A SWEEPING DENUNCIATION OF ALMOST EVERYONE AROUND THE SAME AGE AS ME

This reality thing is starting to bum me out
an existential mistake with the sillycybin
fist giggly then weepy then giggly and weepy
it's too lonely inside my head
i'm too isolated from everyone else
it's like i'm the only person alive in the entire universe
i guess i've always known that i'm the only living being
and everyone around me are just ghosts of the past
so i'm walking in a ghost town
doing a ghost job
making ghost money
paying bills to ghosts
and still i'm worried that somehow this world will take me down with it
progress is being made however
with the lord as my shepard
i will bring fun back to our generation
everyone's gotten too serious
i know, i used to be straight edge
i used to take puritanism seriously
i feel disconnected from my generation
i feel like we've headed in the wrong direction
we've headed toward a world with consequences, not moments
we're losing our concept of the present
we see things only in terms of the past and the future
there is no unselfish love anymore
we're all only out for ourselves
ok fine, but when did everything get so serious
when did everyone get so offended and creeped out by things
why don't we have fun anymore
even recreation is business
and there is no emotion in recreation anymore
it's supposed to be cold and sterile
otherwise we might lose ourselves in the moment
and we can't think about the moment
jodorowsky said:
when you love someone you love their presence and their absence simultaneously
because for everything we have there is a longing for an infinity we can't have

i want to tune in, but i just seem to tune out
perhaps this is the sign of the molting of the piscean age
and the golden dawn of aquarius
since september 17th 2001 and on into 2012
this will be a transforming time for our race
we will move from this self-centered paradigm of ignorance
into the light of love

a poet writes his thoughts
and sometimes those thoughts are ugly
even the most pious saint has ugly thoughts
no one can say that if they wrote everything they thought down that there wouldn't be some despicable moments
some moments they're ashamed of
becuase god and the devil lives in the human mind
and you can't have god without the devil
if you did the world would be off balance
and would tumble to one side
like a kid on a teeter totter with no one to play with

Jana Hunter w/ Auger
April 18 - Buffalo, NY - Mohawk Place

Inside me I feel alone and unreal (and the way you kissed will always be a very special thing to me)

Sunday night went to Buffalo and saw Sunburned Hand of the Man traded them a Wizards and Demons Dancing in the Grass Fighting Over a Piece of Bread Upside Down CD and a copy of my own Amniotic Ether album for a Sunburned CD and a Macrodot CD.

Tomorrow I'm playing with Auger opening for Akron/Family at Soundlab

Anyway, gimme shelter. It's just a shot away.

The message doesn't withstand prejudice. I understand the growing concern. I think these cryptic metaphors can be overcome. The queen is holed up in her castle. A tower so thick and stubborn rises from the molded clay. They mix with iron at the golem's feet. We are born into judicial decadence. Where do the limited resources get funnelled? What is it and what does it mean? Where did she go, what will she do? Where will I go, what will I do? Does anything mean anything anymore? Why so much nonsense when I find it all quite serious. I've got to get to work. Got to get up and clean the house. Sweep and mop. Make the bed. Be good to the children and they will bless your house. The knobs lock at the intersections. Where will the wind make us steer? Why don't we have any choice? I want to choose and I don't want to fight. I want to make my message clear. I want to shout at the sick herd walking into darkness: COME OUT AND FEEL THE LIGHT! I feel the blade of love in my heart. I want to share my pain with the world. I want to make everyone feel the blade like I've felt so deep for so long. The sadness of god's lowliest creature makes me weep with fevered pity. I would serve them all with fervent zealotry if my time were not extinguished like Rip Van Winkle. When the world of the future comes to know my name then we will see how late it's become in history. How the sands of time are moving away in a cold blue shift. Maybe the knobs will lock again and the heading will be misunderstood. Accept my love and I will give it all away. I will keep none for myself. I am a servant of my own soul. I am a ghost in living flesh. Wake me up with the morning's lamentations. I will plant flowers in my eyes. The roots will make my corneas fertile. The tactile addiction clears. I no longer need touch. Now only light will burn my skin.

Joey has laughed but never shown the tearsSo she may laugh in the autumn of your yearsWhen you're with her I wonder if it's trueAll that they said of a world without youWhere she may come from, where she may goWho she may run from, noone will knowWhy she was late may trouble you someStill you wait for Joey to come

On a dark night, Kindled in love with yearnings
-- oh, happy chance! --
I went forth without being observed,
My house being now at rest.
In darkness and secure,
By the secret ladder, disguised
-- oh, happy chance! --
In darkness and in concealment,
My house being now at rest.
In the happy night,
In secret, when none saw me,
Nor I beheld aught,
Without light or guide, save that which burned in my heart.
This light guided me
More surely than the light of noonday,
To the place where he (well I knew who!) was awaiting me
-- A place where none appeared.
Oh, night that guided me,
Oh, night more lovely than the dawn,
Oh, night that joined Beloved with lover,
Lover transformed in the Beloved!
Upon my flowery breast,
Kept wholly for himself alone,
There he stayed sleeping, and I caressed him,
And the fanning of the cedars made a breeze.
The breeze blew from the turret
As I parted his locks;
With his gentle hand he wounded my neck
And caused all my senses to be suspended.
I remained, lost in oblivion;
My face I reclined on the Beloved.
All ceased and I abandoned myself,
Leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies.

Soundlab:
Saturday, March 17, 9pm, $10
Akron/Family
w/ Auger

This movie's gonna be out soon

YOU left me, sweet, two legacies,—
A legacy of love
A Heavenly Father would content,
Had He the offer of;

You left me boundaries of pain
Capacious as the sea,
Between eternity and time,
Your consciousness and me.

Emily Dickinson (1830–86).

poison

Crispin Glover came to the Eastman house today promoting his film What Is It and his Slide SHow. I was gonna go, but I ended up sleeping all day.

Make strange music into psychoactive voice mail
the plough is stronger than the sword
these sounds make me blue
I'm getting a little gonzo for the old tyme scriptures
A bird of prey swallows my mantras
Don't worry, I will control the patterns
We will know when the echo people let us in on it
Now it's time to stop wasting time

Today I dwell in a dark space. Hell is the world and the world is having a nightmare. Everyone run for cover. Armageddon is coming. Let the fire rain down from the sky. I won't stop it. I'm prepared for it. Everything is in a downward way today. Gravity is too heavy. I want to stay in bed and sleep for a million years. I never want to lift the blanket from my head.

Who am I writing to? I'm writing to no one. No one will read this except me. So I'm writing to myself. To listen to myself in my mind's ear. So it is out of Narcisism that I'm writing. I'm looking into the cybertronic mirror. So bored so boring. Making faces into nothing. Then letting them take my face as though it's a box of cereal on a supermarket shelf. You can't take my face anymore. No more photography, no more cinema. No more tape recording or sound engineering. No more media orgy. I can't face myself. I can't confront my own direction. I am not happy with my body. I am unsuccessful... a failure. I am in an isolation chamber. With all my noiseless, clueless patience. I feel it slipping away. I see the colors of alienation. The blues and greens of letting it go. Gone are the reds and yellows of ecstacy. Now only the blues and the greens fill an empty hole. The dirt is packed tidy all around the negative space. I am walking in the field of the ether. Trying to find the tree of life. When I trip and fall into this hole. It holds me captive for three weeks. Then it lets me go. But I never understood what it was doing. Or who dug it in the first place. I am sorry, but when I left I was lonely. It had grown dark outside. The leaves on the trees were all dead and brown. The life had been choked. Now my seraphim denounce their allegence. They no longer call anyone master. And I'm a king with no subjects, a messiah with no disciples. My longing is for the productive form of suffering. To feel something, to have a genuine sensation. Not to feel this nothing that I'm feeling right now. Maybe I lost my mind drinking. Too many dreams and the past gets unsteady. I can see the memories but not remember them. Like photographs of a party where you got black-out drunk. That's been my whole life until now. I can picture the happy moments, the ecstatic moments, the holy moments. I just can't relive them, so I'm constantly redefining myself with new experiences in the quest for exciting and interesting sensations. The journey makes me weary, but I think it's worth traveling. This week will be my lost week. I hope to not remember anything, and I will emerge from it a new person. I will strip off the old fantasy and adorn myself with the new. Ahh this succubus and these sorcerers. These forces outside of me that I feel so deeply on the inside. Why do I allow them to possess me? The entrap me with the illusion of love. But it is only a different kind of relationship and not the trueness of agape love: the godly love, the love of god, godgiven love, god is love. Everyone around must become everyone inside. Crawl deep into this cave with me and then we will hold hands and pray. Everyone crawl in and don't be afraid of being too crowded.

I think the Seraphim are making me eat crow or something. I can't seem to get around the angle of compass. Those thirty three degrees and those years in the earthly ministry. I mean, is it really possible to consciously create reality? Can I make someone fall in love with me or can I cause a car accident? Can I decide when to sleep and when to be awake? All these questions confound the qualified diety. What once was intrigue became blasphemy and now that the taboo has become most holy the laity will lose their interest. It's okay though, my anger will be poured out like rancid soup, onto the frozen ground to cut the awkward ice. I will be naked and turning blue. Shaking violently. Soon my fingers and toes will turn black and then the black part will spread throughout my entire body, until my organs are frost bitten. Then I will succumb to the final narrative. I will be a frozen wildebeast. I will look in the glacier for food but none will present itself. I will be captive to my own limitation. Where will you be? Still surviving like me? Or will you be warm in a house somewhere waiting for the savior to wash your feet? Will you be cooking a meal from the spoils of hegemony? Will it be a stew made from rotten vegetables and rancid meat? Will you swallow each bite as though it were an expensive medicine? I'm sorry but I'm done eating. My belly has swollen to beach ball capacity. Nobody is looking. I think I'll just shave a little off the top. Then I'll feel like dancing. Then I'll be the life of the party. I'll get a few drinks and start puking. I'll let the night take me. I won't be able to take my mind off me. I'll be making faces in the mirror. I'll be combing my hair and doing my make up. I'll be looking so pretty you can't help but love me. You'll be in a dress moving slowly. I'll be walking on a cloud like a russian ballet dancer. But you'll be walking but never moving. You'll always be stationary.

The real is real and jehovah is only and real. I am not. ia m nothing. in this everything i do not stand. i am not vocal. i am not charismmatic. what kind of folk do i want to surround myself by. i think about that and pray. do i enjoy the creative type. or am i afraid to share power with them? do i think that i am greater than most? am i qualified to lead a flock like a beautiful loving shepard. a wise old father with gray beard. walt whitman and his grocery boys? like sharon at the shores of lethe. am i the boatman accepting morbid donations. on the eyelids of virgins. the letter is written it cannot be understood. the burrito has been eaten. i am afraid of the mmexican. the morbid christian artist el dia de los muertos. dark catholicism. i can see the demonns, even when they dress like angels. i can understand their language. i am immersed in the ceremony. i am part of the cherry of heaven. being popped on new years eve. and the dawning of a new age begins where light can truly be seen. it is not yet a step apart, but the glory and kindness that awaits turns into brandy pudding. set aflame awaiting a benevolent diner to extinguish the burning. like a guy in a hospital with pain. making fun of the injury. the burrito sitting in the belly. the nitrogen awaiting and building. seering through the ass flap like a whoopy contraption. i like the seering, and the burning. the fish awaits the flesh. the fish smells like mating. and no you can't have this beer. and no you aren't my friend. until you've walked through the fire you cannnot share the pleasures of being with me. you can not hit this, smoke that, inject this. this is for me until you have proved yr loyalty. you are not my friennd until you are no longer my enemy. and then ceasing to put emnity you put slavery. and i walk you around like a puppet for a period. or like a kind and loyal kanaine, but not the one that's also a swine. the human loving kind. the kind that doesn't need any fix but a smell of the homo sapein crotch. that sweet nectar of the gods. the ambrosia of life and living. the juice of fertility in the bacteria of reality. the truth of the circle jerk and the communal spirit of holy matrimony. like the marriage bed and counseling. the lookinglasself reveals nothing to nobodies and something to somebodies. when walking like a zombie self awareness becomes irrelevant. i want attention. please look and listen at mme. my ears are rinnging and mmy signs are pointing. i am aware of my own being. make it stop this ringing. this self aware being. it's making the nausea relapse. its making happiness difficult. these needs and these feelings. this drama and romance. this past and these ideas.

so i'm here in the city of brotherly love trying to give and get love when all the time love was waiting for me at home and i was too dumb to realize it while i was being boiled in the witch's cauldron and seering my flesh in my room. the way the situation works is that i'm trapped in a fictional novel where the main characters want me to follow the path that they choose and therefore i adopt them as their author, but i am writing my own story and that is hard enough. whenever i turn around there is a spider building a web in front of where i just walked. so i'm out here trying to decifer if the government is really reading my thoughts like some twisted dystopian book or if it's just faeries and magik and whatever other newfangled spellings we have for ancient ideas. anyway, the philosopher's stone is not on the internet, that's for sure. that i know. information is a crutch and it keeps us here in this world of ego. just look at the egos now - myspace, blogs - the time magazine person of the year is me? what kind of a sick joke is that to play on someone with an already slightly schitzophrenic attitude toward spies and the godliness of the individual. yes, i am man of the year and i'm man of the centry and the millenniumm. i believe in my own doctrine and that makes more dangerous than any politician or sourcerer. even open sourcerers. this text is driving me wild. i can be myself quiletly and only communicate through a chunk of plastic. oh don't i feel so good and godlike, like a snake or a rodent. a bat is a rodent with wings, and they bite, they have a thirst for blood. this plastic machine has a thirst for blood. now it's telling me how many souldiers have died in iraq. now its telling me step by step what happened the night sharon tate died. now i'm learning how to make a bomb. now i'm looking up a recipe for humble pie. now i'm eating crow. now i'm falling to pieces. now i'm cutting myself and bleeding like a putrid pile on the tile bathroom floor. bloody and dizzy. now i'm licking my wounds. now i'm pondering life. now i don't feel like dyinng annymmore. now i'm awake. now i'm alone. now i have company in the form of a plastic box. oh i love you plastic box. how i do love yr ways. i wish i could make love to you. and i do. i jack-off to your most perverse of pornography. i'm an advocate of illegal downnload. my site is censored by the BIG BROTHER filter. he shoot coka-cola, he want mojo filter. always got a $10 bill up his nose - dirty old man. laughter like mentally retarded angels. down into the deepness of humans. the vat of skin. the stinking hay piles of limbs. the trampolines of the flesh. the holes to poke with pleasure flesh. the dummb animals mmaking their dumb decisions. their lives lived like cattle and sheep. or better off pigs. or the smarter dogs. sniffing crotches, eating garbage - scraps. begging without dignity. they are the smart ones. killing foxes because they are smmaller. with beaty eyes. with possessed stares. the demon dog of berkowitz's neighbor. that told him to do things. and he listened. my roommmate listened. the whole house smelled like spraypaint. i put chicken's feet and pentegrammms on his bed. he lives with his mom now. at least i'm functional enough to have a hole of mmy ownn to get sick in. i still consume an excess of the silly fire juice. it makes me sleepy and then i can't properly explain myself, so i don't try. i feel like passing out sometimes. my daughter wakes up early and then quakkes and shakes and whole days of the week that i see her. this separation is a daring schism. i've become emo and polyamorous. she's become the same as always. but i've got my own witches - my own succubim. none of them are angels. no friends or lovers worthy of that loose term seraphim. some of the poets would throw that title around a lot in the late fifties and mid sixties. but this is not the golden age. this is new age of reason where reason is gone and the sun has become ecclipsed. eventhough it's getting warmer all the time. ice caps are melting and i am king of mmy univers, even though i feel bad sometimes. i feel lonely and unreal. these are post syd times. post john and george times. these are the dead times when the rest of the mmortals hang on to life. and our eternity seems to fade, but it's never been so close. these are the waking hours of darkness. these are the trebel sounds of a voice that used to speak but has now shut up. these are the waves after the bombs. this is the terrorismm time. this is the religious time. this is armageddon if i ever saw it. this is the apocalypse - an inconvenient truth. so we have to get our happiness together before helter skelter makes it all bad. join join join or die. join and die. die then join. either way yr making two mistakes - the first- being sad. saddness is an outdated emotion. it was used by puritans to reinforce their tactics of guilt. the second mistake is doing nothing - one who does not move is dead. one who does not make life makes death. creating is the most holy activity one can be engaged in - it inncludes music, poetry, unnprotected sex - and new experimental sexual processes, communities to connect with others - parties, the visual arts, embroidering or sewing, making useful things, those diy obsessives, duct tape, riding bikes with no wheels, that kind of thing, thinking outside pandora's box to actually believe that something might actually be possible in this world.

Howdy yall. I'm getting ready to go to Philly to reunite the old Pretensious Art Snobs crew. We're going to explode on the scene there. It seems like a fastastic institution of a city full of brotherly love. Last week I took my daughter to a RAW rally, but we got there late and most of the people had left. I want to start getting into politics again. I seem to have gotten away from that in recent times and it's time to start it up again. Indymedia is also still up and running thanks to the tireless efforts of the volunteers there. Friends Helping Friends also continues to do good things for the community. There is also an Anarchist Discussion Group in Rochester that you can attend if yr into that sort of thing. There are lots of things out there to support and get involved in. Sadly, I'm not really involved with any of them. I mostly am into doing my own thing right now which seems to be working out fairly well at the moment.

Trouble brews in the blasphemer's cauldron
The cards reveal imagination
And I will never understand the Golden Dawn until I discover myself
"Mysticism is the philosophy and practice of a direct experience of God. Christian mysticism is traditionally pursued through the practice of the disciplines of prayer (including meditation and contemplation), fasting (including other forms of abstinence and self-denial), and alms-giving, service to others, as discussed by Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7). Other forms of mysticism in general include participation in ecstatic worship and the use of entheogens; the latter is not associated with the mainstream of Christian spirituality, and the former, in a Christian context, is primarily associated with Pentecostalism. Christians believe that God dwells in them through the Holy Spirit, and that therefore, all Christians can experience God directly."
New changes make magic of the mundane
My soul ignites with unhealthy fire
A hellatious burning in my fingers and toes
Until the ecstatic reality demands more
"The god-self is what holds us together throughout these recurring disruptions. This is a wholistic core self, a heavy gravitational center which helps prevent us from flying apart."
Dost thou inspire me? ... yes
Am I lonely and bitter? ... yes
Did I trip like a bird on a wire
oh woman why do you torment me?
Why do you send my children to Molech?
I need you to carry them in, but I don't need you to mention it
Now we're moving on and we're growing out of pain's soil
The seeds of new love are being planted
Yours may be on topsoil
Mine is on desert sand
But it's a sign to move along like I do
But if they stand in the road
They will get plowed
And mauled like a grizzly
Until it all starts happening