Machiavellian Trash

many squirrels call Poughkeepsie Mecca  ~ I endured the hopelessness & angst  of my 20s by moving about once  a year  until I actually thought I could  spend a considerable while, even years, further  as a man who earns his money from the  dirt & sunshine -- initially in Georgia --  until the creator of the Kenari  beverage flippantly, spitefully  turned me away from his doors (the  same year Up In The Air was  released as a film. ho ho ho.)  after a period of inordinately  depressing quality mostly  sleeping at my father's and  watching t.v./reading books  at my aunt's respective trailers,  I found myself with a couple lucky years  working about 50-60 hrs. a week  counting boxes of auto- matically assembled goods and  stacking the boxes and monitoring  the machines for alarms.  and  another, part-time  job in a rather polite kitchen in a school  with...

food for thought  ~ Buddhists teachings note  that focused, deliberate thought  holds much of the same influence as an external action, and  there is some agreement with this  to be found  in more recent scientific literature.  for instance, professional chessplayers  can markedly increase their metabolism  just weighing the advantages & disadvantages  of taking one route towards victory  over its alternative/s, as though  the fingers of a clever seamstress  had removed & repaired various  portions of the hippocampal-loop in order  to edify, illustrate, harness its wealth  for man to leap from and still remember  its dearly primitive origins.  as though some deeper chamber awaited,  regardless.  many billions of humanless years have transpired,  and many billion will follow  with-  or without us yet the lasting Earth  remembers  all her misfortunes.  ...

people suffer far more from the repetition of old mistakes than the creation of original ones, we've more depth of  endurance & character  than the loathsome temporariness  of its worthy contents.  self-absorbed self-important  Robin Hoods hide  in the cheap masquerade  of their intentions while  I pitch back another sip of discount beer,  quiet brown stairways sketch in the distance,  disfigured,  out of clear view;  the hours are long and often empty but  the sun hangs in the sky like the hand  of a magnificent and generous creature  and I should have enough tobacco  for the morning.  **** 

 x.com blew out their proximal ischium trying to figure out what Elon Musk is hoping for in this life or any other. bon voyage. 

all day long the words of petty, compulsive liars and the elaborately  lazy  strangle my ears, hurt my eyes  pinch me like scared children  riding busses & trains  to places they can't identify.  demimonde immigrants with Corona/ Modello-breath, occupying billboarding  gossiping in the convenience-store  parking lot  like too many boys outside of  a school dance...  since I'm in my 40s I think I have  some right to be disappointed,  whether I am a dis- appointment  or not or how subjective my success is.  I take a couple vitamins (with coffee) like  band-aids for whatever's left  of my immune system and  the clarity of memories  significant & trivial  like rocks in the ocean of  ten thousand million words  or sounds or variations of  words and sounds  at a plummet none have the breath  to witness and  emerging from a request  even less understood...

 to whatever preserves some kind of wisdom...  ~ space infinite space  over the soccer field down the hill from the public library. little tangles of menthol smoke  blushing in the arrogantly large afternoon.  pizza wind of traffic re- minding me I don't have to  pickup any cans but  could...  this Guinness is talking like  a clever crow and  I went for Irish whisky, instead.  maybe in other shadows...  how does the Dharma account  for Fascists? what  determines which fuckheads are  bigots and which  are just arbitrarily neglected --  and who'd give a large enough fuck  to repair it?  space infinite space repetition  preserves some kind of wisdom.  **** the Earth is....  ~ the Earth is  a dinosaur older than even  ancient birds & worms should've  hung dreams upon... skin  of dirt and foliage, water mud  lava of blood & the peculiar  chemical...

I think if you value pragmatism, you have to at least appreciate  its absurd counterparts.  we are meant, finally, somewhere,  to become the most refined perceptions of ourselves. as though some phantom, invincible heart  of energy were wedded to the fabric of our  dark fates.  innocent, hungry creatures tracking the landscape of  chance  with as much  efficiency  as seems possible?  okay, make it personal:  I used to call my father at the rural house I grew up in from the Video Store in the Carmel Plaza  and instead of sleeping, or sitting  in his underwear in our driveway  he'd collect me  and bring me home and at that point  I had my head stuck inside a pair of headphones as far as I could  and the years were as definite and fragile as glass.  he meant to be a friendly person, somehow. this  implausible, yet decided want for kindness  in some lost brown hippie's heart.  I hav...

mycelium  breathes up  through the  ground like the  sacred fingers of  Vishnu while  the blackash-line  of clouds  moves like a dead song  over insignificant pastures,  and a bicycle  takes its peddler  beyond the mouth of a hill  that whispers like the permission of Buddha,  but I can't hear it.    **** 

the sullen, chanceless faces  of ten million stereotypical Mexicans  and their lonesome, loathsome boot- prints in the gas-station parking lot  dumb, incoherent whispers of gratitude  in black eyes drawn from exaggeration.  like so many imitated demeanors some  timid, boring lie of authenticity.  those who suffered or tried or perished  for this  did so for a kinder spirit, that  is fragile and yet  indefatigable, humble argument  that the soul is only as great as its purpose.  I hate this country so much yet I can't stop wanting more for it.  **** 

so then one morning in Chinatown, Los Angeles, I  decided I could do without  the other homeless people around  the library and I got all my shit  into the bags I had at that point and  walked up the hill towards the bridge.  there was this tall, black homeless guy sweeping the sideway out- side of a tentcity for half  a dozen people, he asked me for  a cigarette, which I didn't have,  but since I was planning to collect and  redeem cans for the first part of the day, I  asked him if  he'd watch my things  and I'd compensate him with  a couple cigarettes  after the fact.  I stayed there for about two months.  one night this man who operated a gas-station  offered me a free coffee while I was  digging, rummaging through the  big plastic cans by the fuel-pumps.  I started going there pretty regularly.  and then one morning I  broke routine and went to  the Burger King...

 refrigerator poem ~ I don't have  my own fridge, but I don't have anything  to keep in it, either.  we're coming here  instead of going  to detox or a hospital  or under a bridge or wherever  we won't get chased  away from.  everything's  crowded  and  annoying  and  damp,  but  at least  you can take  your  shoes  off.  I'll eat something,  fall asleep with  my bones and my stomach  stuffed crassly inside  my clothes. suffering is frequently  a memory and not  an ongoing circumstance.  the morning will soon arrive.  ****  not so much fear & loathing going on, today....  ~ little memories of  California  wander like curious  spiders  through my brain.  TWO-THOUSAND TWENTY- FIVE. I forfeited an upstairs  bedroom in a house with a  shared-bathroom that was  effectively mine, but  th...

I used to have a room above a garage  on a farm, with a bed with  electricity, a t.v. dvd-player enough space  to be palpably domestic and as a condition  of the room and the food that  came with it,  I was obligated to pick, harvest  basil  from a  successful, shared  un/owned field  in rural New York.  my fingers  and enthusiasm for the work  didn't keep at the same rate  as one another.  I sucked at it.  but I can roll a joint with just  a random receipt at least one-inch-by  a few inches  in length and a breast-zipperpocket  and a decent shield  from the wind, some spit  a clear view of your own fingers, the  purple hum of want shared  gently in your  bones.  I'm sure my concentration outweighs my greed,  but I'll keep trying, regardless.  ****

to which gods demi-gods humans feral animals hungry ghosts hell-beings and what all may be included in the fate & judgement  of my personal karma regarding the boundaries and nuances of  the practice of right speech:  take into your accounting of my habit of cynicism  that my gestures of expression are not intended  with genuine agitation but only a lazy, reflexive  nerve towards the incompetence or dumb cruelty  of my fellow person.  I have zero wish to see these untoward remarks stricken from the records of your timeless, amorphous  history of these ungentlemanly and undeserved outbursts nor  do I make any serious pledge to quit being such an erudite  prick.  only: I'm a reader, for god's sakes--that's got to count for something?  let's try to get on the same page (or at least in the same book) here,  okay? thanks in advance... Richard Lopez....  **** 

my day usually goes something like this:  if I don't have my inheritance to count on  I'm either deadbroke or I have so many cigarettes and dollars.  I'll then find so much in  redeemable containers, easily  enough to bite  a cigarette or two and  a beer to look for the rest.  collecting  is inarguably  arbitrary:  the less you anticipate,  the more you find.  to consider how many hours per day,  pounds and dollars per day are incinerated, and  devoured, and rebirthed into  the living face of their moment, gods  assembled neatly in their  humble rejuvenation, money  for anything money would be reasonably asked for.  the soul the final judge &  director  of what creatures scale the plain horizon  of enlightenment.  bless those who carry words  gracefully  in their  hearts & mouths.  ****