions?

The way I see it, it's coincidence that some levels of consciousness are tied to others. And also that those are tied to reality. What I mean is: at a certain level, my consciousness exists beyond my circumstance, beyond my gender, age, etc. And at another level, it's wholly defined by those things. But those levels of consciousness might have nothing to do with each other. I believe that people are multiple people, and that a man who commits murder one second can be as docile as a fieldmouse the next, without being deceptive. And so these multiple consciousnesses are tied together, against their will, and they can't be controlled. I can't help it that I feel bad when I see roadkill, or that I sometimes get erections. It's beyond my control. But in the same way, I can't help it that I can be obsessive; I can't control that I like Starry Night more than any other painting I've ever seen, or that some Sufjan Stevens song made me cry once. Or that I like certain people, and not others. But see: THIS IS WHO I AM. My identity is not mine to establish; it's a series of involuntary reactions to the world I live in, and to itself. Isn't that fucked up? This is what I really think, and think about.

Here's an example. My values are very much based on a book I read called the Brothers Karamazov, which was recommended to me by a friend who read it for a Russian literature class she takes at an arts boarding school she decided to attend after going there for summercamp after deciding she wanted to be a painter after wanting to be an actress and before she decided she wanted to be a writer. Look at all those steps needed for me to have the values I do. What nonsense, for me to stick to them, or think they're special. But see: just because I am aware of the transience of my values doesn't make me believe in them any less. I still think the thoughts of the book when I see certain things; the concept of responsibility is very important to me. Just being aware that you're being affected doesn't "account" for that affect, or make you free. I am helpless to what I have been exposed to.

At the same time, I believe in active identity- I believe that individualism exists- after all, people's involuntary reactions differ, are special. The only way to not have an identity is to try to control it.

Seek the man who seeks the truth, but go away from the man who claims to have found it. I think Abraham Lincoln said that.