mad drunk genius

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

Tag: Alcoholism

You’ve loved this much before & know how it ends

Knowing & behaving are cousins, but only
kissing cousins. To be fair, well, we already lost.
——Whores know better than to kiss on the
——mouth. That’s how you mix up work & love,
——esp. when both are pleasurable. But I havent
——learned that yet, or ifI have, I cant
——quit doing it. You cant come back.
There is inside me a powerful critic, good & useful
& worthwhile when pointed at a great many things.
But at myself, in a depression, it is nothing but a
magnificent rot, spreading horrible into everything, esp.
what I love. The peculiar genius is to connect all
that makes me happy back to some triggering incident of
unhappiness. ‘Your grandmother is dying & you’re too
old to be enjoying cartoons.’ ‘Your family is in pre-mourning,
and you dont even bother to tell them about those you
love or why.’ ‘Everything you write is embarrassing,
not just too you but anyone who is connected to you.’
——Your happiness is no less worthy.
I dont see how ‘I ruin people’ is a good addition to my
resume, no matter how accurate it is. She knew better.
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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?

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.
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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.

It’s hard to fight vulgar bigotry with Esperanto poems

——I’m tired & worse, I feel like I’ve accomplished nothing.
‘I don’t like talking about it.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your booty.’
‘I dont. Like. Talking about it.’
——It’s not her fault, but I prefer it when she wears jeans &
——flannel b/c it’s easier for me to not act like an asshole.
Which sort of antlers have you?
——A smart person knows when to move on.
The trouble with common language is it’s full of all the
power of oppression & rolls off the tongue w/o any malice
conscious. The trouble with thoughtful, considerate language
is it takes much work & has all the genuine feeling of
a poem in Esperanto.
——It’s the worst sort of laziness to want to exhaust
——yourself for a job in lieu of pursuing your own
——purpose.
The bigotry & intolerance of generations past is preserved
in thoughtless phrases that do no harm except to channel
& remind a person of all the harm done to them &
those like them throughout history.
——In the future, we wont even need to glance
——at our palms.
I need more Bukowski in my life—but not my actions.
——I want work to do so I wont have to
——face my own life.
You only get a few chances in life to vote for someone.
The rest of your life you spend voting against someone else.

The painful flavor of nostalgia

May 2, 2016
The trouble with romantic partners is
I see them as a burden rather than someone
to unburden myself to.
——A walk in the park & a bus ride thru part of
——the old neighborhood reminds me of what used
——to & cant be any longer.
Love I used to have is irrelevant now.
——It’s the painful flavor of nostaliga.
There’s still road constructions; that hasn’t changed.
But it seems like all the houses & who’s in them has.
——‘This used to be’ means one thing
——in photographs & another in mem’ry.
‘I dont live here; I just come for the chicken.’
——The city does actually feel different here.
——It’s the hills & the place of the horizon.
Eat, eat, eat. I’m a machine for consuming
but something broke

May 12, 2016
American cheese clumped on the power station wall
Gnats swarming in the wet soil of a potted plant

August 2015: If I cant just get a little high tonite, I ought to get real drunk

Aug. 6, 2015
The lights are too dim, but you get used to it.
——The difference between an art museum & art for sale
——at posh coffee shops & cocktail lounges is the exhibitions
——occasionally change at the museum.
What luck that we wake together in this universe with our shared consciousness!
——’But to conclude our previous conversation…’
Bringing a child to watch performance art is like playing Russian Roulette
with a few rounds of formative trauma chambered.
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