spine of the notebook

the traveling night-
i think of nothing
but laugh
at the thought of it.

listen!
there are no words
in my Mind
but as the ink goes down
they appear.

i look: watercup,
i tried to paint with wine
last night
and achieved a subtle shade
i declared Skin

i ask myself to think
but only watch the sky
loose its daylight lifetime.
i sink with a sleepy feeling
of growth behind my eyes.

what do i choose to do?
i move the canvas and put my legs up.
i recline.
and wonder,
what's going on in there.

the traveling night has soul
i toke a flowered smoke:
i deem it completely worthwhile
for its given me
that line.

what else is there?

i live in a sacred place
though sometimes
real people
take the spiritual away.

i am sure that when they are at peace
they are holy.

Now thoughts enter me.
it is getting progressively difficult
for my hand to move

Time, time

forgotten of cigarette--
pile of ash
pile of nothing but
the empty
glass.
Dinner plates: submarine
in the kitch sink--they sunk
with helpless survivors
dying still
at the surface.

the sitch is awesome.

the record has quit--
how can
i still be
this happy?

the vision has stirred!

I am in the dark light
shining so
fucking bright
this vision
has overwhelmed
and here i am

with the butt
and the pit

and i am so
goddamned
content
in this ugly world.

i'm only missing the goddamn violin

its abrupt, its observing:
bazaar motions of bazaar total consequence.
I don't care of your unmoving existence:
you do nothing new, and in my opinion
hardly anything true.
i think of you, and honestly,
i think of nothing spectacular.

i love you to death.

i think i'd both kill
and die
for you.

then why
the death
do you destroy me?

i've drank this night
i've seen
the high
and i think of you
i think of you

you've consumed
this whole part
of my life

you're mad.
i'm consumed.
i'm distant and distracting.
and honestly,
you're so mad.

i guess your presence
will never detach

i haven't heard of you or from you
for so long

i guess
this is as perfect of timing
as any other time
would have been.

how are you?

Team Beat the Meat ('cos you're a vegetarian now)

A highly intoxicated scribble about purity. Circa 420 2008

I don't want to BE the meat, I want to EAT the meat. Jesus. That changed everything, everything like the animal in my mouth puked after its last meal. My god. I can drink anything right now: that right there, that empty glass, that filled-up nonsense mind, that tasted like water. The warmth of Mexico.

LAND'HO!

She speaks: I don't mind that he's a homo, all he does is drink and smoke, cos he was underground punk and shit, and he's fun to talk to.
I get back to the conversation in my head. I want to roll a joint.
But first I interrupt from write with a bowl of Egyptian blend. These aphrodisiacs! They, these cunts of a son like I'm the only one: I AM THE ONLY SON. Listen, this is a style. And some Egyptian blend, of course.

We hermits smuggle in heavy conversation under the North Lights Blueberry AAAA. Obviously, we are activating the solar system. Obviously, I am at my death, I cannot remember my life just that my soul has been out of orbit for some time. Time...

The concept induces some recollection of human experience.

First of all,
This is technical: I'll probably sober up,
probably tomorrow morning.

They're saying now that being too interesting (drug dealers)
is a negative: flaw.
I stare at the table, where someone split their tequila.

(smoke break)

The boy comes in and dumps his stuff all over. He's meeting some hashplant half way. Dr. Gonzo tries to eat the green cookie, but it's a human cookie. The guys grabbed awesome today: each one has over 2 grams condensed.
The Dr. snuggles up to me. I let it.
For a while.
O dear.
She's going to be sick.
Would this now be considered a scandal?
Now, excessive?
SO fascinating this life! I BELIEVE!
And, yes,
we are getting re
tarded
in here.

I swear this is occasion. But that's nothing you need to know.
You don't need to know any of this. So why am I write-speaking of it?

Orange juice.

Taste has it down and doesn't ask questions. The story ends up being hilarious and totally
at One
with our generation.

Kind deeds
reincarnate.

I worry about the girl in the other room.

I go in to see her and also,
play at enormous height
Country Joe & the Fish.

She's perfectly fine, she says: I'm fine
I'm just waiting for the room to stop spinning,
you can play the tunes loud.

Them other people are slouched, holding hands.
I'm ready for a toke.
I aint sick or in love: I'm ready for that toke.
I take it hard and somebody calls me ambitious
but she tokes right after me.

I persist in the festivities as long as my mind can handle it. My alarm is set for 5 am later this morning but I'm too fucked to care. I pick up this book and write on, write on,
I almost melt into my exterior self but decide to wash my face
and go to bed
and make these queers
quit their playful laughter at me--hah,
I smile and write on, hah!
I struggle slightly.

I tell myself the order of which to do things
in order to find myself asleep:
I grab my knees
to give me strength
and, HEAVE:
goodnight-go.

the world said goodnight

Alright,
i've reached my comfort level...

oh my window.
this is fucked.

his face is cropped so wonderfully
i wonder if there is any chance
that he could see me.

this is how he is, Nature.
not like that night he played with my hair.
my mind grows hot.

i listen to a poet strumming
but i can hear his voice
through the walls.

at the first moments of my evening high
i catch this happening.
i consider it a petty gift.

too bad this night is still with daylight
and that tomorrow will start
soon awful for me.
i'd march myself down there
and speak.

i just had a cold shower
in my cold skin: it was highly
uncomfortable.

i watch him do something embarrassing
i laugh deeply to myself and say aloud: oh!
don't put that in the poem

i recline. i reflect on my day,
and i am satisfied.
i had many genuine
human conversations with
the community itself
of good friends, gorgeous strangers,
and the idea of What A Person Could Be.

the boy has gone inside.
my hair is still drying from its wet.
i wit again over obvious intention.

i don't want the reality of sleep so soon.
today has been becoming and exciting
with this most pleasant
goodnight sight.

my catastrophic soul

pondering my anti-existence
i; in the sharp stab of what i foretold
and the deepening fault of Mine, this inkling
of a total universe.

i'd like only to be as wise
as the ocean. i'm so exact
to the temperament of water
i find it in my eyes.

i pretend i am
my own lover: weep, baby,
unfold all those unkind thoughts
but gently now,
i know your fragile, too.

these components

my collected self vs.
my whole self.
could i be getting closer to
my soul-self
under one astrological incarnation?

these furious memories:
i've been to earth.
i've died.
the human SELF is to story-search;
there is no wrong in spiritual discovery
but i tell my desires
of possession-abandonment
to suppress themselves
for the worldly-void of impulse.

i let the soul rest
and take on
personality.
i let myself feel heated--it is
more obscene to my mind
than kindly refrain.

it is too effortless for I
to believe in the Holy Neutral
so i let the fishes rage.
i let myself
unkind,
speaking of myself
as if i were proper subject matter.

i speak of it
because we are them same
and as US
we are every subject
that matters.

i do not want to detach
as human
from humanity.

spiritual gain is human loss.

i want to feel every emotion, i want
to orgasm. i want the dilemma and drama
of morning thru night.

it is most spiritual.

there is bitter love
and sweet fear.

there must be for these words exist.

my scattered self;
my silent self.
the confusion of incarnation
is what makes the most sense.
these changes and feeling the same,
these normalities and the slip to sanity
vs
the natural.

when i awaken i will smile in reflection.

Tumble this

The ideas you have of me
are false
You forget me, you beg
your rid of my foul

Those that think of me high:
the delirium untruth
Those who have spat at my soul:
this dream of conquer

This load.

The ideals I have of this world;
that when I don’t understand something
but still consider it creative and full
I am satisfied with earthculture.
When I hear the sound moving, truly,
or a speaking book, image, sensation...
There have been many sensations.
I feel comfortable with the IDEA of human.
I feel sane within the chaos of mental evolution:
I picture the gods (with rejected belief in such Titans
just, that
for the moment’s reality they are tangible).
I picture them in conversation,
in beginning and creation, and
making love.

This heave of insight.

I am loud, breathing
Or at least, like that in my mind. My thoughts
get more concrete. I am relieved but reluctant
to let myself fully escape from the abstract. I try desperately,
search for my True Mind
to static and devour:
let dizzy enlightenment stay.
I am nauseous, hesitating
the fag is getting closer to me,
but I want this smoke.

These waves.

It’s sounds like I’m psychedelic,
off of earth for this hour to look down and actually see beauty—
but be fooled for I am just
laying in bed.

a condensed soul-to-body conversation

what yesteryear's am i thinking of;
these places;
i think of flavor: and discover a hidden truth
to life as in
using flavor, i could let my mind consciously delve
into a sense further and deep, because taste itself
could take easily the universe of Time

no,
listen:

i discovered something fantastic
about being SENSED crazy
like i swear,
cock could never feel as good
as this Expansion of Mind and Existence
i pick
and pick
at a habit,
and surely,
it always does
find me.
fold into existence
you'll know it's happening
you know it's raw and experiencing
you know
your face just aged
a little you're face
has planted its fold.
okay,

but why are there such mysteries?
why am i always
so
cold
so provoked
by human nature:
i'm exactly like the world
i'm a soul when i'm not alive
i am
a destination;
apparently Somebody thought of me
and thought the Trip worthwhile. fuck.

my mind had tranced so deeply my body ached
and further ached, another sense growing deeper
and bloodyfuck deep
like, hah, now my mind has spilt
i must attend to somatic duty,
ease my tension
quit
thinking
for a while
for comfort
for reminder
of this flesh,
which
most times i think awful.
cold world,
stop reminding me i'm so vulnerable.
oftentimes i do not understand
this world.
the city
the scene
the wilderness.

the happenings of a story
are in the works
or whatever.

i let my body drift here imagine where i let my mind go

if I'm misshapen now beware
my days of coming.
this flesh will abandon youth
with haste and nasty telling:
my eyes will speak of every high
my skin will lie to you--
my presence
will be
surreal.

I take the load
and know
this simply
of the parallels I'm approaching.

in my ideals the foolishness and
adventure I face myself with now
will reflect extraordinary.
in my fantasies i live an awkward
and important life.
I take the load.
I inhale it large.
I can feel my body aging,
I can feel my soul getting a little younger:
soaking into my mind
and taking on the project of somacy
and as my Self now grows older
the balance of experience
and spirituality
drip into each other.
The void behind my consciousness
decays and takes my human with it.
The soul and mind reconnect:
I search for death to find genuine
youth.

Now, experience.
Get this living through and conquer
so that this TRIP is learning:
colourful and birthing to
True Enlightenment.

the magician

Love is lusting
and the God of Love does lust.
Fearing its maker, fearing even,
the things it creates.
There is war in outer space.
You humans must comprehend
how high
you can really get.
Now, the sky. Now,
be in movement.
Hereditary mental deficiency.
The blind norm is consuming
in action, but courageously,
the mind is thumped upon.
Humanly pure humanly thoughts
and emotions are
raging and forcing exit.

I beg my body to let go of my mind.
I would be me, again.
I'd be of no identity, and beatific.
I think of myself in ecstatic joy like this
though I remain trapped
in this consciousness.
This is the escape I search for--not
city-to-city dwellship
begging for the tangible rockload
being at the point to conquer
then flustering away.
It's thrilling.

I think of the worship my human self has
for the higher Thing of soul.
I know, truly,
that creation is creation.

I'm speaking to you from the box.
Once you get outside
you understand you've only moved
to a larger box.
I think to myself, I think: what of
this existence?
This numbing stream, green trip,
there are worlds
and there are livelihoods.
I am living an era of one of them now:
I watch myself.
I don't
like
myself.
I have ideals. I do not function.
I am without euphoria.
I want this place, okay?
You must learn love. Keep from suffering,
though that is life.
But, what is peace
but boredom?
It is pleasant though vulgar.

War inspires art.
It's wrong.

We are within a twist of existence.
We are hesitating from enlightenment,
we are mischievous
and limitless by story.
Do you understand why Earth is called Mother?
She has birthed us, we are her every feature.
The sky is bold. It is the expansion.
Boxes.

I wish I could tattoo my aura:
the infinity sign over my head.