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something wrong with
the internet back
at my house and
besides I wanted
to hit the coffee shop anyway
come here and write
read
discover the misfortune of
a badly torn page
as it turns out has been there
since the purchase over
a year ago
in the days before
my wife left for Spain
I was making decent money
at that job before
they let me go
and so when I spotted these
special prints
I splurged for them
proudly putting them on my shelf
thinking, “I will really take care of them
and see that they wear and tear
very little over the years”
but then you move and
you see that everything you
bring along with you
in the truck
is subject to being knocked over
scuffed shattered bent
what was in storage in my
mother’s garage
became rotted out
filled with spider eggs
etc.
this tells the tale
of the ravages of time

anyway
a magnificent
story is kicked out here
by Dostoevsky as usual
there is the big story
and the many little stories
that give further insight
into the pure hearted nature
of Myshkin
the only one in the whole lot
to step in
and break the cruel streak
in which people were showering down
upon this one poor girl in the village

. . .

Roanoke days were lonely as hell. I did not expect too much more of Houston once I got here, that such an abundance of good people would befriend me, and there would be things to do, things to talk about, which would make me feel alive again. Soon enough I had friends to talk to that were very accepting of me and incredibly generous. This has all been a stage of healing, and I say this as I continue to heal. That last job, after all, was god awful; felt like my eyes were being stabbed out. I have never met such rude motherfuckers in all my life.

See, when you get treated like shit long enough by enough people, you start to believe it. This is why I left JetSetters in such a blaze of glory. Existing there was just not possible. In essence, I had slid my car off a bridge during an ice storm; I was down below, holding my breath, waiting. Waiting.

. . .

The White Stripes are playing and a guy is banging his fist at the far end of this table. I do not disapprove.

Music is blood, I’ve concluded. People cannot do without it.

Oh, a woman orders her coffee at the register just barely, because she is talking on the phone, and when she is called back over to sign her receipt she doesn’t hear. “Ma’am, ma’am, ma’am,” they call out. She comes over in mid-conversation, signs, not even acknowledging the employees, walks out. This generates a little stir before the whole thing is mostly forgotten and the day goes on.

There is talk about the next few days being dry and the temperature going back up, if only just a bit. It all sounds good to me.

. . .

In the overall sense I don’t exist much. That there is an experimental sentence. Not sure what it means. I am here in the immediate moment just like we were talking about last night that cats don’t really think as much as they feel. I could be saying it from a satellite that the houses what to speak of the people in them are all just spots, ants to step on, ants which the weather can step on at any time, in which the CIA tortures, spies on, discards when they are no longer any use. “Give up your information!”

It is an information age. Automated in travel and made in who’s image? God damn. My spare time ends here.

blood flows through
the body
there is life
in every spec
alcohol in Spec’s
there’s
ability that
connects
then completes
the mundane
the so-called mundane
the mundane
machine of
the work place