Pig Skin, Pinkerton

  Every single one of us is a child staring at an empty glass.   


   If you ever get stuck in a door, open the valve and shut the gate. Child- red face


  the winter lasts longer when you’re walking backwards. We caught our first sun burn on the last day of social studies.


   Every teacher is still a person of earth. Everyone corrupted by their ideas- a shard of iron.


  Scraps of food lay at the foot of our bed, all the moulding is scratched. The ribbons are all piled on the rug, a burberry mattress. A coil of copper.


  The child makes lists out of the creation of thought. Paper written on by thieves. The cake came through the door with nothing but knives.


  We first saw it at the edge of the hall, the rim of our glass was a prairie fable. It told us a story, that we only wanted to believe. It was so sad and tired-like. The trubedor spells his words with color. Simple and dry.


  Rain. A wet apple, cold in the river. The sun burn healed after a few long days. The glass spread lotion between the gaps in my lungs. White and shriveled with wine. 


  Vacuums of vacation, vapor- summer stones stop at the edge of your face.


  So enjoy, and agree, and don’t think so much about it. Everyone tries not to stare at the glass. It sits effortlessly on the table. Child-like. Skin stretched over clear bones.


  Each one of us is a better version of who we think we could be. Each thought gets in the way of the stone pillow ice cube tray that we try to defend.


  So hold the hand of that person you’re looking at. Child. Hold the hand of whatever kitchen island you call safety.


  The world is a terrible mess. And we are enjoying the center of that tired old man. 


  His wire, his throat. Everyone of us sliding through the silky, sick hair of his neck. Vapid- futuristic. Carry your chopped wood to the fire- to the edge of that poorly lit summer.


  The sun burns and aches. The book turns over itself on the floor. The shelf. The counter, the glass, the kitchen island is just another ball that you grab, and throw.

Chipped Paint

  I like the things that only come through years of constant wear. Like long hair,
   like shredded jeans, or a thin sweater. 

  Cuts in a butcher block, ripped leather boots, faded incandescent bulbs, and oiled axe handles. 


  I like fresh air.


  Some folks find beauty in modern art, but I find it in the engine of an old fishing boat, in the concave step of an old stone stairwell. 


  I find beauty in a tired type-writer ribbon: oiled felt, chipped edges.


  I find beauty in dull pocket knives. The tired office desk, a stained rake.


  I like the rocking chairs with discolored wrists, the torn cardboard edges of board games. I like scrapes in old wood floors; hard water stained shower curtains.


  I like the soot on a concrete hearth. The water and ink stained silk screen. 


  I see history in an empty mascara cylinder; toilet paper cores in a trash can. 


  Fan blades covered in dust. 


  I like the rain stained vinyl siding of a mid century house, I like the worn tires of a tractor. 


    I wonder how many years it takes to fill the ceiling of a small bar with dollar bills. I like the sweat stained steering wheels, I like the salty passenger side floor mats.


  I like the dew between two panes of glass- I like the over grown garden of your past.

They Don’t Have The Power To Burn us at The Steak..

I don’t trust the Inquistion of saints.The headstrong martyrs bead up on my cracked windshield.

Another hard loss. The victory in the details. Potions that witches craft.
I drive two miles an hour slower when the pope sneezes; something, something the air forms ripples around my radio.
I can see their lost. The vacuums that hide dust. We are so used to hiding behind distractions. 


  Web 2.0 is a dying breed, everyone touches glass. I can see how lost I got. So twisted up on the roots, forgetting to look for finches in iron. The drizzle continues to bead, babble. Brook. I look for a reason to agree, but I’m too well equipped at annoying the ones who dislike me. 


 I can see it their iris, the dilation cannot hide from the light. Causality. 


  Truth is unlike trust, even though the former breaks, the latter breaks too.


  The flat earthers

   The titanic folks

  Goldman, oil man, breaker of teeth- 

   The pinkerton’s still laugh at those porous beads of rain water. Each drop, another

signal that time left behind the creators      of decently created mechanics.
    Even IBM corrupted their drinking water. Men wearing hats to the mall, war mongering in places of education. History rewrote itself!


   It was a grand scheme, we didn’t want to know. And all those children that grew up with light in their eyes, fell victims to it.


Ideology loses when you realize how many people live on the planet. Bugs creep out of the light. The smallest shadow dissapears in the blink of the eye. We always forget about the Maddox incident.
  A child tripping over a stone.


  The grass is littered with them. Moth nets catching bears. The fish immune to the pressure of the ocean, wild beliefs. Each light bulb is red and green. Sifting through soft dreams the diarrhea only goes upstream.

Sure we aren’t free. 

We’re being lied to. Truths hidden from the rim of some long telescope. 
Sure we selling arms to foreign nations for profit. Sure, perpetuating the war state is a high ranking objective. 
Sure, the narrative is being controlled. If you think about it, every good story has someone telling it. Every motion lives just behind an operation of some sort.
Whether it be opening your hand, or a leaf finally letting go. There is a story there. 
And how wonderful it is to witness an action, the leg of a table. A wonderfully made blanket. 
There are countless forms of beauty that are continuously over looked, and passed off as being just another part of the world.

Hacking the dial tone.

I can remember the days when it was okay to talk about the fringe theories and wild speculation. 

Recently there has been a deluge of new conspiracy theorist. A new captain arrived with a boat of fresh blood. Recently I’ve seen a new school of folks who think that being an outsider is cool. 

Being an outsider isn’t cool man, it’s a fucking dredge. Being a fringe theorist is like talking about anime at the water cooler, circled by fifty-somethings.

You think it’s awesome, but really your just a werido 

in their eyes. It’s like talking about that band that “oh, you just would t understand.” But to me?

Being a fringe theorist isn’t about how cool you are, it’s about the potential truth of this planet. It’s about walled gardens that deal dope to its citizens. It’s about proxy armies that occupy and destabilize third world countries to form a puppet democracy that controls the information of it’s working class.

What’s important to me is talking about how it isn’t a “recent development” it’s a fabricated reality that stretches back at least (for the sake of talking) a hundred years. And mostly because we’ve evolved in the last century. And if you don’t believe it, your on the outside bud. 

Everyone talking insistently about how cool technology is. 
The means to create and communicate through new channels. The ability to craft a skill with the intelligence of your mind. Something that the “old timers” just “don’t understand”
Well, bud… It’s happening again. But on a much smaller scale. These circles aren’t taking ten-twenty years anymore. They are only taking a couple months. And-It seems 
as the processing of information has changed and multiplied – the means to cling to the “cool side” has changed.
And here is where we are now. People clinging to the newly realized half pipe. People climbing over one another to make a gag, or frill. Yr either a shake or a shill.
I’m confusing talent for texture. 
I’m engaged, but am only hearing shit from people who want to be engaged. People are only latching on and lashing out to the swipe of the thumb. 
It’s a damn turncoat, seeing the unrealized, hearing the pornographic small talk. The motion of the digital ocean the undertow, I look at it, and I can’t help but think;
this doesn’t looks like anything to me.

Mortar and Pestle was My Nick Name in The Third Grade.

It feels like there are people looking through a microscope, and people looking through a telescope.
Feels like I’m using binoculars

Everything is small and upside down.
“Where’s Barb?” / “Whose Don?”

 “Wet bread.”

The shapes are so close-
The lens is meant to focus.

The naked eye is a vacuum-

Is nothing is safe from question!?
Old granite blocks engraved / with symbols of Pizza. Limestone puzzles. Aggregated bloodlines. 

Whose dividends do we pay? 


Whose AstroTurf is this?

Their bold new directive-
The shriek and fear.  

The steer and clear.


I want to spend time sitting still, or walking slowly, wondering at and feeling the basic sense of existence, of being alive, of watching my breath, of hearing all sounds in the air, and of letting clouds and stars caress my eyes.  

I want to let go of anxiety and turn it into laughter, and realize absolutely that life and death are two sides of the same coin. I want a female companion who will, alternatively, melt into me and wrestle with me, see me and, befuddle me and then suddenly show that she can do so many things much better than I. 

I want to talk to interested audiences, and play with their questions, but also to listen to those who can tell me things I don’t know. I want to watch water which reflects many changing qualities of light and wind, and is visited by seagulls, pelicans, terns, grebes, and wild duck.

I want to sit on some far-out rock or a lonely beach and listen to the waves and look at the western sky at dawn. 

   I want to shoot arrows so high into the sky that they seem to turn into birds. I want to see mountains and prowl through their foothills and forests, listening at dusk, to unseen waterfalls.

I want to sit at a typewriter, at certain times carefully and meticulously putting into words what I feel- the challenge being that it cannot really be put into words at all. 

I want to go off to a colorful and spacious kitchen to experiment with some new kind of soup or stew, or method of steaming fish, or to see if I can cook with a Wok

I want to be able to allay pain and sickness with the touch of my hands. 

I want to make a fire of charcoal and burn cedar leaves or sandalwood, in the evening, while listening or dancing to the music.

I want to see the reflection of light in glass and crystal, and, laying on the ground, to look up at trees patterning a vivid blue sky…