mad drunk genius

I used to have all sorts of problems. Now there's just the one.

How many socks is everything

At a college bar, arguing art, inspiration, the genius of Jim Morrison. At the end was he still clever and the poetry just too much unrestrained genius for mere mortals to comprehend, or was it just the pure unadulterated shit from a lazy and undisciplined former talent?

It’s the tension, I said. The need to be creative in opposition to something. It’s the Prolific and the Devouring. The Satanic creativity chokes itself to death without some fire coming to burn up the chaff, to force it to go beyond its own wont and find some new path.

But my trouble ain’t in not having restraint; like most people it’s not having enough genius. My brain don’t have the good thoughts anymore, my eye has cataracts even for what it sees clear. I can’t hear nothing, and what I do hear, I don’t write down so it’s just lost.

The other day, on the bus, fellow says, ‘I can’t talk. I used to be pretty. I’m kinda fat now. And nappy-headed. But I’m still pretty.’ ‘Cept not that exactly because he used a different word than pretty before using a mocking an African immigrant next to him and ‘joking’ for 10 minutes about eating his dog. Dude was drunk and stoned, but that’s just a bus ride, and I warnt drug nor stoned and didn’t write down nothing so what even was the point of bothering to notice or drop eaves?

There’s creativity just in bothering to notice reality and preserve it, present it in a certain way. I lost it. All I got left is arguing with people, writing in opposition to an idea. Hatred and spite, that’s all I can manage. It’s all I’m good for, some inert blob except when provoked, like a frog corpse that kicks reflexively when jolted with electricity.

After the original argument at that same college bar, I played darts on boards warped tit-shape till some fellow rolling on I don’t know what did climb up on his drink table, then go lay down on a pool table, then get coaxed down to take off shoes and socks for maybe half an hour before climbing again on the table and starting to play with his fly as like to try to water the billiard green. That brought the server and bartender, and he got off but laid down on a second pool table, then chased off that, laid down on the first one again till he got pulled off by his ankles and threatened with physical violence to get the fuck on out.

But I didn’t take any details down in the moment, no shirt color, nothing about the hair style, or how many socks he had on going out the door, and that’s fucking life man! That’s everything.

I used to have people who’d ask and chew me out for not knowing what color eyes a dead toddler had, and now I can’t even count socks. So what’s the point?

‘Shanghai’ — like the city

The tragedy of contemporary mediocrity is that you don’t even get the satisfaction of feeling your displeasure is anything remarkable.

No! You’re one of millions experiencing exactly this, and no matter how intense you think you feel it, you know your mediocre talents mean that you’ll never be more than part of a chorus.

There’s nothing wrong with singing in a chorus except that you’re aware there are also people out there who are not of your same class, but think themselves so, will be far better at expressing the ennui of people like you than you are of conceiving of your own.

The last refuge of mediocrity is supposed to be ignorance of it, but in our wonderful world of progress, the standard of criticism has risen to the point where that is no longer possible.

The WiFi password here is ‘Shanghai’, except the server demurs to tell you exactly how it’s spelled. Deferring to their frequent experience, I understand that this knowledge is not at all universal, and yet it’s the biggest city in the world. Who wouldn’t know how to spell that?

In the United States, tens of millions of people. And then some number, I have no idea how many, can be aware of this while also being aware that neither this ignorance nor this knowledge is remarkable.

In Europe, after the fall of the Western Roman Empire and before the rise of nation-states, almost everyone lived under a worldview that Christianity was correct and everyone had their place in it. Your suffering was proper and deserved.

Modernity has brought this same sort of secular awareness. Life is short, death is certain, and suffering is universal. Your own is neither more intense nor more interesting than anyone else’s. You don’t deserve to feel anything, even disappointment, when your experience is placed next to the whole of the human race.

I am one small flickering light among many other flickering lights, and although my pattern matters somewhat to the cohesiveness to the overall, on its own it matters not at all.

This is difficult teaching. Who can accept it?

You’re never really dating, just sharpening knives for your future ex

Youth is an experiment in disappointments. Youth is trusting stupidly in the unwitting hopes it turns out well for you against odds you don’t know or don’t believe.

Maturity is the accumulation of aches, not least among them the knowledge that love sours. All sweet wonderfulness felt prior disappears but not invisibly, because like Newton’s Third Law, any affection once gone turns to hate, and so all that you once trusted in a person will be turned against you.

They love you now; they’ll hate you then. If you agree happily to a sex video while mutually raptured, the hell of their solitary relationship confinement ought to make you fret and worry.

I don’t know how relationships work except by this fantasy, and the fantasy is not sufficient to preserve most, even so.

Maybe that’s fine or proper or necessary. Some small portion can be jettisoned off into bliss, or workable hard work, and the rest of us are excised like pus filled infections to torture one another, mostly, till we find someone else poisonous enough complimentary to be antiseptic to our worst impulses.

It’s OK. I have few motivating impulses, but the natural rest of my own misery is one of them. I’ll make no one happy beyond the temporary, but I’ll help a lot of folk learn their future lessons well.

I’m terrible boyfriend material, and I’m non-existent marriage material, but as future ex, I’m tough to beat.

Memories all, but some blacked out

Everything terrible, everything horrid.
Garbage in, garbage out.
Except never out,
always collecting.

Kitchen corner piled trash:
never opened paper mail,
almost-empty cans dripping
sticky sweet puddles solid underneath.
Brown longnecks, stripped label-naked,
stuffed to fit wherever in.
Grease-soaked pizza boxes stacked
navel high with rocky crusts
growing mold fuzzy-hairy,
like the technicolor garden in the sink,
it filled with dishes twice past the brim,
casualties of a housemate standoff.

Living room Solo cupped,
living room paper plated.
Living room strewn:
empty half-wrappers,
bags of Cheeto crumbs & dust.
The guitar leans behind a chair,
in tune, maybe, no strings missing.
Stains, you know, stains here-there
Memories all, but some faded.
The red wine spill never comes quite out
in the morning.
Coffee-yellow carpet,
burnt-holed carpet,
from when the hookah coal tumbled clumsy out.

Gallon jug outside the door,
pregnant with cigarette butts,
some few lipstick kissed,
leaking ashy rainwater from cherry-melted plastic wounds,
bursting like a two-day ripe corpse
with all its maggots
in poison stillness frozen.

In the street,
a red-blacked baseball cap,
gasoline-doused & set on fire till
streams of crossing piss choked it wetly,
hissing smoke till flames no more,
an end to the gift of a rakish father,
dead to his son, laughing sobbing drunk.
Come daylight what vapors saved in handle Everclear,
burn the nose, cause throat to gag
where what was spent had bought
hoot and chortle and liquid purge ethanol.

Everything horrid, till after gone for good.

There are already simulations of you out there & more to come

When I drank a lot more, and wrote slightly more, I used to sound like a religious paranoid schizophrenic, manic-depressive with delusions of grandeur and a handful of nearly obsessive associations.

——Humanity is a perversely well-beloved pustule on
——the face of God that’s appreciated for ripening &
—— soon bursting open in  cysty self-destruction.

——’I smell blood!’ the first shark yelled between his guffaw.
——’Why so do I!’ the second chortled.
——But it was just uterine lining.

I am tired & hot & sore and
staring at the ceiling because
the backs of my eyelids are
a view that provides no rest.

There’s an app to take your Facebook statuses and use them to write something about like you’d say. A bit of you, an exaggerated & often nonsensical but occasionally a reminder you’re not so hard to simulate as you might think.

Some of them aren’t anything like what I’d say, only because the grammar is off a bit.

Read the rest of this entry »

Piss in my bed, piss on my life

On a Friday, I lost my job & with it my healthcare.

On Monday, I learned that my longterm ex had been sleeping with my housemate, and that his infidelities in their relationship—and her complaints about him doing so as her direct superior—led to his firing & her continued mental breakdown.

On Wednesday, I learned my teeth are in need of much attention that will need dental coverage I probably can’t afford.

Thursday morning I awoke to find a sexual partner had drunk herself to excess & pissed herself in her asleep (again).

Thursday afternoon, a woman who’d just gotten out of a break-up let me know that when she wanted to hang out with me, she had no sexual interest implied.

Very little in this actually related. All of it feels like it is.

Read the rest of this entry »

Never share your Netflix password; everyone dies alone

I noticed my most recent ex unfriended me on Facebook, so I deleted her Netflix profile and changed the password less out of retaliation than a desire to no longer see her name show up when I wanted to binge watch TV.

And the worst thing about it is not that I miss her or that this will impact my life in any meaningful way, except for some angry drunken texts from her I expect in the next few days.

The worst thing is that this is a parody of how a modern relationship goes, and the last ties that get severed are not meaningful face-to-face conversations or closure but discrete events in superficial electronic consumption.

Read the rest of this entry »

A smartphone is a fine excuse to avoid self-interrogation

July 2, 2016
——I dont know what my word cloud would show.
Some things known cant be unknown.
——’Birth control is a women’s issue’ is not trans-inclusive.
‘Civil, right?’
——It’s stupid to continue to invest in past relationships
——just because they are safely impossible.
I want to leave her, but not for that.
——It may have been my fault anyway. But honesty never was
——something to benefit anything but my own vanity.
How else could we have done it?
——Whatever. I am what I am.
Tell the story of yourself with actions, not words.
——The depths of my compassion is visible from the surface.
A collection of accidents, connecting the dots. A life, a narrative.
——‘The truth is not a luxury.’
History forgets all; most it never remembers.

Read the rest of this entry »

Ninety percent of self-control is having something to get up for in the morning

June 2, 2016
Being an asshole is like halitosis.

——Your essence projects farther than your breath.
Learning who not to date is like riding a bike
& people’s advice only matters so much.
——Politics is joining people you can stand
——to stop the people you cant.
Franchise restaurants seem like safe bets till
you eat at one.
——I dont know when I got antisocial.

June 11, 2016
The politics of spite & purity mean you’re OK to hate
something without further examination, but any support
will be torn apart if it isnt perfect.
Read the rest of this entry »

It’s really hard to realize you’re behaving like an asshole in real time

May 27, 2016
‘I love you’ is more often a brag than a promise.
——Everyone is insecure, has low standards, & wants to fuck
——someone who’ll hold them & say, ‘It’s all right’ afterwards.
These are things sex ed ought to teach, along with
‘Learn to go down & like it’.
——It’s strange that a person can be comforted by
——the thought that descendants or evidence of
——their lives will live on in the minds
——of some foreign intelligence.
It’s strange choker necklaces came back into fashion,
but no stranger than my erection on noticing them.
——It’s uncomfortably difficult to avoid propositioning
——the bartender while drunk. This is the patriarchy.
An amazing, outwardly underwhelming
superpower would be to have an honest &
accurate opinion of yourself. But then it
might also drive you insane.
——It’s really hard to realize you’re behaving like
——an asshole in real time, even sober.
If I piss in a urinal & there’s only a toilet next
to me, someone is embarassed to see the back side
of me at 10 feet away. Add a second urinal & they’ll piss
10 inches away, cock in hand.
——Oregon State Beavers. That’s the joke.

May 28, 2016
I dont know why I feel the way I do.
(‘Maybe no one knows.’)
——She is calling in her favor, the promise
——made of honesty. I’ll give it to her altho
——I know she hates me & will hate more after.
I (somehow) think I’m deserving of sympathy & understanding,
that I am a victim, for being incapable of supressing
my desire to victimize others but not acting on it.
——This line of introspection will have to migrate
——to a different medium.