About Me
sterling, is a hole, of emense and god like depths, and i lay down in it, covered in the blood of squirrels being run over by teenagers, covered in the sound of lawn mowers, and sprinklers, dogs, and bad children, the kind that abuse cats. it has its moments like the solitary walk to the shopping center were i go to get cheap cigerettes. on the warmest day of fall i cant really complain, i just notice how know one looks happy, even the people smiling look sad, broken down by repetition i suppose. work and school never works for me, because i'd like to pretend that i am not a slave to any fraction of time. trading in that, to a prison of bordem and undisciplined motivation. yeah, sterling is a hole of whore like depths, reaching out to the hoildays waiting' to be covered in lights and excuses. and dying in the summer and winter. dead suburbia, dead people walking aroung out side my window, and sure, dead people walking in, right thru my front door to sit down and watch a pretty screen........ yeah, books, a messy room, laundry, brother, mother, dad, movies looming somewhere, theaters full of people, and cars full of laughing kids, and parties, and sex, and televison, all going on outside my life, but not in it. its curious how i feel. like a fly in a bee hive....... not everyone is going to understand you, not everyone is going to make a good friend, not every one with a smile and a good greeting is stable, or fun, or loyal. but they are good at acting like they are, every party is a new test, every coffee shop and bar a midterm in urban social studies, every picture of drunk friends on the icebox, is a badge of social championship, be aware, and beware, cause they are coming for you...... the world is a black flaming red hot motor life..world. and i am a gentle singular feather side ride. and we are fleeing the parking lots and we are not wearing shoes or frowns. and the hurricane is coming like a tornado. and the snails dont like their shells.but the farmer thinks his blood is cute. so do we. all about the smoke the death dancing around like a snake. god like a hammer. god like a parking lot and everywhere the most stinking piles of misery. and me blabbing about my life. the toilet. my hunger. and my soul. while life is raped, bombed, robbed, and beaten, while life is innocent, charming, and clever. the whole world turns spinning death, and love, and money, and pets, cars, bars, and ashtrays. the whole world turns, oblivous, and indifferent to christopher columbus, or the space program. the world is only going from a to b, what a simple life it must lead....... in love with love with love to death. oh geez, i must have gone over board. i must have been medicating my self. i must be crazy. me in my kitchen in pj's looking out the window in the afternoon. the water heater kicks in, sounding like a big machine. animals toe nails tap the floor. me in my pjs with a fictional cup of coffee. pondering work to be done..... i have nothing to say, but could talk for hours, nonetheless, not being used enough. much like an appendix, very very useless. and dogs crawl at my feet, and people talk around me, like i am and uninteresting painting. and this is still okay, because, well just because that the way this has been going for a while. i am glad other people get along, i am glad everyone is happy with god. as i see it, at this moment.... the clouds are moving in. the sun is moving out, the dogs barking, and sirans barking. and all types of people outside are milling about. the light comes in cautiously thru my window to rest on my fingers and lap. i am staring at my screen, it is blue but i imagine it red, blood, fire, whichever. and i think of truth, and justice. i think of beatings and rapings, and murders, and bombs, i think of truth, and hope, and justice, and then, cancers, heartattacks, and the things that will kill my parents, and then, carwrecks and suicides the things that will kill me, and hope, and happiness, truth and justice, sitting on a balcony in a grand theatre. somewhere else.. laughing at the sad show of my life.......life. one day my friend the world will be your oyster, your very own silver shit bucket, where you can unload all of your worldly miserys into. and when everyone stops listening to you, kill yourself. dont make me run into you, 20 years from now on the side of a 7-eleven in st. louis, cursing out little girls, and spitting on cops, just dont. its different now, the house is cold, the rooms dont look the same, there is dust on everything and the animals are quite, subdued. the cigerettes taste bad. so do the booze. it feels empty, even when people are here.oh yeah, dont adopt anyone elses ideas, the d.i.y. ethic has very sublte religious undertones.
