The Eulogy of John Something-Something

Don't prey on your self esteem, there's no renewable resource in that. When it's gone, it's gone.

Influences wipe my mind of its own thought. I speak in cliche because that's all there is to say. Nothing new. Nothing ground breaking. Thought provoking. Filled with new distinction never thought of until this very moment, when blechlatablaya becomes something truer than "love". truer than "truth". The writer loses always, perpetually. A game played with poison can never be won by players or the audience. Poisonous words inflict in the mind the sub-servant thoughts it now speaks. love, hate, pride, freedom, patriotism, creativity, plaid suits and pink ties. Funny little hats and power chords.

"The necessity of action is in all forms of thought the main conspirator"- Dr. Jonathon C. Whogivesafuck, professor of Thought and Culture, University State College of Western Explicicity, (1954-2009). Shot dead on Oct. 22nd by everyone and on his own accord, to stifle his thoroughly uninspired ramblings.

Flow,

the vibration of the world that ignores itself until its trash becomes its truth. I stop, the deadened daytime canalway, as ships flash by at slow speeds and I feel the rhythm, rhythm, tap, tap, tap, tap, this beat keeps it going. The fear of thinking a thousand thoughts at once and not knowing which one to say, nay, to shout at the captain carrying his load down to the Waal. We all carry our loads to the Waal. Let it flow, into a pool of thought, meaningless to everyone else. Tap, tap, tap ,tap. Move, feel, sob, sniff, bat your fucking eyes. Lifeisbutadream. For a moment, you think you’ve got it figured out. A vision of Ginsberg hearing Blake in the back of his head. Talking something about a rose. There are moments when I am certain I know what it feels like to go completely, irrevocably, insane. Like when you can actually shut off all the noise and think, clear. Not analyze conversations in Dutch, not scrutinizing what some hack is saying about Kerouac, not conceal my displeasure with countrymen… really think, in silence, or in haywire, frenzied, frantically scrawled articulations that are unintelligible… even to me at times… “I feel what people will say… it plays out in my mind before it happens, y’know?” The Calcit blows that thick horn and creeps by, sending shockwaves to nearby, neatly man-made banks, housing me, and my uncomfortable stature and silence. The confused, awkward, hair-never-lays-quite-flat, modest analytic, pathetic, new adult, struggling with honesty, and the complexities of male/female relationship statuses… For the first time not being quasi-honest, not holding back… love exists for the same reason god exists- to keep everyone from becoming me- cynical, skeptical, bottom lip sticking out as if in thought, though really just unsure of what else to do. To stop analyzing everything would mean a total disassembly of my newly acquired, and permittable self, the semi-unique, yet totally recycled human contained in this body of uninspired proportions. Who, in reading of the wonders of genius minds gone crazy with wit, longs to achieve some ridiculous version of this in himself. Perceiving analytic thought to be essential to this quest, he challenges everything said to him in his mind, and therefore devalues the greatest skill one can have—that of the exclusive club of the 5 senses which can really be said to be the wisest of the troupe, the master of the others in ways the others no nothing of… the wonders of which transcend any thought a person can have… The magnificence of that all too important lesson, that one should hear without speaking and listen without the threat of wandering mind or thought of what to say next.

memory, all alone in the moonlight...

These memories are all convoluted into
a distant reminder of the very worst,
the absolute worst that could ever happen
to a man of your stature.
You hide it now,
but I know that when your head hits the pillow it comes rushing back to you,
and you realize over and over and over
the mistakes you made. The little slip-ups that
formed ranks and systematically
tore it all apart. The
crack in the foundation that sent the whole house
tumbling in so much
smoke and debris that
the only thing you could do was block it out, back away, close your eyes,
cough, and laugh it off until, at long last,
you were utterly, completely, entirely, totally, wholly, exclusively, fully-- alone, lock, stock and barrel.
And you know, without a doubt, that everything, every microscopic little minute detail that you ignored, or shrugged off, or dismissed with a wave of you grubby little hand, you KNOW,
that all those nights you didn't call, assumed it would be alright, YOU KNOW you were wrong.
You thought you were being normal, when really you had your head so far up your ass you thought your colon was the real world.

That being said... you tried your hardest... sometimes you just fail, huh?

Oh, Come All Ye Faithful

It's weird, That promised land of fortune and fame and opportunity, is not what it was before, when the masses crowded around the gate, with nervous glances up at lady Liberty, majestic and meaningfully perched on her throne. Then, then it was real; an outlet; an escape from the suffocation and torture. But now... now it's just the haven for sloths and bigots and the gluttons in some Pent house flat they pay a ridiculous amount for in order to hide their lack of personal attraction. And they are all alike. Uniquely alike. As if the same person is staring at me through a thousand different eyes. Their eyes, bloodshot and baggy from continually putting up the painted wall they allow others to see. A wall with flowers, pink and blooming, and newly unbraced teeth with silicon covering every humanizing blemish they had. The real people, trapped behind every single wall scream in vain, want release. But, out of fear or self consciousness or tragedy, stay put behind their brick walls with paint and flowers and masks. I too, had a wall. Mine is newly been taken apart, brick by prosthetic brick, until there was nothing left but a pile or shadow at my feet, which people stare at, and jeer, and mock... "is that his wall?" they whisper. "look how ugly he is." They boom in full voice, laughing till they cry and conformity squirts out of their noses. Wall gone, partition between myself and the world successfully dismantled into a worthless, steaming, stinking pile at my feet,which I kick and push away, but which flows back to me like a stream of unwanted children. I scream at my abortions, and kick and throw with all my useless strength, but they come back. always... begging me to build them up again. "I won't" I scream over and over until it echoes of the rock faces and sings back to me. "I won't." "I won't" "I won't". And the rocks sing true. I have found a place in this world where all people walk, unburdened by the unwanted, brightly painted brick, as I possess. To stay here would be a heaven... heaven forever without so much as a handshake given without permission and desire. Desire.

So it has been awhile... a couple months in fact. And here I am, sitting here three days from leaving this continent, and there is still so much to do. Exchange money, pack, notify people who need notified, say bye, pack some more, lose sleep because I keep having weird dreams in which I forget my bath towels and somehow think this is a huge deal... I have all these things to do, and I am sitting here writing... I guess it comes down to priorities, you know? It's as if, I have all these things to do and not enough time to do them that I am going to explode one way or the other, so I may as well take the time to document it... This is probably the one moment in the day when I am completely alone in my parents house-- this is a rare occurrence-- so I am taking advantage of it.

The word surreal is being thrown around a lot in my world right now. Every time people ask me, "are you ready?", "How does it feel?", I tell them, this is about as surreal as it has ever been for me. It hasn't set in. I have gone through the steps to insure that I can make this trip happen, but it still is not real to me yet... it's surreal.

Anyway, this is probably my last post for awhile on this medium. I am writing for the ESU bulletin starting next week, so when I have the URL for that I will post it on here.

I could tell it was done,
The leaves dry and brittle.
The trunk was still brown, but faded,
wrinkled.

We used to sit and just
look up at the sky
The blues and whites
Shining through that cracks
in the canopy, of that tree.
I wonder when you knew
if wouldn't last
One year? Two?
I guess it doesn't matter if you knew,
I know you had your doubts

We would sit under that tree,
my bony shoulder somehow
the perfect pillow, and laugh,
and smile,
and grab the sky.

Does the tree miss us? Togethor, I mean.
I hope someone does.

I'm sitting here now,
looking at the nook you always hid in,
your curves matching the trunk's perfectly.
I'm looking up at our piece of the sky now,
I reach out to grab it, but it always alludes me,
Like so many so many silly wishes.

This hill spoke to me
Even when I didn't know it existed.
It found me at the best time.

Sometimes, I get lost.
Find a place in my own backyard
that did not exist before.
That's where this spot found me.
On a summer afternoon, just around dusk,
me, with my work work jeans on, and grease stains to cover the sweat stains
that percolated up through that bright tiki shirt.

I picked her up, it was about a quarter till nine...
We hadn't spoken in days, but she didn't seem to mind.
I drove the nissan through the back roads, towards no where
When I rolled up that hill, I just had to stop.

"This is it." I said "What is?" she asked.
"This is the spot. My place of business."

I slammed to car door and jumped on the hood.
It was perfect.
I have always longed for this,
this complete oneness with the real world.
Like if a coyote howled in the distance,
I wouldn't automatically sense danger.
This place, where I melt into the engine and watch
as the sun goes to sleep, and the farmland
is retaken by its natural, bestial presence.

She sat on the hood next to me and shrugged.
Time stopped. We stayed for hours.