Talk of… GOOD INTENTIONS. Just talking. The talk does not manifest itself always into anything other than itself? Let me say, this wisdom pouring out is manifest in the act of humanity’s ability to question. And on top of that, it’s ability to question the question. That is some acid infinity mirror kind of shit, right? You cannot help but to call the mirror absurd, call it for what it is, but still its concept and existence is compelling.
You are asking what your purpose is and whatever answer comes back if in the vague it’s to do good, then what exactly is the point? Is good going in some kind of direction? You would just like to know. Does it matter that humanity will become extinct? If you become an entirely selfless being like you say you wish, don’t you care about the world and what it will become after you are long gone? When the Sun explodes, then what? And if it does, and when it does, why, just why has everything been shot to hell? Is humanity itself not even the point? Is it all simply about electricity, energy, etc.? Won’t someone just call it out? Is humanity to happily make the transition into something else?
. . .
I am not okay with someone all of a sudden flying off on a racist diatribe. I am also not okay with other people pandering to it and adding on just to be social or accommodating. And I am not okay with myself just sitting quiet while it all happens.
. . .
Recovering from this freight train induced coma from the drinking. Morning. Shower to awaken. Coffee to awaken some more. Bounce back, spring to life, jolt cola-esque. Allow the elements of the world to bring out the best in you. Diedrich’s is becoming thoroughly terrible. Our little neighborhood spot has become ruined by the yuppies and the yuppie claw.
. . .
angry man
anger management
I see that angry man at work
and I think
“what a fucking baby”
man reaches that…
he shows
that he’s reaching his limit
and people
laugh at him
he slams a door
for some kind of effect
like at home
fighting with his mom
when he was a kid
a child
and everyone
laughs
at
him
. . .
He wanted to know the pitiful art of lonliness through the act of writing. The traffic light swung jerkily in the evening wind. He didn’t know what to say to her any more, he felt so incredibly stupid and embarrassed by the greasy spot on his pants. The radio station was knocked over by a hilarious wrecking ball, all the people still inside, falling through the floors with alphabetical names though a unalphabetized death.
. . .
After reading one of my poems, someone comments: “I’m sorry your emo band broke up…”
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