by Tomorrow's Man
Oooh. Hi! Where was I? I swear I was a year behind until just moments ago, har har. Opened my eyes, and what do you know -- there's a saddle. Nice saddle, I reckon, though I don't know much from saddles. Guess what? I fit in it, though. Right like I'd always been a-sat here. This must've been my saddle all along. Damn what them New Year's parties can do to the mind.
Does rain dream of becoming snow? Each snowflake is different, each raindrop the same. Each rainstorm is a shade of grey, each snowfall a dazzling chaos of white. Are raindrops pupae, snowflakes in chrysalis form, waiting to be frozen into individuality?
This is the open eye of the man awake for three days, four days, mealless.
No food is okay. Fasting. Purity. Clarity.
I have not yet been featured on Animal Planet. But anything is possible.
I dreamed this dream out loud. I marked it on a calendar: This day, my dream will come true. I became my own hand of fate, slipping with style through every possibility's grasp that did not interest me. I had a dream, I wanted it made real, I dreamed that dream aloud.
I've become a naked history. Pageless, parchement free, a book of only covers. I'm hiding the pages. Want to see? Read me. Come closer.
Talk to me talk to me talk to me sound sound voice voice I need touch me touch me I need to be felt to be fed feel me please touch me talk to me talk to me feel me I'm here I'll always be touch me touch me touch
everybody's got to have someplace they call home. I think mine is somewhere in this
dream as the car slid into the swamp, I gave in, sighed as the thick water closed over the sunroof, blotting the moon to a shiver. I wasn't that far down. I had oxygen enough to rise. It wasn't the seatbelt. It wasn't the water, the water was warm. I gave in and died eyes open.
tonight, with a smile on my face, I think I'll aim for death and - for a change - hopefully miss. I simply must get close to the power.
I found the truth: The world was never flat; the moon is. And in the bleat of a bus horn I awoke, realizing I had been dreaming, lost in the lakes of the moon. Of course, the moon was a compact disc.
I just want to be your little mouse again in a pointy hat, I just want to be ink-drawn, then erased, maybe to come back to life by your loving pen, redrawn as a good man.
And it all comes back round again, parabola, entropy, energy, life ongoing to death ongoing to life ongoing to the sun, the moon, the place where dreams become prayers become wishes become magic we can perform to make our joy come true, it all comes back again, January and Decmeber and all the moments in between, it come sback to you, to me, it doesn't care if you're bad or good or somewhere in between, it just cares that you try, it all just cares that you just try to just be one true thing, be one true thing, before the clock hits the final hour and it all comes back round again become one true thing and make that thing glory.
I Am an End of Year Brain Goblin
A is for Apple, that's good enough for me.
B is for Bippy, and what the heck is that.
C is for Cookie, and damn straight it is.
D is for Doodle, as in Chicken Doodle Soup.
E is for Eno, sir Brian the dude, man he rocks slow, man, slow.
F is for Fripp, why not he's cool too.
G is for Gamera, dude, that turtle is so cool and shoots fire out his leg holes and everything.
H is for Horseradish, Donkeycarrot, and Mulecumquat.
I is for insert, cos it sounds dirty.
J is for Jackanapes, I still don't know what those are, yo.
K is for Krusty the Clown, my homie.
L is for Louis Black, cos man, come on, I mean, man he's cool.
M is for Madonna. I wish she'd tongue kiss me.
N is for Nicotene which should come in a breakfast cereal by now.
O is for O-ring, which I blew out the last time I had Mexican food.
P is for Prickle, because I like to say prickle.
Q is for Queer, to show I'm no homophobe.
R is for Roger Dodger, Roger Rabbit, Roger Clinton, and Rogering the wife.
S is for everything there is more than one of, like beerS, and deep fried cheese curdS.
T is for Thomas Silivel Norterman, who I just made up but he rocks.
U is for U2 and hopefully they'll stop sucking in 2004.
V is for Victory! Isn't it? Or something? Fine, it's for Valium.
W is for Washing Machine, cos Sonic Youth rules.
X is for Britney Spears, so someday she'll finally become a filthy pervert and I can get her.
Y is for Yellow, cos, well, it's a happenin' color.
and
Z is for Mr. Music Man, cos he needs a string quartet on the planet where the alphabet starts with Z.
Let's twist, y'all.
Frankly, my halibut, I don't give a woodle. Upon a nonce bequeathern by a fonked moon I fargled your uncle, but that was merely to squonk his maggre -- your annuntie -- not a flegged hour later. I tell you, my farker was broonhilded that day!
Littlth Ings Meanel Ot, pt. 3
Always remember that you can do good thing upon good thing, and it is good. But, one bad thing destroys all good things.
Do bad upon bad upon bad, you're just bad.
Do good upon good upon good, you're so good.
Do so much bad that it makes you bad, then do a good thing -- and everyone will be suspicious of what is wrong with you.
Do so much good that it makes you good, then do a bad thing -- and everyone will be suspicious of what is wrong with you.
If you stop doing good things, people will know you were bad all along.
If you stop doing bad things, people will wonder when you will be bad again.
All bad is bad. All good is only good enough to last until you do the next good thing. The next good thing is never soon enough, and seldom good enough. And trust me -- you will do something bad to wipe out the good, inevitably.
Just a little advice from a very bad person.
Littlth Ings Meanel Ot, pt. 2
Contrary to what the Queen said today, I am not a mincing little widget.
Littlth Ings Meanel Ot, pt. 1
I am home. My cat smells like a hospital.
Nothing is out of order in the flat.
Yet my cat, his fur, it smells like sterile bandages, disinfectant, rubber soles, rubber gloves, and conductive polymer hydrogel.
It worries me.
Did anyone else notice that folks was acting all funny today? Nope, yep, I sure did, like all dressed different and speeding like crazy...oh, and no one showing up at McDonald's even though I was there right at 7:03 AM just like every day, ready to get my special order Egg McMuffin with the extra ketchup and pickles!
But I'll be darned...McDonald's didn't even open. I'm telling you, it was weird. If I didn't know better -- what with McDonald's being closed and all -- I'd say it was the end of the world.
An Open Letter to Ed Strunk
Dear Dad,
Another Christmas Eve arrives. Here I am in Madison, now far enough from you that you're probably breathing much easier, I'm sure. No more missives from me, now that I've finally decided to abandon the effort of finding you, but for this last letter. Someday, I'm thinking, you'll come across this and thank baby Jesus that your son has, at last, forgiven you.
At least, that is what I am giving you permission to think. You can die now; you can die now "as people were meant to die, hearing the music, being the music, roaring." That is from Charles Bukowski, a writer I want you to know became my mirror in your absence. Hey, don't feel bad about me raising myself with the words of a drunk; at least there was love, all kinds of love, a world full of black love across the sheets of blank pain.
So, go live, and go die, and enjoy being freed from this genetic albatross known as Christopher. I place a kiss to your ring, and bid you peace in your tragedy; I hope you find magic now.
You are dead to me.
I will sing for you.
Cheers,
Chris
Filters, Said/Heard
"Y'know, I sense alot of anger in your writing...perhaps we could contact someone who may be able to see you through a program in which you would take several sessions to fully realize your internalized emotions through a progression of meetings with a counselor who would use differently effective styles of THERAPY HAHA NOT AS BAD AS IT SOUNDS MOTHERFUCKER JUST WAIT UNTIL WE PICK YOUR LOCKS GET THAT ANTI-SOCIAL BRAIN OF YOURS SKIDDING BACK DOWN THE RIGHT TRACKS BEFORE YOU HAVE ONE MORE GOD DAMNED ORIGINAL THOUGHT or we would be glad to recommend a prescription for you, you know there are several safe and effective types of medicinal treatment for your condition these days, all perfectly...safe, which combined with THERAPY MOTHERFUCKER SNAP THE WHEELS OFF OF YOUR LITTLE RED TRICYCLE RIGHT NOW can enable you to deal with your ISSUES YOU FUCK PUT YOU RIGHT ON THE DRUGS RIGHT UNDER OUR THUMBS AND GET YOU A THOUSAND THOUSAND CHANNELS TO CHOOSE FROM SO YOU CAN GO BLIND KNOWING THAT YOU'RE JUST ANOTHER WORTHLESS PIECE OF MEAT JUST LIKE THE REST OF THEM AND THEIR PATHETIC LITTLE LIVES THEIR SORRY WORTHLESS ISSUES on a daily basis in a positive social manner; so what do you say, HMMM? How's about giving it a try, hm? These drugs, they're perfectly safe."
And All of God's Creatures
A woman told me today that all M.D.'s have worms in their heads. Yeah I guess she was in the hospital and this doc was sitting over her she was recovering from a heart attack or hemorrhoids or some such thing and yeah well anyway he's sitting there laughing it up with her she'll be on her feet in no time or her ass whichever it is and this worm about, oh say four inches of it all bloody and purple with these big pinchers on the end and these little chitty legs all wrigglin' around starts pushin' its way out of his ear and there was all these fluids on the side of his face and on his shirt and she starts screaming and he's suprised don't have a clue as to what the problem is then sees her eyes locked on his shoulder and realizes and he starts saying things like 'What did I tell you' and 'You're fucking dead now' or something and he grabs it and slup! yanks the rest of it out of his ear it was probably about a foot long all together and throws it on the floor and starts running around cussing it and stomping on it and it's trying to hide or something but it's only got those little legs on the very front of it so it's all like flippin' around and screaming, yeah, it sounded like it was actually screaming in fear like it knew death was on the bottom of doc's rubber soul uh sole and boy it was terrified and doc caught it's tail under his heel and it screamed! oh man the vase full of roses from her daughter shattered under that sound and then doc's other heel caught its head and there was this sudden puff of smoke just a tiny little bit like a cigarette being lit and the scream stopped and doc said 'Fuck you, too' or something like that and he plopped back down on the bed and picked up where he left off 'so you should be let out today, I'll let the day nurse know. You take care,' and he got up and left and she looked over the side of the bed and the thing the worm was mostly crushed but she could still see its face and it was looking at her it was alive still just barely but it was and it was looking at her and it was blaming her she could feel it the despair hitting her as if to say 'you didn't have to tell I could have escaped why? why? why?' and then it let out a sound just like the last whimper her dog Spike made when he died after being torn in half by a semi and that was when she started screaming and screaming and screaming again and now she's in here with us.
She seems like a nice lady, but the others think she's a little weird.
A nugget from '93
Dear Brett,
It was a veritable orgasm of bad timing, as Kent Brockman would say. I arrived at the State Street parking garage just as Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker was letting out across the street; so, standing there in the stagnant, exhaust-filled air and surrounded by thousands of Nut-cracked Wisconsoners drooling and babbling in their grossly oversized pollution boxes, I let out a quick cry of, "DAMN YOU AGAIN KALI! PIXEL!!", before turning from the catastrophe and walking my way here, to Paul's Club.
I dod not get the bubblegum beer this time, instead opting for something with an 'X' in its name; it's no Angelic brew nor even a chai tea, but the bartender is lovely as she hangs silver ornaments and plastic white snowflakes off of the big Tree, and the glitter of them all as they turn turn turn up there moved by the gentle suggestion of her chaotic hand reminds me of the shimmer of you and I laughing right through the black heart of a self-imposed "shopping day," and, for this, I smile and raise my beer.
(I will try my best to maintain said smile when next I face Kali in the garage and Pixel a-lurk in my home. Wish me luck, old sock.)
-TM
I'm three hollow days behind but I know The is here and The is coming as much as The is already awaiting me in my car, so enough worry spent for these hollow days, I've not spent enough energy on The today.
Moby went to the store. Dick did, too. Moby bought wheat bread, and Kalamata olives. Dick bought some local wine for cheap, and spicy mustard. Moby drove to Bradley International Airport in Hartford at just about the same time Dick drove to Napa County Airport (he hoped his plane would taxi off of runway 24; he loved watching as they approached the 65 foot high tree down past the end of the runway and soared up and over the deciduous granddad.)
I picked up Moby and Dick together, as they landed within minutes of each other and on time -- an amzing feat for planes arriving at Dane County Airport in December.
I brought Moby and Dick to my place, where I had my George Foreman Grill already fired up, plus a bowl of cheddar cheese curds, warmed to room temperature.
Moby chopped the olives for me while Dick opened and poured the wine. We were listening to Brian Eno. Moby said something very nice about Brian; Dick just smiled and said oh really, because unlike Moby and me, Dick had not yet met him.
I made the three of us my famous Kalamata olive and cheddar cheese curd grilled cheese sandwiches. Moby realy liked his, and was happy that the cheese I had used was free range and I made sure had no rennet. Dick liked his sandwich, too.
I just brought them back to the airport, cos they only came here for lunch. I think I'll go have the rest of the wine now.
I was going to wash my hands. So, I used some of that soap, in the pump bottle. But I missed. I guess I was holding my hand funny. So, yeah, I missed.
But I did it again, and then it worked. So I washed my hands.
The soap, it smells like melons or something.
Dilation
Working in this factory. Walk the painted strips eyes down, sensing more than seeing the forklifts speeding.
Don't look up.
Can't look up.
Head for another office, head for a Coke, head for fuel that was an animal to keep my engine burning, eyes down, forklifts moving.
Don't look up.
Can't look up.
Today hits me different as my skin has gone thin. Walk out on to the factory floor and forget to look down.
There there are: the machines.
The humans.
Assembly lines, a thousand people. Fluid motion, programmed, automated. Delicate and beautiful, perpetual, I think...then swoon.
There is no thought here. There is no music. No chaos. Everything is in a set pattern -- the motions of the machines and the humans alike -- and the delicacy fades, the beauty fades. I see slavery. I see consumption. I see the inevitable end of the world. This is not perpetual. This is entropy.
don't look
I am watching spirits be swallowed. I am watching senses decay. I am watching pride turn to shame turn to product turn to rust. I see no poetry.
shouldn't look up
shouldn't have looked up
I see the inevitable end of the world, born of screeching metal, with all its human fingers and toes just more semen begetting the inevitable end of the world, born of screeching metal, with all its human fingers and toes just more semen begetting the inevitable end of the world, born of screeching metal, with all its human fingers and toes just more semen begetting the inevitable end of the world, born of screeching metal, with all its human fingers and toes just more semen
The average human body contains enough phosphorous to make 2,200 match heads, though few average humans can quite ignite a fire.
The bacteria found on human skin is roughly the numerical equivalent of all the humans on Earth...and increases when you shower.
For flu season, remember that the swine flu vaccine that was distributed in 1976 caused more death and illness than the disease it was intended to prevent.
The average human eyelash lives about 150 days, though the first wink to the right person can last forever.
The sound heard by a listener when holding a seashell to his ear does not come from the shell itself -- it is the echo of the blood pulsing in the listener's own ear. The sound of screaming also does not come from the shell itself.
The strongest muscle in the body is the tongue; also, tongue prints are as unique as fingerprints...which makes some of us criminals.
We filter out 99 percent of the sights, sounds, and other sensations around us if they don’t seem threatening or important. If we didn’t filter, the sensory overload would drive us insane. Some filters are better than others.
The average person who stops smoking requires one hour less sleep a night. Rip Van Winkle gave up his stogies after 31 years.
In the adult human body, there are 46 miles of nerves; boy, do we have a lot of nerve.
The average weight of the human heart is about 0.5% of the total weight of the body; I often feel like I weigh a million pounds.
A bowl of lime Jell-O, when hooked up to an EEG machine, exhibited movement which is virtually identical to the brain waves of a healthy adult man; also true is that the brain waves of a man are virtually identical whether he is having sex with a woman, or the bowl of lime Jell-O.
The stomach must produce a new layer of mucus every 2 weeks or it will digest itself. Given enough time and no mucus, the stomach could devour the body. Now, that's irony.
I feel a draft in here. I think it is between my teeth. I think it is a word, a stuck word. I feel a draft in here. I feel a word between my teeth. I'm stuck in this world, this word. I'm stuck on this word. There is definitely a draft in here. There is a place between my teeth. There is hwere I have this word, this word stuck between my teeth. There is a draft in here. It is the word.
I feel my teeth in here.
Tonight my mind became a gooey slave to the Coriolis Effect, as I discovered my alter-selves cavorting with the ghosts of Sinatra and Presley, or some such types.
Swirl swirl went me head as I found out that I'm triple the person I thought I was, and damned if I'm not a glory in leather pants.
Bring me leather pants.
12.12.
12.12.
3.3.3.3.4.4.4.
There's a poetry here, a groove, though I'm not sure what it is, there's a rhythm
12.12.
3.3.3.3.4.4.4.
2.2.2.2.2.2.6.6.
3.3.3.3.4.4.4.
12.12.
There's some boomerang effect going on that's got my numbers all twangled up in bwoo.
Where will I go? To the church. To these modern churches with their doors locked overnight. I will wander from hour to hour, church to church. I will not be moving to stay warm and alive; I will wander for the bells.
In this kind of cold the Earth itself struggles to move about its molecules. Nothing feels speed, not light nor sound, though they push valiantly through the crystal air.
Last night, I was at a church. I stood just to hear the bells ring.
Over a night in time frozen to nothing by distance from the sun, a person without a home can die in this cold. Where would I go?
Last night, I was at a church. I counted the degrees as they fell.
Chruch bells and clock towers, the poor man's only true music, delivered on a schedule for free. I will wander from chime to chime, time to time, hour to hour.
Somewhere, the sun will rise, and maybe then I will be warm again. In the meantime -- in the cold, mean time -- I will wander.
I asked him, "Why's it never rain bitters?" and I guess I can't fault him for his reply: "There would be a lot of car crashes and men standing in the street with their mouths open and laying in the gutters lapping at the run off."
They say the truth hurts, sure, but this is a doubleplusungood pain in my ass, this incessant torrent drowning my fair land that continues to doggedly not turn into snow OR beer.
I'm growing miffed and thirsty.
Rain rain rain rain rain rain. Rain. Rain rain rain. Rain, rain rain rain; rain. Still no snow. Plenty of rain, though. Rain. Rain rain rain. Rain rain rain rain rain. Rain. Rain, just rain. Rain, rain, only rain, rain; rain. Rain. Rain today, more rain tomorrow. Could be walls of snow, mountains of snow, could be winter wonderland. But no, it's just gray, and grey, and gray. Raining. Raining raining raining. Just raining.
I now know the rule of the darkness. I spent so much time there, I'd forgotten to look closely around; to find nothing.
There's no more truth in darkness. I looked down, and found the cup of my hands was made of gold. This, this came from my hope. My heart. My love that I'd eschewed, forgotten for the sake of the darkness.
My love for you.
I see you there, even now, while I'm here, there, you, with your colored hair hiding nothing, not from me, not the brain beneath. I see that, smell it, your scent, your musk, the fever of your heat, of your brain beneath, burning out energy to make you You.
I see you in my diary.
I see you in the reflection of the golden cup I hold out to you, a cup made of me alone, my heart, my hope, my love for you.
I see, you are my diary.
My cup sends this to you, knowing you will see the darkness -- these letters formed by a lack of light within the pixels upon your screen. All these words, formed by nothing; brought to you by the darkness.
Now, see, the darkness is mine. It does what I will it to do.
The darkness, in here, it belongs to me.
I now know the rule of the darkness; I rule the darkness. See? These words. Darkness curved and undisplayed right here, before your eyes, darkness that with each thought that gets from my mind to my mouth to my fingers becomes spoken by these lightless letters right into your eyes, right into your brain, right there beneath your cute colored hair, right there behind the smile you're about to form when I show you with these lightless letters that I am thinking of you.
There's no more truth in darkness than what we put there. Than what I put here.
And what I put here is darkness defined by love and light. Don't believe it? Turn up the BRIGHTNESS and CONTRAST on your screen.
Wink, wink. You smile.
Thank you for loving my lightless letters.
My first meditation in almost a year brought me a revelation.
This is going to be a winter of disillusion.
Disillusion, as you know, also means the opposite of itself.
I have begun writing the book about this coming winter.
The most best mistake I've ever made, oh yes:
I spent so much time trying to find love, I forgot about love's A#1 rule -- the more you want it, the more energy it has to fly high and high and higher.
You've got to coax it down. How? Just like they say: Be. Be the Love.
I spent so much time trying to capture love, I forgot that I am love. I forgot that I embody it. That I am loved because I am a creature of love; I need not prove 'my' love to anyone -- I am my love, it exists because I do.
This is a poorly worded revelation but for sure, it is the most best one I've ever had. How do you feel about that?
You want to make an impression. You want to leave ripples in their psyche like lightning hitting the desert and creating glass.
But then, mostly, they move on as if you had never been inside their very body. To you it was manifestation of the ultimate trust, and you nearly wept with the communion of your body inside their singularly unique space; to them you failed; but, they knew there were plenty more in line waiting to fill your space, so they danced on with a smile.
Welcome to the disposable feeling.
Welcome to being 1/six-billionth of humanity.
Welcome to the reality that faith is only your own.
The world is coming to an end. The mountains shall fall like sludge into the boiling seas, great gasps of flame will gout from the bowels of the core to scorch all vegetation from the poisoned land, the air will burn with sulfur and methane and suffocate every living thing on this planet untit it is but a grey cinder rolling lamely through space for the remainder of eternity.
The end of the world is nigh, and I know this:
I drank bubble-gum flavored beer.
Two thoughts for the day:
This towel dispenser has a warning that it can cause serious injury or death.
People engineered satellites, aircraft carriers, microtechnology, and toilet paper dispensers.
I want to feel like the pickle atop the mayo and spicy brown mustard, beneath the lettuce and tomato and garlicky prosciutto and slightly gamy-smelling provolone all bedded in warm French wheat bread, mainly because that is the kind of place a pickle really should be but, oh, sweetness, at that point who really minds....
A man can sing that she looks like rain, but it's the snow falling that makes you think of her eyes and fur, makes you think of her heat and how cold you are when she's unclose.
I can tell you that you look like rain, but if I'm crying I might just mean tears.
I can tell you that you look like rain, but it may mean you've yet to torrent.
A man can say that you look like rain, but it's when you are so so cold and unclose that you look more like snow, and it's the heat I miss that causes more and then more rain.