What you're really thinking

Blah blah blah blah love blah blah blah happiness blah blah blah blah blah heartache blah blah blah blah coitus blah blah blah blah answers blah blah blah blah why me blah blah blah blah masturbate blah blah blah blah blah chili blah blah blah blah blah cigarettes blah blah blah blah education blah blah blah blah blah blah government blah blah blah blah blah blah more sex blah blah blah blah blah taco shits blah blah blah blah blah ? blah blah blah blah black canadians blah blah blah blah alcohol blah blah blah blah bills blah blah blah blah bullshit blah blah blah blah-la la-la-la-la live for today?

A word to the wise (is infuriating)

Regret is a dirty pair of chones in the back of the closet. Might not be a big deal. Not at first. You meant to take care of it, but you forgot. Don't even really notice the stench at first. It rankles in that closed space, and unattended it spreads. First the air. The stale air soaks up the smell like a floor mat soaks up spilled coffee. Spreads on. Onto the clothes, the hanging thoughts, the trappings of your subconscious. Feel that? That's your shitty undies. A single pair making enough mess to wreck your whole closet. Before you know it, the paint is peeling off the walls and your once clean little space is a cesspool of complete and utter filth. You'll be throwing out your river shoes by the time it's worked its way into every little space. That sanctuary--your last bastion against a hilarious yet uncaring world--is rotted and wrecked.

Do your fucking laundry.

The Road

It lies before and behind, stretching into darkness and distance. Through all is the road, paved or otherwise, carved out of this beautiful barren wasteland. For those who walk it, there is no deviation from the path it shows us, because it is made as we walk it. Wherever we turn, there is the road. It runs away and away before our feet, guiding us even as we conjure it into bleak existence. The road is our path, and we are its creators, the architects of our respective destinies. Or something.

Oh! Sweet Nuthin

Dew Drops

It's never going to rain here. It's going to piddle and dribble like a 80 year old bladder, but it will never really rain. There's water enough, and enough fog to--well, a lot of fog, and the other day I even had a few drops on the windshield. That's about it. And no real surprise; if I was God I wouldn't piss on this city if it was burning to the ground.

Holes in the Sky

Riding the Strand back from Venice last night after a beautiful sunset. One of the best since I've been living in this mess. Apocalyptic talks on the beach. Dolphins and elephants. I was on my way home after dark and I had a moment, somewhere between "Gotta Know" and "Lullaby" on Georgia Warhorse. Filled with light. Filled through and through with a feeling I could hardly hold onto. I had it all laid out in front of me. The works. The way and the truth were as clear as the lights of the Manhattan Pier. Nothing really matters. Not these miserable cloudy days, and not anything in them. I had to laugh. Had to. It must have lasted nearly five miles. Then a wave of the real world washed over me and it was gone, leaving me to make my ponderous way up Torrance Boulevard sweating like a whore in church. I won't forget though. I just don't remember.

When It's Gone

Thanks for a sweet dose of life.

Pocket Full of Change

With paychecks, new friends and the grace of good luck this will all work out fine. There are empty houses on the water. Relocate and settle, relocate and settle. And again. This is the song, played a thousand times until all sense and reason is lost to the inevitable madness of repetition. This is the basis for our wild, messy little shit show. We walk along the crowded thoroughfares of everywhere and nowhere, and though we come to places where our hands and feet can find purchase, we move on. Climbing up. Difference becomes familiarity; familiarity breeds contempt. Roll on.

Venice Basement

It's quiet in here. Quiet if you don't mind the constant rush of the traffic, the hiss of rubber tires on cold pavement. The footfalls of pedestrians as they troop past the low set front door on their way to God knows where. The quiet hum of a television set in the next room. The muted rushing sound of the shower beyond the bedroom wall. The scream of the overcast day as it pours in through the windows, muffled by curtains and tapestries. Other than that, it's quiet in here.

Train Kept Rollin'

So you meet a girl. She seems sweet enough. A little simple perhaps, but pretty and honest. You follow her down, you do for her. You lose her and get her back a time or three, then you start to wonder: What's beneath the vapid smile and pale blue eyes? Where does she go when she's not with you? Who is that speaking to her when your back is turned? She tells you not to worry, she loves you. She wants your children. She wants you and no one else. She leaves you for someone else. That, little fool, should be the red flag that turns you from her faithlessness forever. Months later, she calls you. You know what it's about. You've been waiting for it. Hoping for it, if truth be told. Praying that you will hear her voice again, that little liar who led you down to the very bottom and left you there. She calls, and you let her come. You take her back, even though you know that as she lays with you she is being unfaithful to another. Another like you, who does not deserve it. You take her, and you know she'll do it again. You tell her it will not be the same. Never as it was before. You lie to yourself as you say that you will not love her again. And of course it happens. You fall, and by the time you land at the bottom of the pit she's gone. Gone riding a dick train from Reno to Auburn and who knows where else. The only problem is she boarded that train with one foot on your platform. The dick train is filthy. So filthy in fact that before she's leapt clear there is already a mess on the ground at her feet. The ground is you. Dig? She lets those filthy boys throw a fuck into her whenever they want, and all the time she's looking over her shoulder telling you you're dishonest, you're a liar, you're the one who's cheating. Only natural. A liar sees lies in every direction, every passing face. She fucks him even as she cries out to you for help and attention. You know it, so you leave her. But it's not easy to forget, especially when she's left you with a permanent reminder.

15th Night

There's nothing to talk about yet. There's plenty to say, and I'll probably say almost all of it, but there's nothing to talk about. Not just yet. Two weeks in this place and nothing to show but a milk crate full of dirty socks and a guilty conscience. That and a patience that grows shorter with each passing day. I cannot be here and do nothing. That kind of time is what I wasted back home. Funny how I would rather work now than do anything else.
This place is a mess.