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a well-hung portrait of frozen chaos

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Sunday, September 25th, 2005
11:10 pm - Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
I don't if anybody really gives a poop, but lately, I have been here:

http://www.jroar.blogspot.com

(1 stranger | join the chorus of strangers)

Monday, July 19th, 2004
3:18 pm
I feel like I've been abandoned by gravity. I need to find some center I can touch down upon for a moment, a quiet place where I can reevaluate things. I wish my problems had more substance.

(4 strangers | join the chorus of strangers)

Saturday, July 17th, 2004
8:06 pm - Flowers of Evil
I uploaded some music I've been working on---

http://www.purevolume.com/theflowersofevil

(sorry, too lazy to figure out how to make it link)

---please check it out and let me know what you think.

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Thursday, May 20th, 2004
1:09 am
when our eyes connect, lightning crashes and glaciers melt. The invisible hairs on my skin stand up and time stops. The butterflies are eating my stomach, dear--find a way to let me know.

(3 strangers | join the chorus of strangers)

Friday, April 30th, 2004
1:25 am
I'm not sure if depressed is the word. I just feel that so much within me lies fallow and unexpressed, waiting forever waiting for the right moment to spring into electric life. I still hold some secret belief that this moment is not a fallacy or an illusion, that I am in the midst of a passing state, water waiting to be turned into wine, mud waiting to become clay in idle hands...

Just because I reach my hand out to you, it doesn't neccessarily mean I'm drowning. I'm blooming and someone needs to pick the flower. It is a painful thing to reach and find nothing. Or nothing human. Not the warmth of skin. Not moisture but the dryest dry. Not beauty but the idea of beauty, empty, possibly meaningless, continually taunting.

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Monday, April 26th, 2004
11:58 pm
My parents live across the street from an elementary school. Naturally, when I was a child, I went to this elementary school. I remember an assigment where we had to draw maps of the way to school, and lucky me I drew one straight arrow across a street and played Operation while all of the other kids were cartographically clamouring. When I was in highschool, the schoolyard was always there--a place to play football. A place to smoke cigarettes. The romantic spot on the top of the hill. Nowadays I hardly even notice the school as a while my way back and forth, a prisoner of the present.

But occassionally, after eating some homemade dinner, I remember my old school. I walk across the street and come to a place where two times are happening simultaneously, a place that just cries out for a Wordsworthian epiphany... I run around the backstop until I'm out of breath, I climb to the top of the monkeybars and topple down, I slide headfirst down the slide... But mostly I just swing silently and remember.

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5:52 pm
For some reason I like the ASU library--maybe it's the musty, pastel late-70s aura of the place. I can think in here, aimlessly roaming the paths between the stacks, picking up the odd volume and reading page 56. When I read old books, I think of all of the eyes that have soaked up the words, the inventory of invisible thumbprints on the edge of each leaf. I wonder what these words meant to those people. Do they mean the same thing now? Amongst these old books, I can think without being alone.

We had a get-together to celebrate my friend Chris's birthday. Burgers, beer, videogames, loud music--fun, but I always feel a little bit out of place amongst the drinking games and shit-talking. I love the taste of beer, but more than two just makes me feel bloated and ill, so obviously I can't and wouldn't want to keep up with heavy drinkers like Doug and Max. And as for the shit-talking--I'd rather be somewhere quiet, reading a book and pretending to play the saxophone. These people I've known have changed so much--I can hardly recognize them--these are the sort of things I find myself thinking as I chit-chat and eat burgers. So me and Isaac retreated to his room and played the Beatles all night on our acoustic guitars.

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Saturday, April 24th, 2004
1:14 am
Chick bit my head off, but the ass was magic
Should've seen the tattoo on her back of a praying mantis
Clutched my chest like Fred Sanford
And splashed her crack on some man shit
Now baby girl's amped, trying to walk on both hands backwards
Moaning fantastic damage with her grill sunk in the mattress
(that's my language)
Rode at insane angles, all tangled up and damaged
Star spangled mangler fuckbot add a money shot
Hit her in the shitter i'm in it with, K-Y liquid and
Double kitchen gloves, love's lovin it
Comfortable naked and takes it like a patriot
I'm wearin a dookie rope and some oven mitts!
Suck clits like Trey's Mom Vs. mother reminder
And that's my b-boy alpha numeric vagina diner amalgam
Chick screamed so loud I could hear it on my last album!
(on Jam Band X-Press)
And smell her in the shower
While we fucked to Chill Rob G's version of 'I've got the Power'
It's getting kinda hectic
The house pets seem alert and confused,
And the neighbors leaving messages

Get on your stomach and I'll plug you in all your entrances
And one exit
Whispering quotes from The Tempest
Dr. Hell No, (oh yes I did)
With a surgical scrub on a baby arm inserted from fist to elbow
I drank her bath water in a shot glass
Then ran my tongue up the crack of her ass
Til our future children hatched
The mushrooms had me seeing some sort of deep organic math
On some primal altered state sex, I felt connected to the past
Collapse, nasty, wet, wept into her neck
Suckling on her swollen nipples
Then I drifted into R.E.M.
Where I dreamt of little bouncing cherubs
With clit rings and sexy woodnips
And crotchless liederhosen begging to get bent

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12:30 am
For the past six days I have been stuck inside of a revolving door. When I see the landscape pass me by, again and again, I start to mostly think about sleep. My dreams are light, filled with translucent angels and comely albino virgins that barely exist, and while I am dreaming of them, it is I that barely exist and they slowly become marble statues, half-finished humans perpetually in the process of becoming. I wish that I could join them. I wish that I were I were filled with awe. But I am only half-full, and that is the problem. I should be awake, I tell myself, over and over again, until the exasperation becomes a mantra, dull and repetitious like the revolving panorama. If you are going to dream, the only way to attain greatness is to become your dream, and sometimes this means slowly seeping out of the reality that fails to accomodate you. This is not a means of escape, but merely a way of gaining perspective, of viewing your relationship with reality as a transparent and mathematical quantity, the last irrational dividend of some unknowable variable. As another revolution climaxes, it takes all of my might to remind myself: no matter how it revolves, this is still a door. Being a door, perhaps it has a knob. If you were to grab this knob and open the door, perhaps it would lead somewhere. But part of me resists jumping off of this cliff--who knows what foulness lieth behind that door? Those terrible fates tempt me, but ultimately, they provide a subtle anesthetic, a drug-like experience that is wholly static, a well-hung portrait of frozen chaos.

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Monday, April 19th, 2004
5:02 pm
Right about now, I'm feeling the crunch. In retrospect, I wish I had not shunned Beverly so many months ago. But I was distracted by the beginnings of Me & Jill (who knew it would end so tragically) and a tad overwhelmed by the folks popping out of the woodwork every few seconds, reiterating her desire for me. Today, however, I regret my nonchalance. Sitting across from me in the computer lab, she looks rather fetching. That short plaid skirt shows off her long ivory legs, her hairstyle much more becoming, and of course, the glasses... My fantasies have taken an illicit turn.

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2:27 am
You're a special guest of Roger Q. Best
He's saved you a piece of the pie!
So have a seat, yeah, sit down and eat
The pie that one the prize
A Piece of the Prize-Winning Pie

I wasted so much time this weekend. By waste, I don't mean a comfortable, gradual drain, but a good solid chuck into the roaring void of an aluminum trash can. Waste away in withered words, adjust the smoke and mirrors. Is that me? I would rather frown than carry this blank expression on my face. My cheeks are too weak to smile. I have no money in my pockets. My family makes completely realistic demands of me that present themselves as being totally absurd. I feel like somebody coated the tightrope with vasoline. The ground is far away. It doesn't move, but nonetheless it frightens. People scare me, and quite frankly, I scare them. It's that mad gleam in my eye, the unkempt hair, the sour odor, the psychotic strut, the heavy breathing. Most of all it is the fearful rabbit eyes that balance themselves so precariously on my sockets. If you let them know you're scared, they're all over you like a pack of rabid wolves. And I'm scared. And I cannot hide it.

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Tuesday, April 13th, 2004
11:09 am
Do you have the new album by Yogurt Reynolds?
Dude, you know have that double disc!
Fifty songs that set my heart asail
Must I make you buy the album of albums?

I've got to stop braving the night. Contrary to what they say, the night is not gentle unless viewed from the wings of a bat or a raven. I cooked myself some scrambled eggs, some toast and jelly, a prizewinning croissant, and washed it all down with a glass of fresh orange juice and a steaming cup of joe. Then I sat down to watch the colorful images. I am an impulsive person, so I change channels quickly, but not with the idea of getting somewhere, of arriving at some terminal station--I merely like the blurry lines between the channels. I remember being a green and gleeful seven, trying to get the lightswitch to rest idly between the two position. It took me so long to discover that if something is on it can not be off. No middle ground is offered.

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Monday, April 12th, 2004
10:23 pm
I feel like somebody has taken a gavel to my head. Strangers keep trafficking through my house, but strangely enough, these strangers happen to be my relatives. I say "happen" because it always comes off as some sort of unhappy coincidence when I take to them with the thumbscrews and the polygraph. And old man told me once, with a sequence of blindly musical gestures, the secret to losing your mind. The secret to losing your mind is teaching yourself to forgot that you lost your mind. You have to live the lie of knowing where you left what you wanted to get rid of, and this makes you seem placid, normal, everyday. You take on the neutral aura of an earthtone and to other people you are an outline, a silhouette, a shadow sinking into the mossy ground. The thunder in my head screams for silence. Silence or static.

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Friday, April 9th, 2004
2:02 am
I'm a balloon without a string, but that has it's advantages and disadvantages. The sun is warm and I don't so much mind but the ground gets further and further away. A message in Morse Code: "People on Mars live to two hundred and five". A needle interrupts, my wind fizzles, but I don't so much mind the pop and the shake. Things expand before getting so much smaller. My lungs fill with air, but the air is hot and rancid, caked with mold and greenery, and sun inches closer and closer. We get off on gravity, melt like cheese in the microwave, dig graves like moondancin fools. Don't ignore the hard-on I have for you, my lady friend. The sword gleams before the slice. The guillotine is slow and rusty. I wish I had a piano. I'm thinking of whoring myself out for money. Arranging a golfer holocaust.

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Monday, April 5th, 2004
7:13 am
Lately, the only thing that has been filling with delight is sitting down with my Chuck Berry record and trying to figure out Chuck's guitar licks. I always fuck them up, because he's an odd sort of virtuoso and the high action on my acoustic is murder on my finger. It's easy to push the beat, though--those early rock and roll tempos are slower than you think. Of course, the amazing thing about Chuck Berry isn't really his primitive, twangy chordal solo style (though it of course has a lot to recommend it), but his lyrics. The meter just jumps and the wit is so distinctive.

Time to pop a tart.

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Saturday, April 3rd, 2004
3:43 am
Intimacy with strangers with none of the guilt. Why am I always picking up the pieces? Why are people so dispassionate, so blase? Why am I so complacent and passive? Why can't I go to sleep? Why do I want to sleep all day? Who are my real friends? Why can't I control my emotions? Why can't I write it all down? It all drips off my nib, flares out from the blade of my tongue, sibilant, coaldusted, forever lost, forever in transit... Why can't I be honest? Why can't I decipher my own codes? Why won't these hands come clean?

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Tuesday, March 23rd, 2004
4:24 pm
Wheels are being set in motion, small black dots are being connected, waste is being expunged in slow dreadful crawls. I step out of myself to watch the spectacle; I see myself bicycling the bridge, stacking the cards, intentionally falsifying the measurement, hurting small children, and making the flowers grow as if life were a single slow sweeping motion. These things will come back to you. No: you will come back to them, again and again, and you will fail miserably in your last-ditch grab at redemption. The machine will run logically and at full capacity, but when it out-thinks god the boiler will explode and time will contract various cancers of misunderstood origin. It's often when the intrepid explorer returns from his overlong pilgrimage, his intimate expedition, his weekend his safari, a decade wrestling with the nymph, it is often only when he returns from his spelunking and cavorting with myth and mildew, that he can look upon his own land and identify it with a sense of rising wonder. It is as if the sun in his eyes, casting out darkness with white bright light. Maybe I've reached a place where both roads seem equally long and hard, and the destinations seem hardly equal, and the modes of transportation are horsedrawn taxis and/or elephantine royale, and I've journeyed and thought for so long that the thinking has become one with the journey, and I've been forced to pause and whoever made me stop is ridiculing my calculations, calling the bluff on all of the old estimations, and generally restocking my library, if you get my drift.

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Saturday, March 20th, 2004
4:05 pm
You cant catch me
No, you Can't catch me
Cuz when you get to close
I'll be gone
Like a Cool Breeze

The title of the book is a single letter, so there are fully twenty-five wrong answers. This dusty tomb sets my skin afire, dusty tomes line the walls of the catacombs, misdirecting to the box in which the fabled rooster crows without echoe, inaugurating the past. You grab P and F and throw yourself into the chaos, mincing the winedark sea with cries of despair that seem to come from you but no more originate from your bosom than the mad speech of the ventriloquist's dummy. He's not so dumb is he now, Golden Boy? Can you scan the line? Hold it up to the metre stick, illuminated by the shining darkness of the allseeing tomb. All the past is here, sealed off and acting the part of the past. There is no future here. The seam shows in this tiny corner. Pull the thread oh-so-gently.

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Monday, March 15th, 2004
6:02 pm
Somedays I just get by
I don't even try

I just want to tell everyone to go away, to sequester myself and think purely for a six months squared. Everyone's already knocking on my door; sometimes, I wonder why I even have a door at all, seems like people just walk right in with total disregard for my person or mindstate. I want to break my phone in half and sabotage my own car. I want to chop off my legs and say "fuck wheelchairs!" I want to build a log cabin on a six lane highway and purely think. My thoughts will cease to be polluted dreams of other kinds of sickness, and shape themselves into transparent rainbow letters, manifestations of an eternal, revolving "huh?"

I could go for some blueberry pancakes right now.

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Friday, March 12th, 2004
3:47 pm
I love you baby, like a miner loves gold
Come on, baby, let the good times roll


I've got such an incredible amount of writing ahead of me. I'm going to be writing on the walls and on the ceiling. I'll sleep write in the most lucid states with peculiar, unpredictable urges. I'll write and my shadow will write with me, producing a shadow-copy of whatever I write. I'll write in languages that have been dead for centuries. I'll write in languages that are yet to be spoken. Sometimes, when I'm writing, I'll speak aloud. Sometimes, when I'm speaking, I'll write aquiet. I'll write on parchment, papyrus, notebook paper, buffalo hide, the human derrier, the washington monument, accessible mountain sides, the empty spans betwixt the twinkling stars, the face of the sun, an irradiated husk. I'll write for hours, until the writing seems terrible and automatic, and I will still write. I will kill my inspiration.

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