I wonder how mom would have explained love at 20

Another grind off my lifespan, but then again, isn't any dough exponential improvement over none at all?

Here I am, hearing some deaf cab driver sing something about airplanes, and a glance abruptly becomes a stare: a beautiful baglette of dried up broccoli with finely woven threads of orange. Some celestial spirit has so graciously left this for my indulgence! Bag open; took a sample I suppose. Though I quickly forgave this gesture upon inhaling the budding flower's rich fragrance.

I must admit, after a long day, it's... really nice. Thanks, stranger.

I spend a lot of time at work writing random shit in an incoherent shorthand. Which is most of what I write, especially the last few weeks. Here's last night in a nutshell

Inspired by Dictionary.com RSS Feed and Chanbara!
Abject, out of date, apodictic gumption that must. Be. Fenced. Trig and torque in the rolling of tongue, stonewall aporia of bodiless patois. Sublimate, disengage, fueling suffrage at the abandoned hallow gate. Bombard, broken start, skylark, and discard - yesterday. Futilitarian gospel of "let's get on our knees!" They plead surrender to these seaming strings. Mind your gun, thought's a long shot, lobotomized trigger that's pleased to be squeezed. A melting of feet with regard to come clean from this burning blacktop masquerade. Moods with a wardrobe that dress for cold weather; bare soles frostly bitten in a bellyflop game of pretend to be friends.
*guess which 10 words I didn't know


Weaving hand, weave yourself. Lie to my eyes with wormhole ridden domino trails.
orientation of the Universe does not improve nor disband, but idles perfectly;
reciprocation of emptiness and form.
It's happening all around us, this microverse we call reality
fevered dream indeed. Something as intense as there being more than nothing
could shock you into believing a heavy nightmare painted with sadness - and desire
where all that is seen and heard and sees and hears is burning; aflame with "meaning"
As if to say this web of willing nerves isn't just one more unwilling reaction to a single shockwave of endless significance and ultimate insignificance. Infinity merely complex from the glimpse of four small dimensions. Each inverted improbability aborted into new sand to drip a brilliant iris. There is no doubt more of us dwell among the stars. We are as profound and desperate as the mites who mix and fade into the dust.

It's like a nightmare trying to verbalize this lucidly luscious image. In my attempts to salvage the noble and holy friendships, it seems I would rather save a comfortable seat than let you become meat left to rot, while air seeps through discontent brains that no longer think about thoughts and their trains. Who could predict never feeling shame, for living day in day out, always the same? I'd rather grow gils inside my head and suffocate on that oxygen.

I'm going to sleep now maybe.

Though the answer might be interesting, if you have a five year old son.

Diesel Demon

Awoken from a deep sleep, heart pounding. A dieing experience? My eyes are open but my vision keeps fading. I'm laying in my bed looking down at my feet. I see my desk and its variety of teenage novelties. My entire body is numb, but I can feel my big toe. Its response is lazy as I attempt to clench and release. Paralysis loosens its grip and I swing my arm into the air. Just when control seems to be mine, my arm vanishes with the flicker of eyelids. Did I even move it to begin with? Black again.

I'm stumbling around the house. My family looks at me with concern as I fail to maintain eye-contact. I call out to them in agonizing pain, begging for their help. My scream is stifled by a lump in my throat; they hear only a faint groan. I slump down and lay on the floor. I can't see their faces; a female voice: "You did it again, didn't you?!" a male voice: "That stuff is killing you." I'm in bed again.

My heart is still pounding, as if trying to replenish my quickly fleeting strength. I lift my arm, only to be tricked once more. Is this death, or a night in Hell? Light fades into static, a fabric undescribed by terms of luminosity or hue.
I'm in bed again.

It's time for work, and I'm so happy.

press the check, give me the tape, if you know what's good for you

waving hair, a cyclone shell, slowly growing one gnarly tail
ten years later, down to waist. plotting a surprise. take haste
deforested, skin pavement. A Mohawkian braid of anchors
suspended in golden arches. Ginger bleached yarn revenant
Burning to a cinder as the cigarettes crossfired
next day clean shaven, and carefully admired.

Awe drips from my face in beads of sweat, it's over. Knees beg for the ground, holding my beating heart bullseye for the Sun's silent stroke. "Am I no more?" - Last gratifying inquisition. I die in the high of denying unseen facts. It's all a mirage, all a facade. A third eye abortion, nothing really matters.