[Post Originally Untitled]

When, in the morning after the first day of the opium binge, the eyes finally open and the pain is bearable enough to focus on the time, life seems such a surprise.

The only relief is that day two of the opium binge is soon to begin.

The pain is the pleasure; at least in its symbiotic relationship.

The mundane becomes the profound. The senses open like hanger doors.

Merry Christmas.


[y’all driving Subarus and working in cubicles]

"Sports, when played passionately and intelligently, are great a great thing

to watch and experience. Especially when performed by those who are the

best at what they do. We rise above the basic necessities of daily life

(food, shelter, protection from enemies, and the meaningless passing of

time) to a heightened state similar to that caused by great music or great

art. At their crudest, sports provide distraction and tribal identity (like

pop music). At their best, they provide transcendence. Sports, like art,

dance, or music are a uniquely human expression, initially meaningless in

product or outcome. The meaning (and value) of sports is a function of

careful study on the part of both the performer and observer and like art,

dance, or music, transforms from meaningless brush strokes, tones, or motion

into something greater.



The game you watched last night is the sum of all basketball games that came

before it. The pinnacle of human expression through basketball.



I'm sure the same can be said for NASCAR. I'm just not studied enough. And

I belong to the wrong tribe.



Time for lunch."



-Rich Walkling 11.21.03

"Dying is easier when unconscious."



- ty hardaway, November 14, 2003

- stolen from Jon Baty, November 14, 2003

Two consecutive pages of useful information

Confirming and disappointing consecutively



Of theories toward brain-machine interfaces

And smart relief from severe and chronic pains



Focus the minds on intelligent goals

With unimportant but highly imaginative colleagues



We can agree that the time has come

For cognitive coups and invisible acquisitions



A society parallel and unequal

Simple and vigorous can indeed exist



Without feature-creep or worrisome expenses

Of spirit, integrity, creativity or hair loss



Queen for a day or pawn for a lifetime

White full-length faux fur or rumpled worn oxford



Human reliability analyses with weak probabilities

Only conceptualize the obvious



Long and technical papers to recapitulate

Our instinctual demise as a species

Though sunsets are keenly

embedded in my chronology

I am growing more tolerant and appreciative

of the inspirational values of rising suns

in the easting part of our continent



Living life like death wishes

Fighting battles for origins unknown

Building legacies out of

"conflicting tastes"



Making a difference is hard when

I'm still making up my mind

Clouds shading clouds

and the times we had, baby



From up here

So much seems unimportant

Simplicity and satisfaction from within

Are ultimate rewards

Halloween at the Oakland International Airport

I.

We've got to step outside ourselves

in order to be ourselves

Since we cannot rely on anyone

other than ourselves

to save ourselves

II.

Libido burrito

Flat long and wide

Like the Oakland airport

Chrome accents and high heels

Extra large oddly proportioned breasts

We're all in costumes anyway everyday

III.

Living in my own customized world

Insulated from real contact

with glasses, hats and socks

Personal electronics help the tweak

IV.

Ground zeros still exist

soundtracks of personal "Live Events"

of smokes, clones and flesh

Living on parallel planes

Automatically rotating human scenery

V.

Scoring quite low on

the evaluative scale

from one to infinity

Memories of the day

taste of human skin --

The white girls

Definitely the white girls

VI.

I am convinced sometimes

That my life is nearing its end

Short, squat and useless

Bored and afraid of the freaks

who possess all the real power

And who force the wealthy meek

to react with little or no love

VII.

Costume or not

Angles are all right (toward perfect)

I think I love you

Because love is one standard deviation from lust

And since that's our only real duty

or is it my sanity that's in question?

VIII.

Simple truths

and purity

Why is it that

The intelligent people of my cohurt

Are so unsatisfied with working



The flattering burden of the hunt for

"Quality of life"

Deconstruction of deconstruction



String theory applied to the psyche

Relative to nothingness indeed

Just what happened directly prior to the Big Bang?



Points smaller than points

The space that contains space



No aspirations for ambition anymore

Emphasis on legacy and end games

Leaky and stuttering creakily about

Back to Work

Back to work adventures

We learn slow
Rock and roll Marcus
Marcus is crazy
Tap-tap drumming
Leonard Hoffman taught me these chords
Jamie Perez taught me how to love
At the cat Box

Waiting to swim to the surface of all these wires
Rolled by the system
Intellectual challenges posed by the inquiry
This is a waste of our time
Do you understand where I'm coming from?

"Shit, motherfucking yeah, by the Sexy Motherfuckers."
Theoretical airflow and heat propagation
Intellectually arrogant
Get your baby
You don't know my name
Not trying hard

I don't wear

fashionable clothes

nor do I have

much of an image

to manage or protect



[stinky cheese girls of thematic decorating black pants and cheap black boots]

[goatees and laptops]

Porcelain dodgers

tics and all

blows noses on linen

is not big but knows how small



Artificial existentialism

of powerpoint schemes

made up and dressed up

representative of dreams



Four stars of luxury

finely woven cloths

cellular communications name badges

narrowly followed swathes



Groups and individuals

solo spinning souls

crashing like galaxies

into small suburban 'toon holes

Five rules for living:



1. Be born an artist



2. Anti-structure; coincidence, nonlinear time



3. The inciting incident



4. Everyone takes turns rescuing everyone else



5. Tidy the little pieces





"Life is saturated with dread because you know you're going to die."

I have this recurring dream about elevators usually in very tall buildings.



The frustrations always escalates as the buttons either mislead the passengers - misdirected us to the wrong floors - or the car is so rickety that one fears for life and sanity.



These dreams are generally so similar that it could be one life-long series (saga).



I don't recall even exiting the elevator cars, but always there is hope of a clever and safe exit.

Tiny bird hovering

without knowledge of horrors

innocent of crimes

Shiny brass buttons

dangle from cuts of blue wool

quick hop back in time

I am in a costume of self-hate

Tiny images of vast emptiness(es)

Obsessively compulsively spinning in doomed circles

Thoughts wander without purpose nor focus

If it is a leisurely life sought

prepare for hard work ahead



Barters for coffee

Punishment for tea

It's good to live inland

For fear of the sea



Looking upwards to a pinprick of light

Waiting waiting for events foretold

By passing gypsies and assorted pickpockets

Concurrent wearing and aging and dying too

A depression as wide as deep

Just too much anxiety over

Desperation emanating from every pore

Frozen with promise of human rites

Which are human wrongs consequently

I used to attract moths

Shushing roomfuls of characters

Snapping necks of barking dogs

Chaos quelled like a deity

To simplify

Reducing things to fundamental elements

But – as with all things human – where

Are lines drawn?

Who minds the limits

Who minds boundaries



Endless analyses and questioning

Antithesis of simplicity and

Complication’s very bestest pal – collaborators



Much more organic than synthesized

The two over the one

Water dripping onto black holes

And kicking at clouds



Batteries on last legs

Despite myths of desperate

Last ditch surges

Simplicity of the end of conservation

To be among the family again

The comfort in knowledge of affinity

So eager the tears – welling

My only mistakes are in timing as always

But the wonderment is worth the waiting

Subtle like eyebrows feet or thighs



Panache spilling over authentic

Able to be only myself without act

Sadness temporarily interrupted by life real

Interrupted by the time moving forward

Awakening mid afternoon in time for teas

Open except inside my secured fortress



The kids today…

Will they know what I know ever?

What I will never know?

Is recapitulation and endless loop of

Stills wound fast – a horse in full gallop?



The edge of caffeine-induced vomit

In a former grand ballroom painted

With cheap green and furnished

With thrift store furniture



Middlespace is a half-eaten carrot cake

For instance or the doubts of matter



Again my time is expiring here

The meter running out – alarms sounding

And the sadness will return (sigh)



Accept

Or

Stop

Another day without harm

About as big as your finger

Bleeding in and out of lucid beliefs

All the while feeling superiorly unimportant



Pathetically desperate for validation

And drowning in the ooze

Of the taste for human meats

A thing for the soft tissues and large muscles



After some coffee and some time alone

And the customary dredge for muck

A deep dank still sleep with the

Promise for rebirth awaiting



Being so full so quickly after

Being so empty so long after

Neither caring nor wanting

Is generally - and surprisingly - shocking to the system



An acceptance of selves satisfied

With sins and baggage forgiven

Peace and relief are identical twins

Joined at palms with hearts beating in unison



And there is still reason to live

Random ovals

[Previously Untitled]

Again with the thoughts
Haven’t you learned anything?
Seeping faux genius

Wandering focus
Internal conversations
Over Iowa

Of love and passion
Mean spirited interplay
Narrow shallow lives and lies

Wrong turns at junctions
Continuous debriefings
When is enough enough?

Volcanoes in clouds
Retirement is never safe
The pace is deadly

To finish my thoughts
Over the mid-western plains
Free beer and pretzels

Heightened senses of awareness

Paranoia mediated by instincts



The depths are still frightening

Drill-down to situations not of our control

Or, maybe it's really getting scarier yet, the world



Or maybe experience teaches

Circumstances change perspectives

Evolution occurs regardless



Imagination, being what it is, has

Powerful effects on perceptions

And vice versa



The nature of things

You know, stuff, you know



Clarity is a motherfucker

Befuddling is likewise



Sharp pointy things

Running amok



Distillation is key

Simpler elemental thinking

"The California protagonist belongs to no establishment, a born renegade fond of mocking the shabby masquerades (of traffic courts and dictionaries and jails) with which the corrupt officials in city hall or Chinatown seek to imprison the noble savage dreamed of in the philosophy of Jean-Jacques Rousseau."



- Lewis H. Lapham

From National Airport



Oh, to be a

supplier of cheap blue

size 54 suits in DC

now-a-days



(i'd be one rich man in the party of huah)

Triplets in my head

Pills on my mind

Politics in my brain



Although dreams from two days ago

Have begun to fade

Still I am horrified at the

Depth, detail and genius

of places I went that night



A warren of art, magic and passion

Webs of storyboard images spun

From molten metals

Like cartoon spiders answering God



Of smokes and touches

Wary interpretations of

How things should be

versus how they are



The point of decompression

Can only be found in the memories

Of dreams to make reality envious

If my brain can do that

I prefer sleeping

As my daughter begins to more fully interact with this world and she begins to show personal preferences, I realize that some day she will completely embrace her life as her own, rejecting external controls and dependency structures of her parents.



She will march to the tune of her own motorcycle.



How do I know? I fully rejected my parents at seventeen, moved out and never really looked back in any substantive manner. But, until now, I never realized that on the other side, from the parental perspective, the hurt that was probably inflicted. Being the center of your personal universe for so long results in lost opportunities; lost potential of an unselfish kind.



Whether it’s when she decides to venture to Costa Rica when she’s fourteen or when she heads off to college (or the circus, for that matter), the emptiness will come suddenly and deeply. Sure, maybe she may spend holidays with us, but she will develop her own world where we are but minor components. If we get the weekly call, we will cherish like life itself. Then I will be able to die alone and afraid, surrounded by strangers.



They all say, “enjoy it while it lasts” because it won’t last forever.



Nothing does.

okay, answer me this?



i was bored at work (oh, shocking!) so i somehow found myself at Afrodavid.



i haven't been there (or, been THERE) in some time.



am i crazy? or, am i genius?



i needs to gets back to my art.



some stuff i do scares me.

The Nostalgia of Light



I noticed it, unofficially, a couple weeks ago. It was just a moment in an otherwise miserable day. But with this weekend behind, we are now in what I’m calling the nostalgic days. The air is light and the light is airy. The sky has returned to a deep unnatural blue from its vacation of milky, humid opaque. Autumn is being phased in again.



During nostalgic days the brain remembers that autumn is a time of invigorating bliss; when the cool air returns and the mosquitoes die. The shadows deepen, mornings are dark and everything becomes all contrast-y again. Breathing becomes easy and life’s woes subside. The leaves change from an overly officious uniformity of greens to a masquerade ball of individualism and whimsy that culminates in Halloween and death. In autumn, we snuggle again. We mow the fields one last time and we ride out the slide into darkness and productivity.



The threat and misery of winter is well over the horizon. The beleaguered days of the mid-Atlantic summer fades like a bad memory. Fortunately for the humans, the memories of pain are never keen. In January, we’ll all pray for July again. The shoulders, autumn and spring, make living in the east worthwhile. The monotony of hundreds of perfect California days, while glorious, faints into the background of being.



I’ve grown to appreciate the work involved in the long march to the shoulders.

Sometimes, and it doesen't matter where, if it itches enough, you just have to reach around and scratch your ass.



- thought on Woodmont Ave.

Today - and, oddly, it was confirmed by all the machines - was a day of twos. Twos were everywhere. The metaphor; symbols; codes; ciphers; patterns. There was no escaping the omen. It was as clear as identical twins.



Dyad. Pair. Deuce. Dub. Dos. Twin. Both. 2. Too. A basketball shot. The peace sign. Yin/yang. Congress. Coasts. Couple. Feet. Hands. Eyes. Ears. Nostrils. Testicles. Breasts. Nipples. Knees. Clap. Stereo.



Unfortunately, obviously, I haven't made any connections yet.

My...



Today's been a real education.



History intersecting with future.



Oh, my...

I'm kinda hungry.

People take vacations to the Mall of America. It's surrounded by hotels of every ilk; from the swanky to the seedy. The mall itself, from the outside is one ugly hulk of parking garages and angles. Half-assed landscaping and American flags. Shuttle buses rush backing and forthing to any of the four main entrances; old, fat, pasty white middle Americans - and their cookie cutter MTV/X-Games/hip-hop offspring depart empty handed and embark with bags from all the stores you find at any of the other seventeen million malls found from sea to shining silver dollar.



Inside, it's the most depressing place I've ever been. Worse than any two-bit casino in Reno or Atlantic City. Worse even than river boat casinos in East St. Louis. Mall of America is a big mall. Five levels. Amusement park. Gap. Victoria Secret. It's a big "So what." I took my camera to maybe get some killer black and whites of old, fat, pasty white middle Americans - and their cookie cutter MTV/X-Games/hip-hop offspring...shopping. I took no pictures.



Yeah, personal shop-bots. Teen to twenties bleach-blonds to smile broadly and pace your personal shopping experience. You book an hour, shop-bots help you shop forever. The exits aren't marked. Why bother leaving if you still have money or haven't maxed out your thirty-two credit cards that you were pre-approved for sometime back when? Don't forget the food court.

Dearest Rich,



You see, I love your Ween.



It's always been hard for me because I've always considered Ween to be your band. Like in any relationship, individuals bring something in. Flatware, CDs, the VCR, a dog, nipple clamps, etc. You always shared Ween, but it was always somehow yours to share. Then one day, I took your Ween out for a spin and fell in love with your Ween.



You never complained and even graciously encouraged me to snort your Ween. But, I always felt a bit guilty. You know...awkward. I didn't want to schnebble all your Ween or nothin', but once I ate one, I couldn't stop.



So, thanks for letting me smoke all your Ween, sucka. I keeping it all for myself and not giving any back.



Your pal,



-tyrone



P.S. Fuck!

When I hear young children cry

I’m saddened to a core place – biologically

Weakened in unimaginable ways



I miss my family

My reason to breathe

And take all these pills

Like I miss my innocence

fucking angels in my head

the madness of the obvious

07.31.03



The production-consumption ratio

Still unsettled after all these decades

Intense weight on psyches

And fatigue on internal components



Dreams

As black as void

As white as all

As dead as nothing

As past as history



Since it is always fiction

Contrived since inception

To be feared when not ignored

Reality is the real god



True as truth

One-quarter of a beat ahead

With full commitment realized

Blissfully floating above human topography

07.31.03



what is whole is

contingent of personal glossary entries

if space is time



experienced through spot lighted

cargo holds of hurling humans

eastward-bound together coincidentally



mind’s eye memories of hallucinations

but beautiful symmetry nonetheless

perfect logic clearly communicated



yeah, I’m terrified too

but, unfortunately, this is what we left you

if you can remedy, please

07.31.03



Prolog:



Walking sticks for a modern age

Skateboard shoes to mark my rage

Undercover mainstream tax-paying yellow belly

Forgetting at all to remember my age



Body:



Taking for granted the walking and talking

I kiss the rig of gods and

Try to put aside speculation of

Variants of fate without much success



What would change?



Often I awake to new realities

In different places alone or

Trapped in the prisons of mind or body

Empathy to a degree of unbelievable proportions



A hot, persistent, dry wind

Under blue skies in places

Where our society has created

Drawers in which we can

Hide all that appears to be untidy



Epilog:



Steely persistence after all the tears

07.31.03



You cannot help what's in your nature

Ahh, jah Rasta man sing-song life

From Damascus to Kashmir

Will I become so wholly eccentric

and woefully low self-monitoring?



Consequences of vanity run amok

With no restraints tied to ego

Or class or career



Just as long as I remember

To wear pants on a daily basis

And remain mindful of clichés and

Refrain from singing aloud too often



Since it was all over even

Before it all began

My efforts can be relieved

Of the burden of giving

A rat’s ass

Minnesota Blue(s) 07.30-31.03



Dying

All inside going deeper now

Heros not what they used to be

Drooling wizards of the north star state

Trapped like visitors to new planets



Shopping

With heads buried in sands

Sanctioned by the president and the other Hitlers

My very worst enemy a codependent me

Wanting without the why-ing



Bleeding

All ideas opinions beliefs creativity

From my anus

When the toilets do not flush

And snacks are forbidden in this motel



Hiding

From the masses of truths

Of the reinvented American century

Only to awake alone and sweaty

And so fundamentally detached



Running

Concentric circles around the

Moon and the sun so red

Suicide and chronic depression are

Only theater for drama queens

God Bless Me?! 07.21.03



Is it not you

So young and impressionable

Supple and porous

Glaring at me with

That glazed one-yard stare?



Hypnotized with promises

Of eternal life

Wings, harps and visits with dearly departed grandma

Always absolutely right AND

Correct beyond debate



A mere child looking down

Your nose with pity

At what has to be

A heathen of the grandest scale

Me beyond belief

Untitled 06.23.03



Long ago I realized just how truly

Pathetic I am

We all are



I have been at the paramount JUST long enough

And JUST enough times that I know what I’m missing



It goes way back – to the day

Lives of self-censored lies



What is real happens to be real



Although I try to live I ultimately

Fail time and time again to fulfill potential



But now I no longer care

Deconstruction 06.23.03



When it starts to break down

It really snowballs from here

From outside outliers to the inner circles

of questionable deal making and promises broken

To that filthy coating of oils and sins

that tends to cover you from neck to knee



When it starts to break down

It really flows like lava with

relentless power and electricity

Pretensions balanced on delicate fulcrums

Played pop hits of the retro ages

I have become like the recipient of spewed venom



We bring me here for checks

And balances proves far from simple

Nothing is ever simple anymore

Even sleep proves elusive

I feel the effects of mileage



I have to be near the end of lines

Like water that appears to very flat

When all along it is so round

And endless

like nightmares

tonight

i saw

this year's

first

firefly

Filthy fingers of newsprint and recycled contaminants

Mind blindingly void of thoughts of merit

Dirty. Everything so post-pristine

Indictments of our inner souls



Of god and money and choices hard

And exclusive of peace intra or extra

When did religion and government incorporate?



One would have predicted (from here)

That clarity and simplicity would prevail

Yet only awe-struck bewilderment at

Self-imposed complexities are evident



Confusion over time is exponential

Experience loads the burden of morality



Logic and history suggest a vicious defeat

Punishment for our collective self-contempt

Even the old guy said it is the end of time

Yet my maso-optimism borders on despair



I lie awake in wonder and anticipation

waiting for the light

donkey and the might

heros in the fight

it all results in night



we waste our lonely need

in pools of wasted seed

the people did not feed

to pad our lives with greed

Found the following note - in 14-point Times New Roman - today:



Boss,



F.Y.I. The following accounts are negative balance--supplies, ac heat, tv, furniture and fixtures, light bulbs

Yep. That IS interesting stuff. "The journey" is always fabulously interesting.

Global stuff is great, but so is the US spectrum of "journey."



Whether it is the original or subsequent populating of the continent or the migration forks - south to north - of the Mexicans or former slave blacks.



Then, there are the personal journeys. Nepal to Chicago; Los Angeles to Gaithersburg.



The Journey.

epiphanies over manhattan

boston deserted save cabbies and runners

spring on the river charles



3-D models and the grids of brooklyn...queens

and the spilled coffee on my feet

i discovered the beauty of this swamp



how do you fly this damn thing

Klein broke half the rules of photography and ignored the other half, and when he first published his pictures, he offended nearly everyone.

Yeah, I know I have tables due. Tables. Appendicies. Data.



But, I got stuck on the Tori Spelling website. Then, it was a natural progression to Jennie Garth. Then Peter Facinelli.



God, I do hate myself.

Losing your home

Like losing your mind

Leaves the memory damaged

Recall analogous to silvery colanders



Images roughly similar

But surprisingly different

The way illuminated

Like dreams



The homeless mayor

Of cities past and present

Lost and anonymous

Amid successors anew



Going back is never an option

"For their materials, for the art world, for school, for the macrocosm of art school. I mean, schools to show you how to be an artist? What the hell is that?"





"The artists I like are the ones who have done their work in secret who have been secretly and quietly doing something. They have work that would be difficult to sell or even show -- they have that purity...you have to go into people's secret diaries and get them to show you things they're afraid to show."



-Joseph Mills

Sometimes in dreams, do you take on other physical properties. Are you ever made of a variety of plastics?

Sex life

Art life

Death life

today

i was thinking

about art

Senate Study Explains Spike in Oil Prices



do you remember my ramblings back in the corner days about the "great petroleum wars?" about how the oil companies would become the government - distinctions blurred.



you know, back in the days when we believed we predicted the future.

Welcome to the White House



Perfect Pornography

Propaganda Perpetrators

Pandering Profits

"I've liked taking drugs for a good long while and it's pretty much always, apart from the few freakouts, been really valuable on the level of this kind of responsiveness to place.... Of course, you can just mess it up. I'm quite drawn to the confusion that drug use can lead to.... That in itself provides insight into a contemporary malaise."

-Geoff Dyer

The birds are starting to come back. And thank goodness too.

As kids in business suits talk into their hands. An audience indifferent.

Inspiration found in dreams and the middlespaces of not-quite-wakeful moments.

Spring is, well, springing fourth. Slowly, at first, but then at an unbelievable pace.

I kiss the ground I stand upon in thanks for my unbelievable luck and the goodness thrust upon me.

After all, George Washington was a skilled equestrian. Jefferson called him the best horseman of his age.

I've been thinking about this for a while

As I drive home, crossing Falls

Democracy becoming Glen



The ancient tombstones peripherally left

Look amazingly like children playing in a park

Never ceases to amaze

suddenly i realize i don't know anything

or

have any particular skills



how long can i fake it

and

get by on charm and will?

last night

i had an appendectomy



today is

one-two-three



one eye closed

the other eye crossed



pain is relative

so are experiences and perspectives



shake rhymes with

bake



i wear my scars like

earrings