28.1.15

nimanmuya

surrounded by massive sound. at home, the floor is trembling. oceanic directive and she pointed at the moon. legs wrapped warm and amongst some parkside bench. shitty dogs shitty humans. all guteral laughs and always only real life. "id follow someone" and "someone" else as another.. im writing of an interaction followed by a memory that could means whatever you put your mind to. choose your own adventure sort of evening filled with a burrito and someone else holding my bag of chips, some solid step and a few near missed encounters. found fleeting, color coded.

20.1.15

titled/rifled

today ... gripped and more back and forth. some after work and quite the nap. neglected the feeling and caught some glance. free wheeling the forewarned feeling. been too good of since oh two. photos of bears feet, nanuk. a song in greenlandic

today was work, two traffics worth, heavy fog. photos of smoking crack and walking with vans employees. proof lab in mill valley and every look.  shoe biz on valencia and every look. back to oaklung and above. dinner somewhere in the future after i hang with bill withers in a second.

4.1.15

cut my esophagus…somehow

confiscated, taken pull. moon destructed, fevered full. the she insightful in her glow. recommence to the ebb and flow. music that jumps and making animals of the trees. following footsteps and tripping. eucalyptus and poured. stumbled across and divine.

11pm and i should have gotten my meds today. globus syndrome. sharp potatoes.trying to get stoned off of old weed cookies and it aint happenin. throats nearly swollen shut and I've got two hours of sleep under my belt. looking at a long monday i suppose… i suppose ill get a lot done… i suppose ill make the most of it sans sleep… spitting in a cup to keep from unnecessary swallowing. listening to paco de lucia and my space heater, watching the moon change. been swollen in penmanship all night.

...and real felt great.

esophagus/eucalyptus

28.12.14

molinas fingers molinas heart

raised as rough. my hand slid easily over a freshly shaven head. the weight of the long weekend sought in a sigh and there it is.  congestive, particular, even keeled yet pensive. the song, never loud enough and almost a drink. like a drunken blur the vibrations of some strum. tonights half moon.

revelry in dichotomy

push pull string take took and leave. knotted hammered cluttered and battered. nothing about life i couldn't take. absorb reform perform the forlorn. ample as every. ghosted as crescent. deeming fevered and while i await. a wall of sound song of chords veins vibrated in unison incognito in radiovision. a bit closer, every step further. only passing thru. taking from everything, back bent and slouched. this chair or that one, difficultly indifferent. rest easy on rusty hinges and repurposed. written in color, sing/sung blade/blood. she as equals to five. taught, we sheeted the wind and wove the coast.

some song about communication. "i hear my sleeping sister"

16.12.14

tim barry

could be anywhere. could be anyone.

15.12.14

caught the buzz about...















couldnt resist the spray of rain. a day on foot for reasons that need not see the light of day. stepped into nostalgia and looked back more than once. seeds picked up off and stored in a pocket for the remainder. yest the colors are that color but the smell, you wouldnt ever understand. its beating in your lovers chest. amplified and the color of orland in october. should i have gotten lower, maybe closer, yes but an ocean still churns and amazes. a long time ago, firsts were spent cliffside and along a silver cloud. seagulls afloat and afading into the scene. occasional pelicannal. from there i filmed that risky fuel, contemplated the beginning and lost another to planks. it feels portland out now. it smells of home. and jason molina is perfect with this. even or not this is where i wanted to be, and a little more up beat.

10.12.14

dust of dazed

the sun set, faster than the still lingering red dust and we could taste it. i write of this with eyes clamped shut thinking of every second spent in tennessee. i had breakfast with david deweiss and family, real grits for the first time. a bland mash of mixed up nonsense of the likes id never eat again. the tail gate dropped down hard, resting easy on rusted hinges. the catalytic converter drew a line of the past. the trucks been around and all over southside tennessee. those two gas stations might still be there but i never knew them to have gas, just inhabitants behind borded up windows with oil lamps stuck between here and there. i could picture a fire and smell the soot, feel the firetrucks wet glow a day or two later as strangers sift thru the ash of peoples belongings. some faded photographs and everything else important to no one else, diarys as bibles and the likings.  david was my cousins buddy. rancher by nature and backwoods before birth. its 1130pm there and now and im sure hes settled in somewhere settling. they had over one thousand acres when we were kids playing in the stream that ran thru their property. im sure his father, mister deweiss, left it all to him. hard works begets hard hard work. the truck was full of grain, sacks of it and needed to be unloaded before the weather lew in from the south west. its always the southwest and her name is jane. looked up, opened my eyes to see if... and no. the barn was listing, the timbers from a century ago and the farm stood tall and leaned a little in every aspect. who has time to fix these things when theres so much work to be done. summer break was never summer break and school should have ended at 6th grade for these souls because precalc never mattered when fences needed mending. your gloves or mine the snips wont work, grab the pliers and hurry up. grain off loaded and the humidity as annoying as the june bugs, the clock was beat as we kicked it in to high gear towards the river. pinnacle peak. a medium height bridge, some sorta southern rope swing and a big part of my youth.

9.12.14

...reads anymore.

thirteen as ever with and along to nirvana. psychotic revelry, nostalgic and one blank stare. life force. that "moon over the wild sea" bit hard and threshing. "something in the way" lost at sea apparently and all over the board. i work, i ride and i sleep. playing tangled mesmerized with letters and three times now. i think i said fugazi, i wait. there were missed situations and i caught those lookers. the followers are following us. etched a stretch and always was lookin up. code deciphered and found the elevators.  another planet and im going to have to ask you too leave. once, twice and back on terra firma tumultua. soft and concerned, leaned and the roll south was lost between all red lights silence. knew and known. 

bumps along the way and life heavy set thru hungry brown. pump sunk, steel and led but lit. wonder and amazement as upturned. "the results are always perfect, but thats old news, an injured bird"1. colibri detras de la luna and off past the setting.

i spoke with freddy in his drive way, six steps and felt.

eleven over two



1. k. cobain

26.10.14

fictitiousness tried to raise me better.

sunday was just that and her hair, soft and lost with leaves, fell over her shoulders and onto the extra bedroll i packed. a pillow.  a defined and drifting slight smile creeping steadily, behind some story of well lit morning eyes. so the story goes. full circle and ever bridging the gap between the points of tonights curvaceous, crescent, and western setting moon. that old pacific is cold ya know? take a dip, the waves are menacingly menacing. touch and go, bound by only the gravity that keeps it in check. once en route forever en route, forever nonlinear, forever nonnuclear. to bend the ear of old man time and see the far out. black holes eating starved blacken holes. a repertoire of reckless reconditioning. silent letters left out and up-off. the preservation of characterism. soliloquy-ily daffodil and a tightened tall careful rain fall.  packed up and thru the sands of ever. legs pressed, pock marked roads and tiny scars. the exploration of disinsinuation.

19.10.14

half my lifes been on the highway.
all my life ive done it my way.

built

ive driven all night before. the second wind, it beckons for a third and even the forth. time most absolutely flies. even now. a swung leg, clipped and bruised. got in and situated, peeled off and amazement pursued. an unknown shrouded with a decade or more and rightfully ripped back. headed up and in all directions. contort and revert. the jostle of a little pain. gussets next go 'round. figured and sandy amongst the embered footsteps of the hummingbird silently behind the moon. it crept and lit, danced a little while past sun up and disappeared somewhere beyond the beach. priorities and a decided way of being. life is joy life is pain. welcomed to wander. indefferently defended. a well groomed train of thought and ive been here before, entrenched in swamps.

29.7.14

to my keyboard cassanova, i too can do this dance...

grammatical airs and the such are for you. krooked and keruoac, bukowski, beavis, and butthead. fall off that high horse, come down to earth, dont bump your head, it needs no more swelling. i didnt know you followed rules, man. so tell me, is it one space or two after a period? dont your little pinkies work for the capital letters? fuck it, right? thats what i think... which is why other than this you get nothing from me, im too busy outside living and working to read your nonsense. hopefully it makes you feel better though, cause...  at least a proper address would be nice.

6.5.14

aloha anita and brighton bound

Contoured and in time, her hollow body fit form well next to i. The bed lie strewn amongst a corner of a room of a building I've passed a million times, a room delicate to their being, casual light with ease. That last breath, as he climbed out and over from corners soaked up by him only, a shockingly reminder of a small time apart. A heavy glance at her tight and naked body, cloaked in sheets.  twenty-seven days and counting. Reverse the weeks and start a new. A photo from day one upon a bench, some bar filled birthday. A march on the fifteenth and up against a wall. Defined a little memory, noted and cherished. A group effort, an invite to her place and a gentle decline from that old man. She peered from a window silled watch as he left illegally, begrudgingly.

1.5.14

to make up for the miles ive been losing.

While you was gone you must have done a lot of favors
You've got a whole lot of things I don't think
That you could ever have paid for
While you've been busy crying
About my past mistakes
I've been busy trying to make a change
I made a change
I've been riding with the ghost
I've been doing whatever he told me
I've been looking door to door to see
if there was someone who'd hold me
I never met a single one who didn't see through me
None of them could love me if they thought they might lose me
Unless I made a change
See I ain't getting better. I am only getting behind
I am standing on a crossroad trying to make up my mind
I'm trying to remember how it got so late
Why every night pain comes from a different place
Now something's got to change
I put my foot to the floor
To make up for the miles I've been losing
See I'm running out of things
I didn't even know I was using
And while you've been busy
Learning how to complain
I've been busy learning
How to make a change

molina.