Machiavellian Trash

this angel's kiss  spoiling, intoxicating  my afternoon.  the anarchic rabbits  revise their schedules  while the domesticated ones  revisit the water-dispenser.  out here, bread can build a house  out here horses are free to good homes.  this man gave me a dollar,  another paid for five loosies,  just because.  I found three beers on one day three  days ago.  I'm not saying people give you things,  but  people give you things.  try to repay it with  the menthol in your  lungs  and some coherent  gratitude.  **** 

white gray frogs  see-saw in the night like fat wet balloons...  Meditative mornings over fast-coffee,  lit, and sober, fairly equally,  being someone who spends more money  on things like alcohol & marijuana  than rent, or car insurance, children's  clothes, erection resurrection pills,  what not.  losing marijuana, for instance: I thought  to reach for some last night, the second  part of a preroll -- to eventually relent,  believing  it missing.  ...which of course later proved  incorrect: about an inch & 1/2  of sativa hybrid/off for  that matter.  the gods, the fates, are finally   meant  to disturb whatever cold shadow of  peace, individuality, coherence   we think we've  won  for ourselves.  All right, then. Fuck off.  Here we go.  ****  

I'll talk (and write)  to sunset bugs while  the day is hot & alive.  matchstick ponies on  tiny legs made   of  tinier dreams: throw...  some amnesia in your paint  menthol coin (metal)  (not chocolate, this  time.)  this is a pistol.  I made it  from the other  one.  I used to   know this girl in Niagara Falls.  The steel balcony railing sits there without a word,  ...listening  to the terror  and joy  of this arresting moment.  **** 

he died when I was 31 (now circa 12 yrs. ago.)  it's fair, but I miss him so much.  I miss the smell of his skin, the dumb  sound of his voice...I have to think of him  every time  I touch my marrow.  we are slime become flesh become human  the critical mass of you expressed   as  a sharp sound.  **** 

my father & I didn't talk very much.  there was a happy person bullied away  into a unique sort of madness,  confusing pain from previous winnings.  he could swing between contempt   for life itself  and  the kind of joy that can only die with flesh.  I don't think he ever deliberately   gave me advice, but his   existence  is advice more than pithy.  Okay.  He neither did drugs in any serious/ recreational way around me nor  really complained about  my doing so (I started cigarettes  around 8th Grade, most of  the rest soonafter. Okay.)  He didn't: have any close friends (ho ho) the whole                  30 yrs. of life I knew him;                   speak abusively to his wife (although                  he had rage issues) I remember, as a ...

Suffering rarely endures--and surely never thrives--  if confronted with wisdom, kindness, or  even modesty...according to  the Third Noble Truth of the Dharma.  Amusing it should be the third, no?  Time is a crazy burning magnet  wherein children are expected--or  at least considered--to witness  the maintenance & progress  of the world before and after  them. And the graveyard countenances  of citizens who've forfeited their every  good quality, chance: those beggars  were depleted by their own choice  first.  You can befriend such personas as vampires,  gypsy washladies stealing jewelry  wrapped in toilet paper, 7AM bicycle- riders dashing smilelessly into the challenge  of the day: there is no true/final limit here,  only directions, latitudes, points of reference  shifting...on some ephemeral chessboard of  entropic construction...only these origami replicas  of what mi...

There is no overwhelming demand or yearning for stories about waitresses, dental secretaries, male & female mechanics whose lives are neatly put away with the security of sane paths thru the world. Most entertainment, I think, for that matter is about being wild & distracting. It's up the author to discern the proper balance & rhythm--the story's intention--and try to explain that to someone who has no obligation to believe them (I). Vonnegut said this in other words. So does the Curious Case of Benjamin Button, but in other words. Everyone uses other words. Like the numbers are still changing. I've been sleeping in a sleepingbag in the woods, now-late October, drinking brandy & beer for most of the day, after coffee at Burger King in the morning, admiring the sunlight in the glass & 44/55 outside...as the music could be better, many things could be better as the concrete day scrapes along towards winter and time fails to coherently and persuasively make...

this lazy Lou Reed music you  can barely hear with your ugly/ unwelcome face against the keyhole:  door to black/violent nowhere.  I'm pretending to be some kind of   detective  or journalist, or someone  with an important & intelligent   career.  the zip went out of the economy and   such-and-such.  your mother's dead pets will   ignore  memories of the scent   of her hair.  (some gods are simply proficient   in fire: this disqualifies them  from neither kindness nor insight.)  let the vicious scar of what we don't have  repair itself.  If it  has to.  **** 

Watch the sky tear its face off  with neither sorrow nor exaltation,  god of empty prayers devoted to nothingness.  What lives are suffered with glory  in the rather stale, no: neutral reaches  and moments of decay & concomitant  dissolution toward rebirth?  Where nothing enjoys proof of itself,  all is merely a series of first bewildered moments;  as nomads live, survive from year-to-year  or flowers lift with infantile discovery  towards that rather strange battery, where  even Vishnu's fingers would tremble, where  accident and fate are so close to identical,  the eye & the hand are abnormally shy to gesture;  where my dumb words and your angry introversion  no longer need to compensate and recapitulate  what the other cannot, should not, will not,  claim--nor hope--what the gods furthest   within  our ancestry would be too wise to pretend otherwise  to circumnavigate...

I wish I had more to climb to,  smoking this three-inch joint,  my days are generally confined to  promise of decompression and occasional  renewal of meaning.  I sure didn't miss the largely consistent  shitty music in Burger King this  morning (...last night was the second  since I thought I could sleep at   the church...)  the sun's painting music like  a careless whore on New  Year's Eve, vegetable-  rigid jelly.  to the gods of sanity and modesty,   I say:  fuck off. let my contempt for your existence  arrange the course of its dismissal.  this painfully-red octopus choking afternoon  whistling thru the thorns of its condition:  I give what I can.  **** 

Beginning.   https://theradioandtheinternet.blogspot.com/2024/10/poem.html Two: The Bad Guys  https://theradioandtheinternet.blogspot.com/2024/11/the-history-of-writing-bad-guys.html Three: introduces Samantha.  https://theradioandtheinternet.blogspot.com/2024/10/the-history-of-writing-part-two-ii-draft.html Four: more Samantha  https://theradioandtheinternet.blogspot.com/2024/11/samantha-and-sisyphus-draft.html Five: Before Thalamus Geary  https://theradioandtheinternet.blogspot.com/2024/12/the-history-of-writing-part-two-rn-6-ss.html Six: Before Milo Gollander  https://theradioandtheinternet.blogspot.com/2024/12/the-history-of-writing-part-two-number.html  *bonus: unused Randal Fincher story.  https://theradioandtheinternet.blogspot.com/2024/12/july-2035-draft.html 

After an abbreviated workday of about 6 hrs.  I took an exhaustion siesta on my  bed/improvised blankets, shimmering red drunk,  marijuana echoes in  the dirty periphery.  My body's like an amorphous pretzel,  synapses, muscle, pulse...  calling to the Reggae cacophony  issuing thru these tree  branches,  across the parkinglot.  Firetruck drivers and EMS sirens  wail their obscene urgency  like desperate pirates in search of  opportunity.  I sacrificed morning-coffee  for  reprieve  from the tedium  of  sobriety?  **** 

Jim (#1) This place can get a little mondogrenous. Every whisper sounds like echoes, sounds like your own memories. You think peoples' voices sound like your thoughts, you think your thoughts are directing their voices. It doesn't help that it doesn't help, but it helps.  I guess I've been here about 10 years or so. Journals, assignments, groups. There's progress, indefinite progress. They tell you you're getting closer. They tell you you have to keep trying. Kind faces, kind demeanors, with stoic intentions that are confident as commercials but lack the certainty of music repeat the criteria, policies of a larger order and ask for your signature and put you signature into another folder of mondogrenous data while you count the days of counting your days and dreaming of a life of some other freedom. You sign, nod, comply.  I miss drinking and I don't miss drinking. I miss the way it made me feel, and I'm pretty sure there are other ways to feel like that...

My father was born in the Philippines.  See this Scottish-Spanish Filipino boy  running in the sun in the southern-equatorial  day, light, see him listening to & for  his mother's voice, see  him chase the ripples of the ocean and                                      the crabs                                      shadows                                     memories  of a world he didn't know, either.  Namaste. Mahalo. I miss your crazy ass  so fucking fucking fucking much.  Bless you, sir. I'll  certainly never find  a finer one.  **** 

After December 2014, I was half- ready to got sailing into the darkness of  mortality for the 3rd time. (*It'd  take another 2-plus yrs. for that.) SO/but  I just put the majority of my things into  storage at this Gillian Acosta-girl's   excuse of a house  out I forget exactly where, and took the rest of me...  with a backpack and a few suitcase--one  of them this Massive Motherfucker ap- parently called A Samsonite because   that's  what this 30-something-year-old white dude  called Dutch called me when I had to haul  the crazyshit from the Snow Terrace Overnight  Shelter down to Hamilton/Clinton St. Poughkeepsie  via bus via foot via hustle via heart.  Don't ask me (exactly) what I had in it   was so important:  I spent at least...some...of the time  washing  or moving  my ass.  **** 

The Republicans did so bad after   not learning  the lessons of Lincoln, the Gettysburg  Address, the Westward Expansion...  Nixon, Reagan, Bush the Second (Cheney)  and the rather strange failures of Obama:  THEY created the Alt-Right.  Maybe they wanna Resurrect the toxically-human  ashes of Buffalo, New York, the  deplorable neglect of the Alzheimer's/Reagan  1980s...at least they'll clap some thought  how to avoid 10 More mistakes than  the ones those pieces of double anti-dogshit made  are already in.  **** 

Like, I've never been opposed to working.  I'm opposed to working with certain people,  but not working itself.  Before I got this job washing dishes for  a Private School in Connecticut,  my three previous jobs were:  a seasonal overnight-stock for a department store; an on-call (substitute) janitor for a   rural high school ;  and selling concentrated soap/detergent   door-to-door (whilst living in motel  rooms with multiple other guys)  in Ohia and Pennsylvania--  All Equally Shit.  Then, I got this good job.  I stayed there 3 years (with summers off,  obviously) and they'd reimburse you for a decent  pair of shoes since you practically needed boots  to do that job efficiently. And it was part-  time but I'd take as many hours as I could   get to supplement my full-time at the factory  and it's where I eventually met Eleanor,  fleeting as that was (she was truly spe...

There's never been any ambiguity about death  in my family. It's actually one of our  saving graces--even tho it doesn't  seem to save much.  Let's see: I think Grandma Violet was  the first to go. 1988. I was 5.  Mom picked me up from Kindergarten  and we drove to see Aunt Laura (she  worked at the Bank) and Mom explained it as  Grandma went to Heaven, but Mom  didn't want Anti-Secretkeeper Little Richard  (Me.) to the break the news to Aunt Laura,  which I did. With quite a good deal  of animation.  Five years later, I guess I was in Fifth Grade,  maybe Fourth? I was slow & mischievous  from the Beginning: I know I've brought  much of this on myself...and no Grandpa Bob  to scold me--and I think he would've been  the one to: He drove a tank in World War Two;  he grew up in Brooklyn, but also purchased   land  in some then-foreign place called Kent Lakes, New York....

I think there's a lot of wisdom   to be had  from people simply having  appreciation & gratitude  for whatever  things that  they actually enjoy. It certainly protects you from  some stale robothood of existence.  Give me something  I can put my hand  to  and  my heart  and  feet  will  generally follow.  **** 

Hinduism, including Buddhism, is at least  a bit  like practicing psychology  in a deliberate way:  One places the burden of responsibility   on themselves,   yet has this  abundance  of  cosmic  resources.  Tread wisely.  ****

There's something of a quiet rebirth of  the Counter-Culture, lately, these days,  to my lefthanded brain: Guys with- and  without girlfriends doing satire about  daily life... Australia seems to have some  kind of wild, thundering Punk & Metal scene... Eminem is obviously still the Martin Luther King, Jr.  of Hip-Hop...and comedians from, well, any- where from New York to the dreary  Midwest, and onto the debaucherously holy  & unholy Western States, I think,  have a pretty healthy, if unspoken, fear  of becoming some fuckhead conformist  of a wage-slave. (In my honest opinion.)  I remember when Obama was president (I  didn't vote for him; nor have I ever  voted for a Republican) I remember how  there were some hungry conversations peeking  from certain corners of the internet  about a Post-Racial America.  ho ho ho, Bubba: Imagine a conversation  about Critical Race Theory  ...

Observation alone can do quite a lot  once you learn how to train you eye  like a hand.  You remember we are descendants  of people who witnessed dragons.  I turned 43 earlier this year, and  I still have this child's heart to write things. It certainly isn't motivated by greed.  It's closer to hunger & yearning--which  are nearly the same thing,  when you think about it.  About since I heard Bukowski read   Trouble  or I read one for old Snaggle Tooth  for the umpteenth time (I hardly know  any poets before 1950 and am equally selective  about all the ones after--Stephen Dunn  was pretty good. James Tate had this  cartoonish appreciation for the most ordinary things.)  I notice a lot of the female staff with   motherly bodies  around MHA and places  like that  seem to hold doors open for me  (I'm about 5'11", weigh a buck forty most  days) even when ther...

Today, I woke up in the Poughkeepsie Hospital, darkly early as usual, at 5AM I could figure I slept a good   seven hours, I had  the energy to pace myself  be & contribute to the day ahead of me.  Alright, the nurses aren't clever enough   to bend rules   for coffee  but then again it's not long and  you've got tea and fresh orange juice  plus whatever nicotine & fire in your  system.  You watch one or two, or two or three   episodes  of The Wire, remember  things like:  vigilance & retribution; honor & livelihood; nobility & sacrifice.  You can think of the things you've lost--I have--or you  can run an inventory of what's made it thru, what  stays in your blood and synapses and the  nervous/muscular-tissue of your body,  knowing everything else was  fated for impermanence.  Today, at the hospital, they accused me of  sneaking into s...