perhaps a more rigid normative economic path would have been better. surely it would have been stable and comforting if not meaningful. but the opposite with freedom and failure is no more or less so. I will lay out for 15 minutes in the night and throw things away and because. a good dumpster is calling. give me that sweet soul music, running.

why am I not a good person? because I don't want to be. it is the desire for good that makes us good. why am I a bad person? because I don't want not to be. but perhaps I am not bad, maybe only neutral, or so-so.

when I fell in love with you, effortless and time consuming
unnecessary but much like food, I began to develop several
contradictions, sayings against the choice of words
means to silence, wrong expressions
a careless distaste for measured success
and purpose

you were unbeautiful so I thought I could love you
I was full of words, constipated
what a release laying in bed
resting my eyes in imagined conversation
very accurate, you counsel by listening
it was not practice for a reality of repetition
therapy like banks of flowing water

so I have this playlist "when I'm allowed to love again"
the answer is never
and there is only one song right now
from myanmar

I want to write a paper on some aspect of computational geometry. I can't picture myself not interested in computation, I could be in no other field. I only ever have one thing on my mind, effective procedures, effective procedures for finding effective procedures, and effective procedures for checking the validity of effective procedures. I have no colleagues or mentor. I will not be successful.

tubey's sleeping on the life line, I'm off on another garbage find. I'm not sure it's fulfilling or annoying to have cleans watching me, it depends on the mood and the day and the clean. wet hard work, full of ants and spiders.

exercising the muscles of statistics. a good death creates a statistic, how should we know the road is unnecessarily dangerous for bikers, related to their positive environmental and physical impact, unless we collect data. dead ones, sprawled out with mangled sweet frames.

The Salamander

I heard from a friend that she never really understood why
the past
is always so frightfully nosy about
the present
or why her clocks inevitably run slow.
I wished my thoughts would tick tock
just so;
I could feel less responsible for being so terribly shy
just to
question the passing of all this time.
I heard from a neighbor that she thought I was
the devil
trying to rock her lifestyle
like the shovel
I carried was intended to dig her hopes a grave.
I wished I could set her at ease (dig dig
dig myself)
but it's nothing somber or morbid macabre
it's just
the only rock I need is the one I'm sleeping under.

- someone

solstice air and carriage
dark prayers line the snug roadside
speckled with the debris of many cars
ground with much movement
heat makes through the air
a coolness when it keeps forward
explodes at destination, stoplight
gasps for air conditioned or
a fan's rhythmic movements
further prayers for an electrician
the prayers are dark
not just for night
because the content
is against most morals
will allow any murders
is not a defense of life
only justice
as justice is standing
without fear or pride
ready to die

things that are on my mind in no order are off my mind in a similar order; we ship our garbage over there, where our kids will live someday on rich soil. we can live on memories. in the deep cools of the river night, in the dark bends of night sight, distances move with me. the invariant is preserved in ratio, a ratio of ratios sometimes. as long as it is preserved we see.

I told the young one to run fast away, I would follow slowly in my time, they were to send me messages periodically, chiseled into the flesh of screaming birds, encoded in scream rhythms, in the voice of a community's (of birds) collective pain, todos dolores. with a thick rolling r that lingers and makes you think, abstractly, if you are prone and vulnerable, of deep and nameless misery.

I deflect with style, in hopes that grammar is no content, and that a string of words is mostly confusing and un-understood, because it should be so, because I want to express movement with no object, pure and empty movement in the world, where the feeling of pain is inevitable and welcome because it is the weight of effort, and the muscles move with joy and make solid and excrete hesitation.

and there is no purpose and accomplishment. I am not scared, I am weary. I do not back down, I back away with ten cautious eyes and a hundred hands. "I wish I had a hundred hands and a hundred cars" but I do not wish, I do in the face of it, with a burning eye that is judgement. words are an awful medium for speaking without content. it is all content, or boring.

and all I have is language, and all that is is possibility, and that is indefinite. I have this possibility through language, in language, but this possibility is not understanding and it is not an echo and it is not content. it would be touch, but it is touch suspended, touch hanging over, it is almost touch, it would be quivering before touch if there was to be touch, but only when the touch is actual, or actually going to be. and the touch rings like a gong, and the touch is one and over eventually, and it is the end of language. and then language begins again in praise and lament of the death of touch.

I don't understand obsession, repetition. don't understand the things I do? fairly common in the hummm humm human condition cough humid condition, air. hum humm human condition in air. sneeze, cough. codes php, css, javascript. fantasizes about ruby on rails which I (he) has no idea what does it, on rails, sounds interesting, pragmatic programming telegraphic style. installs gems like haml and sass. on supreme master television you can learn a lot. a lot about the supreme master and what she is interested in (vegan, green living). supreme master soup is humble and honest with firm-soft potatoes.

there's not time enough for me to waste it
reading books on logic at 4am

to be length across time to cover the world to be strength across rhyme to hover adored to be the cross product or compute it quickly to generalize generalize into discovery to do it quickly to say too much to see too much to think too much and quickly each hour power throughput precisely at glance to gloss I reel and dance lightly at spanish moss I peel and chance rightly under my cool medicine tip I pluck the shuddering strings of the world moment no no exageratto my gregarious nature has given me to ills to feel the hills and tumble tumble to smoke the weeds and bumble bumble to stir the stirrups stir crazy light the fire lick me lazy slow summer experience hot the cool water switches surfaces bead drops like a steady record hits turntable scratch and stutter until full bluster and blow in the flower winds burst spring backwards tumble two three sixty bumble the unwind winds the anti-wind the ur-night darkness sucks and finds light light twilight moonlight streetlight lamppost birdhouse nightlight dark bright light height high hills small crest with zest I pluck the best to stutter still and mellow eventually re-grow the bright earth colors my wind chest I wrote in pavement the equation to color the world, by numbers, precisely these moments alight rightly and with effort yield nothing which is better to barter than debt unless you believe leverage I do I do buy me

shifting things around in folders. covering desk and floor with books so it becomes unusable. all in heaps so it becomes unusable. browser with so many tabs it is unusable so I switched browsers. whereas I cannot switch rooms and office space so easily. so I put on hot chip's one pure thought or at least the first few seconds. my favorite intro right now. sounds like something I used to play years ago. don't really like the rest of the song at all. I do like that he is searching for one pure thought, which is kind of a silly meaningless thing to do, like buddhism.

boiling angsty concentration over a book of mathematics, doesn't really make sense. economics will force me to be effective, I feel the firm invisible hand. you can only flail-fail so long until you're out on the street or living with people so miserable you might as well be. I did have a pure thought earlier today but it was useless-unrealistic because I do not have a pure life for it to apply to. not that I want to but I could go out drinking at any moment. I think these are fairly positive feelings. I just introduced my turkish office-mate to soul music.

Robert and Gloria go outside for the first time in five weeks and sit on the pier looking at the ocean. Gloria takes a pistol out of her bag and asks Robert to shoot her, which he does. He remembers when he was young, when his grandfather shot the beloved family horse, which had broken its leg. The police ask Robert why he shot Gloria, and he answers, because she asked me to. The policeman persists. Robert answers, "They shoot horses, don't they?"

- wikipedia

waking up at 3:30, taking "the prose of the world" out on the porch, huddled into the couch with a blanket. cold rain formed a river down the street.

rode bike to your apartment unexpected, no answer, went down the street to outside book racks, found books on cancer and bioinformatics then you called me and let me in. your hair was wet because you had just showered. we ran down the hill across the street and into the park under the bridge and through the water, upstream. twin trolls in the muck under the bridge. maybe it's all mixed together, hopping over picnic benches.

from a boat to an island. walking the island. playing in the sand. standing on sideways trees over the water.

at a lake. drinking beer. playing guitar. playing in the water.

walking back from where we went, holding hands for some confused reason. we were drunk. (ambiguous x2)

laying in the damp grass. I rest my head upon your ass. we read old english literature.

it's easy to forget in a sweethearted blow
resolute resolute, be resolute
the world works somehow
engine of desperation
starvation, what it takes to be living
beneath the blow
under plow, pillow
freedom's for the stars
and sky sky
the world runs
I follow shedding work
in the few moments before
dark
on my deathbed what I'd trade to
live more days
a large amount of
nothing
"you should have shut up then"
"but I'm trying to merge story and poem" I worried meta-heuristically while listening to mediocre genre music and thoroughly enjoying it. the low slant in the unbalanced table made gravity slowly move the roundness into my open hand. a dull hum kicked in. it was comfort like the rain.
"'almost reading my mind,' she said, 'about those wet days, they are beginnings, and the warm roads after summer rain seep thin grey vitality to the air', do you like it?"
"no, not really, but I know the feeling."

you die in the streets for your country
and it is a good death
there is no argument
only justice
that will come later
you are beat with collapsing lungs
until the dust and gas together
and the mush and mash weather
your vital flesh
it is a good death
but you cannot enjoy it
and you scream and scream
and cry your way down
a heap on concrete
still warm

as always I am torn between the world and my studies. my studies are not about the world, the world is not about my studies. mathematics has no content. grammar has no content. only when grammar is put to use, invented. only when the repetition in the sentences rumble with your interpretation, your generosity of communication, which can't not happen, not when reading. only when a sea of negatives swells and builds, a positive, no?

the past happened and did not happen and happens and is misread and is read and happens. the sea of the past struggles to make itself known again and again, absolving the present of contribution. there is not present enough for the past. or there is. it is past us, with the first grain determined the whole transformation shifts one over until infinity. there is past present future enough for one grain determined to repeat itself endlessly to no-one, only can there be its graininess, granularity.

the point of the knife is to be sharp, it is to cut things, it is as a wedge and distributes the forces efficiently for the task, as it must, in its purpose.

coffee and my heart are not getting along. maybe it is that my resting heart rate is getting lower? coffee and exercise interactions anyone? dammit catherine doesn't read this anymore.

maybe it has been since I drank that expresso coffee milk drink because it was cool in my bag and I was thirsty and drank it like water which was stupid but worked until heart palpitations. I eat food to soak it up as if it was alcohol. I feel like I can work it off with laps.

oh body, my body, you are good to me in many ways.

is that a prayer?

"You can't just write from life," Mary intoned with neither authority or trepidation. Fear is unsettling but it starts you moving. The subtle definition in her face stopped abruptly below the neck. That's where my stubble started like a beginner's attempt at shading.

"What I can't do doesn't concern me." I was balding at a frightening pace and like most of my life it was something I'd rather not happen but otherwise didn't care about. I'd lost some weight in retribution but still had fat legs.

"Well like here on page seven, I can tell this is Gloria, and it's good, but only because I know her. If I didn't it wouldn't work, too vague and not a mystique builder. Details that fuck about going nowhere need experience to fill in ..." She was right, that's why I liked her. Lean in and nudge her gently.

"Eat that page. Delete all references to the character. The Landfill is hungry." I was in a playful mood to spite myself. Ten minutes pass in silence.

"This whole chapter is weird and out of place," chewing on the clip of her mechanical pencil.

"I've always wanted to write something violent, stylistic, a contentless landfill rubbish cult sensation, seriously twisted, you know perverted Japanese surrealistic action-comedy." It was true. My dream was to be the expression of Life's cool purposelessness the whole way down, from the effort I put in my classical whistling to the easy yet awkward saunter perfected with great difficulty during high school. Purposefullessness was a demanding concept for me, demanding radical critique and confused appreciation. Ultimately demanding some kind of cliche psuedo-violent retribution, like a face slap or singular gut punch. Nothing brings out muscle intonation like that unattainable beating, reality taunts with little tidbits or overwhelming weights, always off balance. Exercise gets there, oh but heat and sweat gum the engine. I need appraisal or rejection, so I lean in and kiss Mary's nape.

"Cut it out, you invited me over to be serious. People pay me to do this you know." I wanted to just tell her to save her damn time but couldn't quite articulate it sarcastically. We continue editing for a few more hours.

"Rebel Junk Apocalypse I would call it, and it would open up with a dead man's head senselessly being smashed in. I saw it once with a boot midway through this movie, sadistic."

"Shut up, I'm going home." I let her have the last words. I wanted to use my mouth for things besides talking. Maybe biting someone's testicles off like grapes while being held in a ferocious headlock between their legs.