to the next

Berkeley, days of little structure. The candles burn and I’m a part of every car that drives by on the street, feeling the motorhome rock in the wake of someone with somewhere to go. I have somewhere to go as well, but it does not have a name… I have anywhere but here to be, and everywhre but here calls.

Each direction has its own Sirens, and I hear them all, always these days.

I move my life from one home to the next, actually owning both. The time is getting close, I feel it more than I ever have before – there’s been desire but no means but the means is close and at hand, thought there are still a few things that need to be done first – remove the pain, then the morphine, then with the utmost clarity I spit into my palm, smack it with my finger, and follow.

Of course there are the places I want to go, the priorities… North becuase I haven’t been there, south to see people, to meet the beautiful new thing that was named after me – … … … If I wasn’t the one who told her to shut up all the time, if I didn;t tell her she annoyed me at times, then I might think that this was false. If she didn;t read then I would know, but she did, I did, and when I think of the few true friends I think of her as well, she is one even in such little time together.

I think I’m going to name this vessel ‘The White Rabbit’… Maybe – but she does need a name…

TIme to sleep now – trying not to think…

trying not to think of my beautiful, beautiful bow, which has been in the pawn shop for far tooo long and I’m not sure if I can get it back now. Pieced together for a total of $1300 and pawned for $100, just to keep the dream alive – to keep CultureFlux moving, to let me eat. Gods, I can’t lose my bow… there is such a beautiful peace when I shoot her and for those moments I am entirely there, and nothing else matters…

Perhaps I should sleep now – or at least try.

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Nine words, eleven years

3.26.10 1:13AM

The first few sips of Amaretto, getting to the words, getting away from having them in my head, a thousand lines to start with, a million things to say, nothing to write about but everything that I feel that I can’t write about anymore…

I decide to listen to music. Plug in my MP3 player to my tiny speakers, and of all things put on ‘TheTop’ by The Cure, which instantly takes me back to when it first came out – living in Encinitas, working at The Pannikin, then to other memories from that time so much time ago – wanting to go on the march across America but not being able to afford my own insurance, my old suede leather coat, beat up beautifully and too big for be – my camo pants dyed purple and black cherry hair, always black cherry. So many more things from that time… so long ago, when the world was wide open and waiting for me. So long ago, before…

Before.

Before I knew for certain how little time I had for bullshit, for small talk and small people, for anything less than the beauty in everything, for as much honesty as possible beginning with me – but gods, it took me years and years to realize what the most important thing was, and it’s not trying to make them happy.

Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m writing. I’m just writing, the first words put down in my new motor-home on the first night, so much to say and I want to say everything and I can’t say anything and I don’t know where to start because everything is in the middle and nine words eleven years ago changed everything back…

The barrel wasn’t cold. I sat there for only a few minutes looking at it – my Colt Cobra .38. Never such a profound void of everything, all I would be doing is pulling the plug on someone already dead… hammer back, the barrel pressed against the top of my mouth, hollow points, pressure on the trigger, just a tiny bit more and then (what if tomorrow is just a little bit better) nine words eleven years ago and in all the shitty today’s since then,

Tomorrow always has been.

dangerous days

It seems like the closer I feel to finally having things…”things”, my life and dreams, finally amount to something that I can be proud of, where I don’t constantly suffer the anguish that fruition is right around the corner,

the further it gets away.

These are dangerous days inside.