- March 12th, 2015
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No book today; too much to carry around. I might just carry my Moleskine and nothing else. This Moleskine was a very heartfelt gift. A gift that begs to contain art, is a gift that will strive to endure as a stasis, as long as it continues to breathe fresh air and circumstance. Music in text and emotion in type; love between slices of death and industrial torture. Can humans live like evolution intended? Can I live as I expect myself to survive? Time beckons a responsibility greater than education can contribute to. Quiet places yearn for entertainment. Likewise, creativity needs total attention to detail.
This beer requires a replacement. So does my cigarette. Effortless ﬁxes to worthless vices. VICE? Who invented this madness to prolong a comfortable agony? Is agony really agony to the perpetuator? Or, is it just a recollection of yesterdays happy happenings? Why are insecure people so worried about morality? Sometimes, morality hinders the individuals enlightened growth. Well, I guess (within reason).
Scared? Apprehensive? Under-educated?
Can education take me to heaven? Is nirvana home to a class of learned children more attuned to a human’s need for spiritual entertainment? Can the souls in either bus-stop spell and punctuate with more precision than Terry Bozzio? The wear-pattern of my Ju-Ju bead Ouija Board testifies a resounding “afﬁrmative”.
I love my brothers. I miss Amos. Times that once brought revelation, have dissipated to confusion and apprehensiveness. I hear that this too shall pass. Pass where? Pass like a jagged kidney stone? Please NO. I need the cotton puff ball of answers and decisions, more than I need this pint replenished. BRING ME A FAG, FULL OF FLAVOR AND DRAG, TO MY LIPS LIKE HOT LUST AND DESIRE, I BEG.
Is this page more important than the last? Could a book survive without that conundrum? I recite NO. If YES, this Moleskine would sit like the Mona Lisa; good as art, with the last margin un-painted and dry. Left for more educated Parisians to scrutinize and hen-peck. Color me black Bob Ross. There is no happy little cloud above this snow laden pond today. The cloud is a machine; a machine in recourse and reboot, begging for someone to tinker with it. Just a little in the meantime hour. Make it work! For the man in control has his sights set for conquest and a little dilution of crude. America has a duty to make a man FAT. Make a man. America must make a man kill myself, if I haven’t started killing myself already.
Impossibility. Where are these ﬁelds of opportunity that the black/white photos of our grammar school textbooks showed us? I believe they existed, without a happy working-soul to tend to them. Where are those rugs to lay my drunken head in respite and meditation? I’ll tell you where they are. They are the IBM keyboard and the mouse. This Moleskine will show those lackadaisical programmers, of hyper-text and databases, that my pen surely is mightier than their swords. If I did not have to drive a motor vehicle today, that question would already be answered with fury and kick.
BEER # 3 . Dead Guy. Juxtaposition? NEVER. Introduction FOREVER. I need to ﬁnd a new watering hole. Too many attachments to reality here. Stiﬂing and course air inﬁltrate in a fashion like the crusades.
FAG # 4. I despise blue ink. The cook lifts four pieces of swine as if it will infect him with HIV. People eat swine. People eat American HIV if they live in Iraq. I feel responsible for that. I want to change that. It cannot be their fault. They cannot be held responsible. THEY DID NOT REQUEST OUR PRESENCE UPON THEIR GRASS OR SAND and neither did I.
It is Jacks birthday; a solemn work day ﬁlled with beer and jokes. A maybe collection of creation and criticism scatters across the rural landscape. The baptism of genuine penmanship begins as my ﬁngers mark the page with a tiny smudge. My ego ﬁlls the page in time as well; futility between the pulp. Jacob gets me. Page 1 comes to a meager ending as text gives way to a margin below.
Forty-Five Second Moleskine Jam:
Possibly scrutinized for a misuse of talent, or rather an inconsistent utilization of a
useful tool. Pot-roast was chuckling as we read and listened like no other usual
instance. Mustard Pretzels.
Waiting at my desk
for an appointment later,
I begin to think
about how much more
fulfilling life can be when
enjoys what they do
for a living. One of these
days I will become
poet, trained to right the wrongs
of the soulless, fat
Capitol Hill and restore
order to this sick,
tainted world of
and vomit vision.
(UPDATE: it is possible to achieve happiness, once one acquires a job at at the world’s best bicycle shop)
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