im so effing

once i was smart
now i am dumb
once i felt feeling
now i am numb

only god
can judge me!
ice cream in your face i
scream in your face
cream in your
face your
face your book your
face ina book youre
not listenin to

wrapped up in cellophane
wrapped up in cellphone
locked up in cellphone
locked up ina cell

take this napkin
its white
draw whatever you want
its art
stick figures
its wiping an ass
swiping an idea easy
off a perforation

origami and you
and a cigarrette butt
and a cigarette

we’re so effing boring
so effing

reading the mind
reading the stars
reading the paper
reading my lips:
so effing what?

eff you! and your effing
effingness. sir eff-a-lot

hold the phone!
hold the tablet
hold your gaze on me

read my lips
quiet the mindless

no faxes from Asia
no instructions
no faction

no mickey mouse
no brakes and no

no roses
no hips
no more LSD

just vitamins for us
essential yet boring

no banana
silk-screened on a t-shirt
it detracts from the

no velvet
no underground
no Warhol
its boring

personal headphones
sleep apnea machines
no music. no snoring

effing effed

no winning
no losing
no flying
no boozing
depressing the

get high like a junkie
on pre-natal vitamins
another pill head
how boring

no touring the world

im at home. effing effed
just eating my grapefruit
its juices runnin
down my lips my

purple liquid pooling
on to Sexus. page 177.

no living vicariously
through the dead authors

the girl after
girl described in the pages

a dirty old man
beats off in a corner
how boring…oh wait!
its the author

from inside the pages
hes watching the purple
drool down my
red lips

how sexy
to know you’re alive
to know we’re alive
you and me

how boring
to die

a girl and a
guy and a guy and a
girl after

give me a mission
give me a message
give me a bottle

effing effed
ill crack someone over
the head
with it


No need to trip on those wires, my friends, cause whether on or offline there’s always the possibility of wireless means of psychic connection… don’t you feel the goodness in your hearts i emanate to you on the daily?
if not, maybe i must try harder to reach out my light to you. oh. no don’t be scared of my shadow. my darkness is deep and you can take a peek for sure, but i embrace all within me and therefore it has no kinda dark power or control over me nor does anyone, anymore. i have been there. what i am saying is hmm… an expansiveness of communication is always possible, and the idea, after we get sick of our samsungs and iphones, is to really say goodbye and recycle all those puppies into a black hole (one of so many out there). perhaps the one on galaga 25. 37 X. that’s a particularly vacant dark matter hole wishing to receive all our crapola technologies. then we can go back to being fully conscious human beings. until that final receiving dock for the body letting go of the spirit, aka the earth. we can no longer risk getting robbed in our semi-conscious social media haze glaze. then again, we are where we are. so accept it and use it to convey your personal to the collective moshpit slushpile. yes, add your harmonics to the vibratory being of coalesced beauty, within and without. we are universal ONE and is not that scary? well. no need to be afraid of reality. just BE.  CAM00492

what 4 waiting

this orange flower 

was all green all

closed up


just another bud

all night long

waiting on the sun


cold and frozen like

she forgot about her

true self her real

beauty her



what 4 waiting

we might have forgotten her, too

and the sun, too



what 4?


she opened

her heart her

true self

sun kissed orange

to the world

watching you watching them watching you

The cost we pay to live in the USA…. may be exemplified by a simple road trip cross country, trans America (USA). Try it out. You will find towns beneath highways that resemble other towns beneath highways. People behind cash registers that appear as tired as other people behind cash registers. In their tired uniform uniforms. Tired of it. Watching you. Watching you watching them. Watching you watching them watching you. Tired. If blindfolded and turned around ten times, then asked to locate ourselves… we might not have a clue. I am the pot that calls the kettle black.

Even  mother nature grows weary as she is stripped of her plentiful bounty and forced to push high fructose corn syrup up out of her chilled soil. These are only the touch of the surface of problems growing wider and deeper every day in this beautiful country we have pledged our loyalty, too, or pledged allegiance too, the republic, for which it stands, one nation, under God (of our understanding), indivisible. Though factions may develop at times, united we stand. For we know in our hearts that divided, we will fall. We have become willing, some of us, to lay down our lives for our country. The rest of us (worth mentioning) atleast try and pay our taxes. The rest of us may simply be marginalized, paying dues. I am the pot that calls the kettle black.

The solution? I cannot guess what it is, exactly. Another ascetic experiment like Walden Pond? Heavier drinking? More bed-in protests? Polyamory? Washing down pharmaceuticals? Attempts to colonize Mars? That could generate some good hearty laughs. The money may get pushed around, but that wont necessarily grow it, rather it may keep the virtual cash flow propped up until some recluse mathematician tells us in no uncertain terms we are fucked. Royally.

Look for China to bring her influence to your doorstep, USA. Look for history to be rewritten to account for the dynasties. Look for the Color Red. Streaming quickly like a dragon, in and out of chinatown locales, ever expanding and contracting and expanding again, demonstrably, tangibly! You will learn the difference between Cantonese and Mongolian cuisine! You will be careful where you post your Free Tibet! decals.

I say look to the youth. The baby boomer babies. Only they may be our saving grace. For they are naturals on computers. They embrace diversity. They may best manifest the new paradigm overtaking us, whether we like it or not. Stay open-minded, my friends. Be flexible. Let your pride down, but not your guard. Work on your credit score. Resist that four foot flat screen on sale at best buy! Or read a fucking book for a change. Get off your ass and ride a bicycle, perhaps. For godsakes, people! The 2-liters of cola littering your floor? Recycle them, ok? Change your ways! Give a damn about the environment! Look around you to your atmosphere, don’t shut yourself inside and soak into your imprint! You don’t have that luxury anymore! I am the pot that calls the kettle black.

Be a man! Be a woman! Find your heart! Your spirit! Rejuvenate your soul, I don’t care if its shock therapy! Jump off a pier into cold winter waters! Go camp out with the Occupiers for a night! Talk to your children, you might learn something you don’t already know! Humble yourself. Your ego thinks you’re a celebrity. Center of the world. Commander of all electronic devices you survey. Hero in your own head! Knock knock! Anybody home? I am the pot that calls the kettle black.

East meets West takes on a whole new meaning, now. Its not doing yoga inside your home theatre anymore. Its more like pot stickers…we are the pot stickers, frying in the pan, not quite feeling the heat thanks to our doughy second skin. But the heat has been turned up and insensitivities are giving way to hypersensitivities, you know. Check it out. Walk around. Look and listen. Drop and roll. You ain’t gonna survive if you cannot find and heal your poor lost (and truly discarded) taxed out past credit, beleaguered soul. I am the pot that calls the kettle black.

A weak argument

He had scant evidence for what he accused her. Little behind his hypothesis. Certainly none of the evidence was empirical. The kind of evidence he would demand of himself to require to prove his point in his own formulated system. Which was by the way, inherently flawed. Rudimentary, actually, like drop the info in a slot and let it get manipulated and come out something he could neatly digest. No matter if the product was devoid of nutrition. Like boiling broccoli instead of steaming it. He didn’t care, so long as it tastes hella good.

They were driving roads north, in the eastern part of the western world. Passing lobster shacks. Military bases. Fast food joints. Malls. Parking lot theatres. Blue collar hoods. Blue light specials. Seaports of the north atlantic. He was driving. He was calm, never frantic. He was older. A black and white thinker. Not borderline but you might have guessed borderline. Like most guys he was engineering built, both mind and body. More mathematically intelligent.

She found mathematics at first to be irrelevant. Her algebra teacher sucked. Her calculus teacher would have to make up for lost time, to reach her. And she was reachable. Maybe not as teachable as reachable. Aka: open-minded, with a blaze of independent spirit like a shooting star across her canvas. He and she were politically opposed. Every fiber of her young being wove out of her energetics, and seeped through her clothes. The crosshairs of cotton were overtaken and lay down upon her skin. She bled liberal. Which to him amounted to a grave sin.

As far as she was concerned, half their misunderstanding in those days on the seaboard of the Atlantic, were simply semantic. Nevertheless he calmly pronounced her a communist one day when she was only nineteen and reading Marx and Engels, behind her seatbelt  crunching Pringles. She laughed so hard,  when she heard him. Fell into one of those rare laughing fits that used to take her to the ground unable to breathe when she was a child. She had learned how to breathe and laugh circa nineteen eighty-six or seven. Without the prerequisite girls finishing school etiquette.

His psychology was to get attention any way possible from her. This was his little sister after all. The training ground for all his failed relationships, and for that very reason. He naturally waited until the last moment for anything. Which had a direct correlation to the availability of almost nothing. He was declined invitations. He was a designed imitation. He was subject to subconscious limitation. He refused to drop to the floor even if his house was on fire.  His situation: dire. He found solid reasons to hide from immaterial beings. His angels were forced to pray for him from a distance; he rarely cracked a tinted window, from the confines of his private limousine. He would turn on her simply because he yearned for her approval. Her laughter hit him in the gut. He fled for the comfort of his intellect, and left his heart in the alley. For removal.