underground

no wonder good things live underground for once they see light so often they are trampled 

#katyamills

not just on

i hardly ever dress up

i was raised in corduroy and cotton

took me twenty years to

tear up my clothes

love of a thrift store and all

you can find life underground because

main street got old

i could not appreciate anything

until I found you

flash

the reunification

When i dream i dream of loving you through it all and you loving me, cause the world can be processed cheese and nothing nice on a sesame roll of dice. i still want you maybe five or ten times a day while you’re away, you call me and i call you and we find ourselves free and working citizens, no game, no fame, just sunning on the ordinary sands, paid in sand dollars and buttering the skin with oils. i got afraid when you wanted to move in with me. i am so used to living alone and rather like it. but last night when reading a story about some fugitives in Germany, i realized that behind the heinous crime spree were people in desperate need to be loved. they found one another in that predicament i suppose. broken families, broken economies. a good deal of sadness turned to hate in the heart of a child who knows not what to do with it. violence comes of a hateful heart if you do not learn the alchemy. nothing excuses the criminals their crimes. i saw a window into their lives as they borrowed identities from friends and secured small apartments for the three of them to live. they played video games and the woman had a cat. they had romances between them and accepted it. they drank wine and read indoctrinating books. they took holiday on the Baltic Sea. for whatever intention people come together, good or bad, ideological or not, the deeper intention seems to me to be the coming together itself, in a world which has crumbled around them. the Berlin Wall went down not long before them, and they were seeing the West with fresh eyes, while the West was seeing them for profit in a market. clearly reunification was gonna be arduous and exciting. if only we all could come together around a good cause. but it cannot be. the point is the coming together, the bond. life energy and life’s fulfillment circulate through the bond, the comradery. the intention matters less. such is the way of the world. the crime spree went on the better part of a decade, the National Socialist Underground. they didn’t always take credit for their atrocities but they were a known terrorist cell and informants (they call ‘assets’) all around. but the intel was weak and the investigation poor. the families of the victims, victimized. finally the two men were dead in the back of a camper, after robbing a bank. the woman would be hunted and turn herself in. she is imprisoned to this day. Beate. she is alone again. i am so used to living alone and rather like it. i got afraid when you said you wanted to move in with me. but after i saw the movie and read the book, i really cannot stop thinking about you and me, coming together for all time, as time passes away from us.

after the accident

I will meet you
graveyard
sunday morning

reach for me
underground

after the accident

please!

people work better when driven (insane) -vi)

The mouth has been watering for some time for a little taste of the really real! Far from the office-as-is. Far from the home-land-security-cam. Far from the life-support system. The Business class. The identical non pinstripe suits. The ladies unable to wear open-toed shoes. Life which is not a beach, even when you live directly on a beach. The gentleman frowned upon for windsor knotting their ties. This isn’t England. We don’t have time for that shit. Deducted from your paycheck. The mentality here. The program we must follow or else. Leave your dreams at home. Put your unpublished novels in the shredder. There’s no glory in your personal story of desecrated ennui. You owe yourself and your country some restitution, for all that rest. Bipolar? Autistic? Schizoaffective? Come one, come all! People wait in line for a diagnosis, just to get away.  Fuck the stigma. Be the illness. Covet the experience no more. Self-actualized mental illnesses. You wanna work it like that? Stranger things are happening, so get in line. Start somewhere. Let a county physician try and know you better than you know yourself. Cognitive behave yourself badly. Be a kid again, or role reverse your kids into parenting you. This is the quiet desperation of those who have spent the better part of their wonderful miserable lives within cubicles.

Heroes. That’s what we ought to start calling ourselves. Those of us who have sacrificed our sanity, to join the really real. Because heroes are the ones who wanna wake up, sunshine, and want you to wake up, too. No envy, no coveting nothing. No needing of what can be ordinarily supplied, to get them going with their bad selves and into the world that way, all human and scarred and shit, all making mistakes and so forth, all in the luxury of the poor, dishevelled, diy, really kinda real and  sensitive and depressed and anxious and emotional and socially awkward or not but creative in a way of living or working all day at some best effort cause with a heart and some passion or compassion otherwise sold at such a great discount and cost on some chopshop butcher block of supposedly trickled down economics. But instead owned and held dearly though appearing laissez-faire or loose or otherwise inaccurately judged, when all it is really, is worn out from trying. Worn out from giving. Worn out from being other than.

We are the  untold heroes and we are real. We don’t need to dream, but we do anyway. We might be found cracking nuts in some blue diamond almond factory down the street in the day. Or throwing paint chips at some glue-dipped armchair and passing it off for high art at some oakland first friday telegraph avenue meet bourbon street doused in whiskeytown rotgut penniless parade in the evening. All the drunken prairie dogs come up off their wooden skateboards to see. It looks like some lost vision.  But it’s not lost, not really. Just looks that way. Don’t be fooled. And sure, the pickpocketers will be among them. High art, my ass! will be the first thought crosses your mind. sometimes. Bottle bands and road flares lit up for applause. Kids hooked on ropes, bouncing off buildings. Calling it dance? There’s solid proof of wasted time and effort squeezing dreams dry. But we don’t let them stop us. Because this is heroics, 101. Acceptance. Insanity. Serenity. Insanity.

Can we continue? Not if we have to ask, no. This is the whole of it, to press on and on doing what you believe in most, then going to sleep, waking up, and doing it some more. You won’t always be happy, you will experience alot of pain and ridicule. But you grind up and juice some more caffeinated heroics, what with yourself and what you offer, and you offer your lifestyle, up to the world, and the young ones see you and wanna be you, because when they meet eyes and meet hearts with you, the mind falls away and the age and the physical and mental pain no longer affects us. We become made in the shade and bonded to one another. All artisans and artists, sisters and brothers. And we get beat up and beat down, and life throws us shit. But we somehow manage to just handle it. We work ourselves up to something good, something greater than great. I think we get there and feel it, then our bodies and minds let up and relax so nice. So natural from living this way. Then we can laugh our souls out right onto our tables, out of our windows and doors on the street. The light and the laughter. Replenished. Replete. Through and through, and another day approaches us and we take it, no fear. Because starvation cannot locate itself in something so dear. Its our twenty thirteen heroics gonna get us out of any bind. We are our national treasure, no doubt. keep our heroics in our attitude, share our talent like its gratitude. save the usa. this way.