Can Your Customers Find You Online?

sometimes, doing marketing, i want to shout


WHO THE FUCK CARES!

but somehow

i always return to the algorithms

you motherfucking devils, you.

remembering things of old loves from 05

your smoking patterns
your hate for words like bb
your love letters that reminded me the loss of writing still exists
your hate for women, myself included
your love of pussy, and head too
your philosohpy ways and turning evrything into a debate
your way of teaching me north, south, east, and west on this island
your way of all having the same fucking name
your intelligence & teaching me to not play dumb anymore
your wit (that barely worked on me)
your horrible gift on valentines day: an i love you followed by yes i cheated on you
your intimidation of me (for no reason)
your leaking a tape of me
you destroying a computer

you being a rebound of the man i loved
you being there because it was available
your skinniness

again again, your intelligence, you manipulative son of a gun.


 
but thank you, for teaching me all the things i wanted and did not want in a man.

"
she took it all from me, now I can't find my place - do you 'member me, do you know my face?


it
could
all
be
a
dream
"

quite accurate

my version of a kaddish.

i think of you, bright smile and wide eyed little boy, mischievous soul, westbury theatre 5cent films: age 5. i didn't know you then and i won't know you after life stops biting at a heel. still, the memories you've created surface. little boy in a dresser sleeping in an old shack because yr seed was a rotted one. traveling on buses with a mad woman for a mother - begotten child yet forgotten child, you still were a nurturing father. teaching of your knowings & explorations & life tales & fairy tales of what others deserve. opening my eyes to that of a bulls mind. headed to the end, yr old but running like the bull into the nights direction. no teeth seen. sometimes words now slip past the tongue. long rides in yr car speak of the old days in brief moments: me grade 5 you 55, taking me to what you recalled cinematic dreams. ----

yr heart beats weak but its only because yr filled with so much passion you may just explode. it's true you know. that's what really happens during a heart attack.


yr nose broken 7 times over for yr others scrapes & bruises to learn how to become aware. isn't that what you said?

yr eyes are weak but its to recall faded memories

yr hearing is strong and i never quite got away with any

never finished
never started
(needs editing)

the life of a freelancer:

you get a lot of strange things for free from a lot of people you would not expect it. you think your neighbor lives a normal life: chances are they do not.

Maybe all I need is a shot in the arm

it's funny because the only thing we disagree about is the way i chop out another line, i smash it and get excited too easily. you savor it and make sure no crumbs go to waste. and yet, i complain about the way i was raised vs you and your the frugal one - not me....but fuck do i wish all those crumbs i had once upon a time of the diesel was here to mix up with my lady lazarus.


burroughs had it right when he decided to talk about things that were not covered. i like to do the same. bobbys teacher taught him if your gonna talk about drugs you gotta do it in the simpler ways, say you took a blue pill & then describe the aftermath (think dennis johnson) me not so sure.

----
ive been in a bit of a funk you see, the dopes run dry & i know people who have it but i refuse to call beause im tired of being robbed for being a fucking white chick. sometimes i know i need to bring back my crazyside so people fuck off and stop fucking me


FAKE WORK NOT FACTUAL MORONS

nothing in the world can compare to this feeling, except, when we're feeling it together.


daydreaming of my fedora man & adventures with him that take place in our brainy brainy brains.

anyways,
i feel so at ease right now. i'm so glad i stopped talking to most of the people in my past...they are all so sad. i understand we are all on different journeys & i'm not judging anyones part of their journey they are on, but christ for fucks sake, have a little ounce of confidence within yourself. it's quite sad actually.

i had a dream this afternoon of a boy i used to write poems with back & forth & talk all night online to, mainly me writing, from another planet far far away. he was more intrigued with the social experiment & i was more intrigued with the wrongness of it all. we got it on once & it was horrible, from what I can remember anyway. it felt unnatural & unorganic & just plain old strange. i was taking bits and pieces of something blue throughout the night, feeling queasy, trying to make ten of them last, succeeding somewhat.

anyway,
we were competing in a sport that only exists in my dream, where you had to have marks on your heels & proof on your arms that you were competing.

and then i awoke without him there, happy he is not there, happy i am not athletic anymore, happy that my real lover was not home, happy that i was alone.

-----
and then i got a call from an old friend whose coming for christmas eve, & he asked me about diesel & im hoping he can find, make this girls christmas dream come true. dreaming of a off white christmas. dreaming of something else.

Here lies the misconception:

Most people think it makes you feel nothing at all. this is simply not true for me. if anything, i feel more. minus anxiety. i feel pain more, i feel love more, and i feel sadness more. i can finally open up. and withot it, i dont want anyone in my life. id rather sit in my room & stare at the walls. i dont want to see anyone. i just want to be alone.

and today im hoping my old friend comes through, not just with himself, but with some D because otherwise im just going to be bahhh humbag

a junkys christmas

http://vimeo.com/18230971


how i feel today. dead sober. not fun.

the sadness, it's annoying, kind of like an elizabeth wurtzel novel.

I write a lot then delete a lot. I have been extremely sick for weeks now. I don't think I will ever feel okay again. Motivations and ambitions are starting to blur, yadda yadda goodnight world.

most the time...

most the time i can't help but think i fucked up, majorly. what is this life anyway? most of the time i wake up crying & i can't figure out why. bP thinks im depressed. i don't think that's the case. i think it's more of most the time i feel like i am walking around in someone elses life. that's the easiest way i can describe it. most of the time i have a loop playing in my head of allen ginsberg & it goes a little something like this......

Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream--what is this life?

most of the time i'm glad that only bP knows everything about me. it's a relief actually, compared to last time in life.

who am i kidding? most of the time there's only two things in this world i want. & only one of them is human, & he's the best. that's about it for now.

Brautigan had it all wrong

dear boyfriend:

the departure of you drags on similar to tulips
or rather, two lips pressed against a cigarette
you've got the...
best kind, best mind, best poured out lines, best verbally spewed lines, best rhymes & oh yes, your even the best sign
come on baby, cuddle up in bed, come light my fire & tie me up in velvet, suede...maybe even leather.

Brautigan had it all wrong baby:
your departure is not like the Hindenburg disaster
all that, it's grandiose bullshit.

Your departure is as a simple as a last cigarette.

love girlfriend

BEGINNINGS OF POEMS THAT WERE NOT FINISHED.

born in time

waking up is no easy task when the
curvatures of relativity are on hand.
to put on a suit when one is born
into such finite circumstances,
is to pull the knot without ever owning a tie.
perhaps its the vanishing point you see.

eating breakfast never quite prepares you
even when it consist of lined pages and
a glass of hydrodynamic orange juice.
the vitamin d packed in a to-go bag is equivalent
to an education consisting of broken keys & shoestring wording -
it was no wonder the ragged tooth smile
couldn't even lace his shoe.
(parallel to last line)

with laces,,
made of yarn,
always in motion,
like the human heart,
when will it collapse?

------
my suburbia is a vanishing point
similar to sunday mornings at a born again church.
a drone,


she grew up in a methodist church
filled with those dog on' methodist ways.

---
the paranoid delinquent

everyone knew the paranoid delinquent was a bit off her rocker.
fast paced walk, to the store, back again
she wondered what the clerk knew when he always handed her a straw.


----
Ode to a Painter
3:22AM on a Friday Evening
& so it seems, in the relative context,
left in confinement




none of these are done and most have notes for self for finishing them....one day maybe. posting here bc i keep losing the file on my computer. & i finally found it after months of it lost!

theres no O in inebriated but theres an O in sober

a meeting with you was the first time i threw caution to the wind,
on a front porch a whisper led to,
let it unfold, let it all unfold
undress my love and marry it together seamlessly
as mending season has now arrived & you are the finest
stitched item in this side of new york
-------
so?
what's it to you anyway?
new PARADIGMS of social experiments
will help me AWAKEN thy senses
KNOW thyself
LOVE thyself
STARVE thyself
Find the inner peace
a balance within
leonard cohen had it right all along, all along
burroughs, you never had a chance...yet you were the genius of them all
& to my bobby, you were the one who had the SPARK / NEISTI / GENIUS rotting in you, just like little ol' me.
the only one i'd ever stay faithful for, the only one i ever dream about, the only one......

i dont want to grow up cause i'm a toys r us kid

or something like the myth they sold us. in reality, i don't want to grow up to westernized standards. why can't i be paid to be in love? or read ram das? or write beautiful poetry? why do we have to crumble to these standards? when did the entire world sell it's soul? what cost does the soul have? do we even have souls? where is the heart in all of this? is this all a myth created by my brain? are my neurons going bizerk again? have the synapses linked incorrect? why are trustas the lucky ones? and stepford wives? i will not crumble to either. maybe i should just be homeless. not in a dramatic way, but in a way that i can actually accomplish what i want at a 'grown up' age. i'd write more, but why complain? it gets us nowhere, and negative vibes just fuck with the universe, which is all in my head anyway. to each his own, right?

dear lover,

i want to write you a poem that speaks of the seas sparking below, after gods hand of glory touched it. and i want to write about the roses in full bloom and the daffodils and the lilies yr favorite too. but i can't stop thinking of the harijuku dolls and internet gaming and how much of a Buddhist i could be if only i was stronger willed, if only i could concentrate more, if only i actually wanted that.

and i want to write you a poem that can last the tale of time and make you see how much i really love you and we'd fly away but i can't even think of two words that rhyme at the moment!
---
electrical signals, running through my brain
with the first words spoken by the tribes of i, and me, and we
where are the candles lit we view?
-----
SYSTEM OVERWRITE ::::::>......i am so scatterbrained when i lay off the fun.

in another room

you play the drums & i'm bouncing around in my seat, sipping a wine, feeling groovy, debating on protesting, wondering what your debating, wonder if your debating nothing. just enjoying the sound of pounding the fuck out of yr drums. and the silence begins and yr so pretty & your so cool & i sound like im 12 in a ramble now. but how do people get so fucking good at instruments anyway? I have practiced and practiced: im lucky if i remember the chords. you, you can just pick up your sticks & play any song verbatim. it's a talent, kid.

thats all for now FOlks

why i don't write (or a cop out excuse)

id write more but theres never anything to really write that hasn't been written by my good old friend bukowski, or ginsberg, and i visit them sometimes but most of the times im too busy being like everyone else in suburbia, wrapped up in your own shit, consumed by the consumers, by yourself, by love, and hey, i'm okay with it all.

but other times i think i know i can do this, i know i can write the piece that makes me content. i don't want fame or money, i want something monumental that will get ideas flowing from others. something that can surpass time. this little blog is just for exercise for what i plan on doing but never really do. maybe one day, right? a girl can have the american dream, can't she?

NAB

sometimes you drift into my mind, and i wonder about the baby, and i wonder if yr still binging, and i wonder if your still writing, and i still have your poem to me, where you told me i'd get to the desert & dance in my poncho while on peyote, but maybe i wish that was how it went, but man, why'd you have to write it in my favourite book? why'd you have to be so invested in all my scribbles, when others are not? i suppose you've been schooled in the same language as me: scribbles inside books are the key to my everything.
but anyway, remember the ten mile walk? my very first day back. or second perhaps. i haven't done a ten mile walk in quite some time, since i've seen you in fact, and prior to that feels like a different lifetime ago. i don't remember much, besides fighting about the holographic universe, your god vs mine, you creating a new genre of writing for your movies, and anyway, i wonder if yr still a D list actor - are you famous yet? are you still quirky? are you still writing? producing movies or whatever you hollywood jet setting types do? you wanted to see my writing but of course I wouldn't show you and the minute I realized you were who you were, I knew you were famous I completely shut off, as did you, as being anonymous was of the essence in a place like that. you told me before you had a dream of me and you in love in another lifetime and fuck you man, why couldn't we just be friends then? I wonder if i'll ever cross your path, maybe i'll write to yr fan club in hopes of speaking to you. i could be that creep who just wants to see how your doing. maybe i'll stalk you out online until my fingers go blue. maybe i'll compartmentalize you like i've already done, and been doing, putting you into that place in my brain where i go to when i'm completely bored and out of all other options of stories to keep my mind at ease. who knows, right? regardless: i hope you are doing well. maybe we'll meet and dance with the wolves one day - that was the poem, wasn't it! - and i'm listening to counting crows, i doubt you even like them with yr horrible fucking music taste of something that is dub step meets souxsies and the banshees (maybe wishful thinking, but doubtful) but i think if i ever go to California in your area, i'm sure i'll be wondering about you. of course i'd never look you up, i didn't like your eyes anyway. your soon to be wife & my baby love visiting and those looks you gave made me uneasy, i just didn't like them, they reminded me of another one who should have never been here or there or anywhere, except i really think i loved that one, for a writing moment anyway.

and its weird because the ones we end up with are just as creative & sometimes even better but the best parts slide through the cracks. i wonder why, i wonder why we paint but do not write, i wonder what happened to the haikus, i wonder what happened with sitting, creating, doing what we love, but instead, rotting our brains and our arms with the drugging of tv & then some too, but hey, what is wrong with us? why does it always come to that? i know i'm not better alone & i dont want to be alone but why cant we have our cake and eat it too with just one individual? this is what i've been left thinking about.