if we are living we are not made of stone. our bones are not broken yet. we’ve made our houses in the shade and our blankets are dry for now. we dream of drinking light and our shadows turn to bricks with which we construct new libraries and all the books are made of our best stories our best shelves
puddles splash forever light crawls into pores the sun is only softness and never shades of brutality.
all business dies. all business dies. and the curse of commerce is lifted
She’s asleep in bed dreaming of charging demons and sugar plums or whatever it is she dreams
I’m a night creature now to escape the demands of the day where all the sickness of the sun swelters clammy flesh to stinking and the garbage takes on new molecular forms to perfume the neighborhood with coffee grounds and dead diapers I’m allergic to the ultra-violent Texas rays
In a few hours the solar climb begins skyward and I will climb into bed where I will dream of cities made entirely of dumpsters I can’t stop dreaming of trash. It washes in– tidal and soils everything pure.
you never question the character of a mountain until you’re on top of one. You realize that up here is just like down there, only higher, and you feel like you should experience something more profound than this.
So maybe you post a picture on instagram of you meditating on the mountain to give the impression of the profundity you think you should feel.
You get lots of likes and people think you’re profound and you let people think that because it makes you feel good and it gets you laid sometimes.
It doesn’t matter that you’re a fraud because so is everyone else.
Because nobody feels what they think they should on top of a mountain. It’s all propaganda put out by the mountain industry to keep people hiking up listless climes.
Once we were without food (more than once) There was food around in grocery stores kitchens restaurants dumpsters there was food around but we had none and we looked upon the bounty which was not ours and saw holy in it
We used to sleep outside on concrete and pavement in the dirt and grass There were beds around in mattress stores in bedrooms in jails but we had no beds Now we sleep in beds every night and each night it seems almost too comfortable
We used to be free and full of horror scraping busted roads with extended thumbs taking on midnight with whatever chemicals Dionysus endowed and whenever dreams came they were half-rotted and not without scream
Nowadays our bellies are full and you spend your time getting other people beds and food while I spend all my time wringing out the poisons inflicted by necrotic dreams
Everything is better now they say and I guess we should believe them what do we know?