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[07 Dec 2015|09:58pm]
Look at this city
its prisons are crowded
with our friends
I was among them just now
in my sleep
They all stand huddled together there
and hear through the windows
the guards talking about executions
Now they talk of people as gardeners talk of leaves for burning.
Their names are crossed off the top of a list
and as the list grows shorter
more names are added at the bottom
I stood with them
and we waited
for our own names to be called

What kind of town is this? (She asks)
What sort of streets are these?
Who invented this
who profits by it
I saw peddlers
at every corner
they're selling little guillotines
with tiny sharp blades
and dolls filled with red liquid
which spurts from the neck
when the sentence is carried out
What kind of children are these
who can play
with this toy so efficiently
and who sits in judgement
who sits in judgement?
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Slug and Ant [09 Apr 2015|10:53pm]
Really the most appealing thing to me about Minneapolis, MN. was that is the hometown of the hip-hop group that changed my life.

When I was in high school
I spent countless hours listening to Atmosphere CDs about love, loss, music, broken bikes and sunshine.
I was going to name masterpieces but as far as I'm concerned it's irrelevant.

"It's the caffeine the nicotine the milligrams of tar, it's my habitat it needs to be cleaned, it's my car."

So when I solicited a position there, and succeeded, naturally I thought I was in pursuit of the American Dream and my own adolescent idols.

Atmosphere played a show while I was there
It was sold out and Slug must be nearing 50.

Who cares if it was a job on a self-professed chain-gang.
You don't know what that means anyway.
But it means I arrived in time for mud season.

When the ground froze I was delighted.
Not because it meant ski season but because it meant I wouldn't be at risk for sinking waist deep in the mud ravine where I hustled fascines.

"It's game shows, cheap liquor, blunts, and bumper stickers with rainbows..."

By hustled, I mean dragged.
And by fascines I mean bundles of sticks.
Organized with special knots designed by gloved fingers.

My favorite day was the one we went out on a half frozen lake with an excavating company.
Tug boat driver still had the new tags on his Carhartts.
And the old timer operating the front loader was not only concerned for my fingers,
He was also concerned about my tree planting career out on a frozen lake.

"It's the winter, the weather, it's herpes and it's forever..."

I went to Fleet Farm on the season opener -
You know, when your laborers buy their new unsulated overalls.
To date, mine are one of my proudest belongings.
"I needed these", I say.
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[03 Jun 2014|01:06pm]
"Pain is strange. A cat killing a bird, a car accident, a fire... Pain arrives, BANG, and there it is, it sits on you. It's real. And to anybody watching, you look foolish. Like you've suddenly become an idiot. There's no cure for it unless you know somebody who understands how you feel, and knows how to help."
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[02 Jun 2014|04:01pm]
"ME: Why is being alone so terrible?
ME: And you know that men and women can never wholly possess each other.
ME: I know.
ME: And you know that you'd hate to have a man who possessed you totally and used up your breathing space...
ME: I know - but I yearn for it desperately.
ME: But if you had it, you'd feel trapped.
ME: I know.
ME: You want contradictory things.
ME: I know.
ME: You want freedom and you also want closeness.
ME: I know.
ME: Very few people ever find that.
ME: I know.
ME: Why do you expect to be happy when most people aren't?
ME: The first step is learning how to be alone...
ME: Yes, and when you learn that really well, you forget how to be open to love if it ever does come.
ME: Who said life was easy?
ME: No one."

"People don't complete us. We complete ourselves. If we haven't the power to complete ourselves, the search for love becomes a search for self-annihilation; and then we try to convince ourselves that self-annihilation is love."
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This Then [12 Mar 2014|10:52am]
it's the same as before
or the other time
or the time before that.
here's a cock
and here's a cunt
and here's trouble.

only each time
you think
well now I've learned:
I'll let her do that
and I'll do this,
I no longer want it all,
just some comfort
and some sex
and only a minor

now I'm waiting again
and the years run thin.
I have my radio
and the kitchen walls
are yellow.
I keep dumping bottles
and listening
for footsteps.

I hope that death contains
less than this.

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[02 May 2013|09:49pm]
There is pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is rapture in the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar;
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot conceal.
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[25 Mar 2011|08:01pm]
"There are times, however, and this is one of them, when even being right feels wrong. What do you say, for instance, about a generation that has been taught that rain is poison and sex is death? If making love might be fatal and if a cool spring breeze on any summer afternoon can turn a crystal blue lake into a puddle of black poison right in front of your eyes, there is not much left except TV and relentless masturbation. It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die. Who knows? If there is in fact, a heaven and a hell, all we know for sure is that hell will be a viciously overcrowded version of Phoenix — a clean well lighted place full of sunshine and bromides and fast cars where almost everybody seems vaguely happy, except those who know in their hearts what is missing... And being driven slowly and quietly into the kind of terminal craziness that comes with finally understanding that the one thing you want is not there. Missing. Back-ordered. No tengo. Vaya con dios. Grow up! Small is better. Take what you can get..."
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[07 Feb 2011|02:01pm]
Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to unemployment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies and contraceptives... and to the "good life", whatever it is and wherever it happens to be.
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[06 Apr 2009|11:20pm]
Yo, some nights we got so drunk
Its like we missed the feeling
Of a never ending headache
And a spinning ceiling
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[03 Sep 2008|08:59pm]
This Steppenwolf of ours has always been aware of at least the Faustian two-fold nature within him. He has discovered that the one-fold of the body is not inhabited by a one-fold of the soul, and that at best he is only at the beginning of a long pilgrimage toward this ideal harmony. He would like either to overcome the wolf and become wholly man or to renounce mankind and at last to live wholly a wolf's life. It may be presumed that he has never carefully watched a real wolf. Had he done so he would have seen, perhaps, that even animals are not undivided in spirit. With them, too, the well-knit beauty of the body hides a being of manifold states and strivings. The wolf too, has his abysses. The wolf, too, suffers. No, back to nature is a false track that leads nowhere but to suffering and despair. Harry can never turn back again and become wholly wolf, and could he do so he would find that even the wolf is not of primeval simplicity, but already a creature of manifold complexity. Even the wolf has two, and more than two, souls in his wolf breast, and he who desires to be a wolf falls into the same forgetfulness as the man who sings: "If I could be a child once more!" He who sentimentally sings of blessed childhood is thinking of the return to nature and innocence and the origin of things, and has quite forgotten that these blessed children are beset with conflict and complexities and capable of all suffering.
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[05 May 2008|02:19pm]
"Power without love is reckless and abusive, and love without power is sentimental and anemic. Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice, and justice at its best is power correcting everything that stands against love."
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[16 Sep 2007|10:41pm]
The first time we met he probably called me toots. Or maybe he didn’t. I can’t remember. Taking shots and shaking at the kitchen table, probably. Standing in the driveway or staggering down the plank or teetering across the bridge in the backyard. Sitting on the railing with a bottle or a cigarette. I can’t remember what we talked about, can’t remember what we ever talk about or how we meet or why we get along really, or even if we do.

It’s 6:40 in the morning and I haven’t slept in what feel like days. Has been days probably.
“Racking lines at 6:40am makes you feel like superman. Bolivian goddess. Hold on let me play that song for you again…”
“I am the conscience clear…in pain or ecstasy and…”
She was distracted. We all get distracted. Blonde hair ratty in the back and a short dress and a little too much sparkling makeup. But focused on the card between her fingers, chopping at the mirror on the floor of the bedroom, singing the same part of the same song over and over again. Pausing to fumble with something.
“In pain or ecstasy and…”
We all get caught up in the details and miss the obvious.
“Yo mama whats your name”

Walking down the street in the morning dark is like being the only person alive. The shadows move and the crows are the only birds awake and you can see the trash on the street in the half glow. Kind of sober, but only in the way the daylight exposes reality. The dark and the fog and the vodka create a filter the hides the ugly and covers everything in magic. Until morning. Dirty, red cups littering the ugly streets. The house hot and humid and stinking of beer and the slime on the floor and the thousands of little white and yellow cigarette butts littering the plank between the houses. Half smoked and stuck between the cracks, in the washed out garden, under the succulents and strewn across the driveway, even the living room. Broken bottles on the tile floor, puddles under the table.
Because really, what does it matter?

We usually reconvene in the backyard. The last people alive, bonded over mutual sleeplessness. Too many drugs and too much adrenaline. Shaking in the morning damp. The depressants don’t even bring us down any more. Floating a hundred feet above the ocean at 6:40 in the morning. The sky grey in the dawn, waves crashing against the cliff, nursing a cigarette and pretending to understand one another until the comedown is too much and it’s time to lie in bed alone. Stumbling down the stairs, wandering back down the street in the dawn, it’s always the same. Eyes wide open, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, waiting wishing for something more. Something bigger. Something that means anything.
We’re really just strangers with a chemical bond after all, afraid of sober contact. Afraid of being ourselves because it’s been too long and we probably don’t know anymore... I know I couldn't tell you.

And now I have cigarette burns on my hands and bruises on my legs and bags under my eyes. Chapped lips and sore teeth and a nose full of shit. Knuckles covered in cuts and fingernails dirty, painted two different colors. Makeup smeared. Feet black and cut from the glass and slime.
“I really just don’t want to sleep alone tonight” she said.

It’s amazing how easy it is to feel alone surrounded by so many people. So many close friends, so many acquaintances, so many strangers. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world.
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[07 May 2007|11:50pm]
"I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center."
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[03 May 2007|12:31pm]
Give me the biggest fucking shot of disastrous ass-backwards triple X 1000 proof shit in a glass.
Better get the whole bottle.
Better yet I'll get water. I don't drink.

I'm not waving. I'm drowning.

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