Often

Randomness:

iam trying to circumscribe myself; i operate on an observer basis... i watch myselfinteract, i'm not actually there. i induce actions and do not understand them... isearch for something that feels right. trying to forget, remember, chill out, hypeup, love -no - hatred, disdain; i'm tired of not understanding myself... alter mymind, i will abide it no longer. all i can create is(are) ideas.. ideas that do notinterest me... what do i think i'm doing here? hurtling, hurtling, ... infinitespeed, no movement... time divided by distance; zero sum. i am lost, gone; watch mysynapses, ....firing; why?

*

devout pragmatism. i suppose that's one way to function. not to be confused with realism, which is entirely different and decidedly less functional. i have always thought of myself as a realist. a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts; i now find i am what i have always beleived myself to be; truly a realist; as indefinite as reality itself. as inert and as mutable. phase-locked random. static/static.

*

hate is an emotion i am not aware of. i beleive i am aware of it's counterpart, love. but how is that possible? how can i reference love without the presence of hate? emotions are evanescent things. they are a gas-phase; steadily spreading out to fill the container in all areas equally, heedless of coherence, concentration be damned. who is to discern the point of origin or the initial density after it has dissipated throughout the container? certainly not the container. i say i do not know hate, but i wouldn't know whether or not i know it. perhaps i cannot percieve its properties after the fact. perhaps love i can; a simple biochemical idiosyncrasy.
of course, i tend to simultaneously neglect and fixiate upon the comparatively simple actuality that all perception is a biochemical idiosyncrasy.

*

in the end, opinions are what count. what is a person without opinions? is it really a person at all? or is it a function?
am i a function?
i am an adrian machine.
i cannot/willnot define myself beyond that point.

this poem has always made me think of me. draw your own conclusions i guess. i don't know who it's written by, but i will have his/her children.

The Modern Skull

A man with keys is eating an onion
like an apple, the others shovel documents
into a wood stove. Tonight a pickup
hauling a bed full of razor wire is fishtailing.

The world has always been wrong.
Even as an atheist I caught myself
today hoping hell exists.

If you remember hard enough,
as a child, a stranger handed you
a wadded length of rope.

I sometimes want to escape my empathy
like Phineus Gage. If like him, a railroad explosion
blew a rod through my skull and I staggered away
with all of my brain except a conscience

I could lie on my cot smiling at memories
of fire, graves, and the laminar flow of families
running across fields. Lying in my cot
I could hold a bottle of chocolate syrup
overhead and catch the lassos in my mouth.

I could know that putting my hand in a drill press
isn't the thing to do. I could be just as amazed
with the world, but without the sickness
of Boolean logic. Evil or evil.

Good and good. Good not and evil.
I wish at least I could feel the joy.

I tell you these things, my girlfriend,
because lives aren't long enough to be satisfying.

Sometimes when we are in flannel and sleeping
I wake up as jittery as a junkie.
I imagine machines I should be building.

I feel idle. I should be standing before the stove
studying the fractals of steam
rolling out of the tea kettle
or dragging a plow through the garden
in the night air to null the losses.

Tonight my neighbor is showering.
Our walls are thin. In her little tile echo chamber
she is moaning. She is alone. I can imagine myself
with fur breeches storming across a tundra
bellowing for god to just try and fuck me up.

I can imagine myself lying on a bed, whining
for you, dear, to get the lotion,
that your hands are rubbing me raw.

If life seems cold and lonesome
or sunny and brisk or luridly complex,
I would have to agree with you.

***

this poem makes me: :)