So perfectly flawed: December 06, 2010 (4:43pm)

 Loneliness is being alone. Tasting solitude and annoying yourself beyond any belief that there are other people out there because it is only your mind that confines itself with itself. A terrible mix of who you are alone compared against what you might think you are with others. Being lost isn’t nearly as hallow as you’d think, it gives you the opportunity to be found…not by others, which isn’t important, but to accidentally know that you’d be sought or fought for. Does that give worth? Does life begin with birth? Or does it begin with knowing that at one point you’re going to die and to live you’ll have to know you’re not going to live? These poor lives that may in fact be rich with things so greatly out of reach are the saddest and most perfect examples of why we must hate being happy with what we have.

At the Minimum it is Only Me I Hold: November 19, 2010 (10:14am)

Because my ugliness is only seen by the eyes that are sometimes described as beautiful or perhaps it’s that sound I hear when I ignore noise…no one knows any better, call me on my bullshit; beat me at chess; quote a better line, I’ve still got mine. I’ll deconstruct the ‘you-thought’ of me. Lock this away and you’ll still find an argument burried behind fallen parts that just seem destined to not hover, that’s why they descend and even if in some sad way you try to defend what I assure is hopeless, that doesn’t make the inevitability of it any less than what it is…practical! Change the stripes; adjust the spots; make it across the river with your new friend on your back, what do you get; yourself still thinking about rape as an arousal and boredom as a disease. We all beg to please; suffer, squeeze, distract and hope…oh gosh please hope. Die you fuck, choke! make it easy for us all to cope with not missing you and knowing that we had to listen to you   gasp for air time one last time.

Times are easy: November 17, 2010 (1:54am)

There are certain moments that are easier than others and those that should be forgotten, and those that are remembered more vividly than others. The problem is that those that are the hardest are a mix between both what has happened and that which has never happened. I'm scared of both just the same, am I sane!? I'm a fucking ghost a mother fucking imagining of what is real and hoped for all at once; I’m a mix between what the fuck and I can't fucking believe this...fuck. I’m here, sometimes; I decide that decisions are a joke but when it's the hardest outcome I’m the only one laughing; it's the end of the show and I’m the only one clapping.

Friends and family and those that you love, stop loving.

(143) November 13, 2010 (8:38am)

I’ve never met you, but you’re love. I can’t speak because my head talks too much and  my mouth won’t work and it knows: I’ll find some way to deconstruct you…you’re a flirt…stop being you. I’m disgusted with me, what will we talk about? I’ve had worse and probably better; talk is cheap…I could send you a letter. Would it be crimson?  Dressing to impress disregarded without notice, something …nonetheless- I can’t smile because you allure; I can’t stop coughing because a commercial says it’s the cure. How do I explain that you’re presence is a present to my fiber? If I had you my mind says: Could you hide her? A drop of something, just one more stir; if I become less of me, does that mean I become more of her? I’d like to like you and merge our souls, but as far as I’m concerned it concerns me no more. I’ll place my heart three steps behind, lost thoughts written down, you are my figment, I’m my seeker…you’re a four letter feeling…I’ll never find.

November 9, 2010 (3:53am)

You weren't my first kiss, but you were my first love. We had sex together for the first time; some glove, some love. Awkward and deliciously innocent. Young is what we were, I'd guess you'd concur. We don't speak anymore because it wasn't love or maybe it was and silence is the cause of such things; that's why it was what it was. Thinking about you is easy, forgetting you is hard, but am i supposed to? Lets pretend; let us defend such terrible greatness and adhere to Bliss, like our moments, as they all are, spread throughout our lives. I'm yours, you were never mine...I'll bleakly blind your hope and say when asked about you..."do you?", nope. That's hate not love; that's temper and reaction...a type of fulfillment derived from years of personal battle and crap; perhaps...never perhaps...never; always never satisfaction. I miss nothing about you and me cause we sucked as an "us", but I liked us. You won't read this, there's no reason for you to do such, I know we were so very different, but we always had our time to touch: skin-hearts; slight of head moments....this is where we could survive...where moments die

-xkp

Forget Me: November 05, 2010 (7:29am)

You gave me my first drink, I was eight or nine, do you remember...we can't talk about it because we don't talk, because I drink...remember? I still think about you, pretty much everyday. Thinking covers a lot, so you could contest that you're no different from the other portions of slop that pass through my head. You're not dead, neither am I? It's not sad or melodramatic, histrionic or in any other way morose. Becoming enraged with a world that leads you to believe that you're not what you need or need what you're not is typically a struggle amongst most; can we have that in common? Can you and I bond? Can I miss you without you hating me for what I am? Not ignorant enough to think that you don't miss me or think in just the same manner; it is our blood that runs through us the same and something carries our thoughts. I’m caught here just where I am thinking of you, thinking of a million goddamn fucking things, does it matter? It matters, right now, maybe not now, but then…it did. I like things, dislike others….probably another thing we can talk about with each other. When will you read this? When will you know? This certain spotlight was shining for you a day, week, month, year…some fucking time ago.

-xkp

Please...

Just call or swing a hammer
I'll lose my voice if you speak first
Trying hard not to beg
That's why my cryptic work
Lost voice sounding inaudibly
Can't I forgive?
I try
I give
Forget to mention what was,
What is?
Past the past;
Pass the before
Before it drags you
Hello
Goodbye
Is there ever one of those?
Badbye
Greetings honesty
Do you do well?
Do you do well to dwell?
Save it like my soul
It's not mine to sell.

Hello yesterday, Goodbye tomorrow. October 22, 2010 (9:42am)

Pulling my fucking hair; drawing my angst; spiking my inability to put words against emotion; still my mind motions against a body without an ocean or landing...flattened. Rocking back and toward the other (continue) stop...it never does, like dust and fuzz; which is the culprit? I imagine life being something simple, cruel, and happy...without the perception and involving mostly the thing that deceives that rhymes with...why is pizza better when you know its going to love your mouth, but a home isn't yours until its a house but home is where my smarts are and its parked behind my my car that runs on guilt...666 MPG, sorry the above is the insurance in my glove-box, afraid of salvation...this weak interpretation of what is below (me)., Blinded only to hear what everyone else doesn't shut the fuck up about; I'm not a body of, I'm yours...of course. Vows aren't what you think. Eye to eye only when you sink. Feet cut by some of it; if not because, then because its easy to hurt when you're looking down while being looked down upon...once, princess.

Best Together When Apart (Part I)

April 23, 2005(7:29am)

“Sarah!”

“What?” She was caught off guard, confused, she giggled...thought it was his temper.

“Do you know how hard it is to keep you away?” He found a place to pull over.

“Away from where?”

“Stop!” He put the car into park. “Listen, I know: You’re who you are, that’s sensible. I’ll still say I can exist without you.” He said it objectively. “You’re attracted to me because I’m me,” plainly put.

“Who’s attracted to you?” She asked defensively.

“Am I afraid of you OR are you afraid of me?” Paul asked.

“What the hell are you talking about?” She had every right questioning his comment.

“I would rather watch you part from me than regret seeing you inside.”

“I told you I don’t want to be there,” she said swiveling her head poignantly.

“You won’t be there, as you wish,” finally turning his head. “Nobody gets this deep.” Paul said with an adorable goofiness.

“Would you be more serious, please? Fuckin’ dick!” She couldn’t tell anymore; heads or tails?

“Shit!” He threw his hands down hard against the steering wheel.

“What?” She asked confused.

“I’m completely out of chap stick.”  They both sighed.

Sarah wanted this -nobody knows about my life- deal to lie down. As much as Paul may have felt about Sarah, He should’ve known better and only remembered her as current. Thinking that was put-upon strangely, but Sarah wanted him to have confidence in her silent affair with him. The control was hers and for her, with him. Knowing how she felt about him kept her there. How could he not know how I feel about him, she told herself often enough. Progress for the past two and a half years seemed positive; a premier involvement with a person just discovered. Sarah didn’t care about deciding how she and Paul got in one place together, she was just glad they had.

“Why are you mad at yourself?” She already new.

“I don’t know. It’s just that, I let my,”

“Defenses down.” She interjected quickly.

“Yeah,” he said with sudden sadness.

“I’m going to run away.”

“Now you’re going to run away!?” No need for an answer he decided.

Sarah loved Paul and Paul loved Sarah. There were no secrets, just some falling out. Perhaps there was a little sidestepping between some absolute meanings. Their love is one line over and over again, non-stop and perfect. Getting to that point had more fat and more detail. It’s only fair to know the secret up front to know why it was kept in the first place.

For two and a half years Paul spent a great deal of his free time with Sarah. He couldn’t remember where twenty-three and twenty four went, but knew they weren’t wasted, not when his time was spent with her. It happens that he got stuck thinking that those years were so comfortable and easy. He didn’t need to expend much energy to figure out if it was good or bad. No cares he thought most of the time...no difficulties preventing him from knocking around or picking to death moments in every way. Helplessly he drowned himself in the past without bothering to find out how something happened; how events really transpired. The amount of guilt and assumption weighed him, it dragged his feet. His thoughts were gyred under his eyes and the stalls in his voice. The grooved face that was his now had been consumed by worry. After meeting Sarah he hadn’t ever had to think about much of anything more. Knowing that he had no reason for concern, besides regular daily decision, curled the corners of his lips and kept it impossible not to be happy. He never regretted any of that time. It was as much for her as it was for him. Sarah was why his eyes didn’t have dark circles anymore, was that fair?

It’s not to be said that Paul and Sarah didn’t fit. Both of them, after noticing, got along very well. They asked each other playfully how this was possible. The question never was answered, the conversations always ended with a joke or some unfit forge of sarcasm from Paul.

“Wow, I mean really, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this much awe...ever.” Paul said shaking his head incredulously. 

“Oh stop. So I think people should stop being poor, that’s not weird.” She started laughing, he did too.

“You are so right...hell what have I been thinking all these years? What an easy solution...we should call the papers. Perhaps they can all be fashion designers as well, so much untapped resources and creativity.”

“Oh no, sorry, I won’t wear it, not if they make them.”

“Why would they be making them if they’re not poor anymore? Wouldn’t they have kids making them? Of course, remember these people aren’t poor, who’s going to clean the toilets?” She knew he was just being a dick, but he said it with so much concern. “We need to make robots now. Oh shit!!”

“What is it?” Now she was concerned.

“Ugly people, we forgot about them, what are we to going to do about them?” He begged with his eyes for an answer.

“Shut up,” she blushed; he laughed. “Why do we get along?”

“It’s all me. I make this work.” He joked.

“Not much to work with then, huh?”

“Listen you’re cute in shorts and a tank top, but I just sound good.”

“You’re an idiot!” Sarah said.

“You’re a blessing; pure relief.”

“From what?” She asked.

“Unnecessary doubt.” He laughed a little bit more.

“Of what?” She was trying to understand.

“That there isn’t anyone left to enjoy time with, together. I have absolute peace when I’m around you. There is no real reason for me to question it or even understand it, I couldn’t care less. I know what I feel when I’m with you, it’s entirely too good of a feeling to doubt. I care about you; I don’t care why. But, maybe…it’s your breasts.” He shrugged.

“Dick. Just when I think you’re being cute...”

“I go and obviate sincerity.” He smiled; she sneered.

Neither one of them really took each other too seriously. But that was because of restraint. Sarah didn’t know Paul hid things. The walks back and forth in his backyard. Nights were consumed by thought, he walked non-stop. Thoughts of her pooled, then drained, and then gathered gently inside him. Becoming a person’s evening is painful. He wrote one night he wished he could give her the thoughts he had about her.

July 18, 2005(4:34am)

“Because I’m afraid of everything you’ve told me,” Paul said very quietly.

“I just wish no one would love me,” Sarah said. She had already felt it. What is it? She knew; she grew from it and shrank. It was what she remembered and tried to forget.

I beg of you. October 18, 2010 (4:27pm)

Not really sure what to write, actually. Straying from what the original premise plagues me a bit, but I feel I need to explain or to some extent reveal a little about what’s going on with my process just so I can certify my obvious digression.  Setting out to read my entire library and document my progress might have been just a slight ruse; a foot in the door to revealing what I really wanted to accomplish…writing. I’m definitely writing now. What I’m doing now is editing a short story I wrote some time ago, I’ll post it soon. I also, gladly remarking, have some feedback from some past brain excrement that I’ll share here. Until then remember this: You’re only as important as you are you…are you?

-xkp

Fuck thyself and thou shall be fucked. October 15, 2010 (7:38am)

And that's why it really hurts

Too much of nothing gets you...October 14, 2010 (6:41am)

       When does it begin, the decline? Is it when you're born? Is there a structure of life where good becomes better and best out ranks all, until you lower yourself toward death? Is it slow rise, slow rise; reach-reach, accomplish, then: fall, falling, failing, flattened, failed? Not a test, a pop quiz, a chance to live or the best chance to die; to end? Fuck, I'm not looking for answers, you eager-to-answer twit, I'll live what I have left to live then glance at my notes to prove that I did.
      Pardon the gap; excuse the space...this place has me confined and determined to pace. The mind is tricky, but trickier to ourselves...to ourselves? We share with others, selectively, and not...to some degree: I'm what I show to you, 1/4 to her; less to him, less always of me.
       I don't know anymore, no really sure I ever did, but quitting is easy sometimes, but harder some other times as well. Staying with quitting is like staying with not quitting, that's really annoying. Expecting what one expects of another depending on what you've let them expect...not unexpected, but left to...

        Excuse the gap; pardon the space...its hard to think clearly when the mind continues the race.

(My possible fiction)-

"I am Not"

The monster I am, the monster I am; this is part of the monster I am.

 It’s not quiet in here, it never is. There’s a peaking of an idea; the scream of a dream, the blinding memories trying to escape, but none ever find a way out. What was the name of that girl I kicked out of my house two years ago for calling me a cry baby? I was so drunk I really didn’t even know she was there, until…

“Thank you for choosing Captain’s, how are you today?” Disgusted and afraid, because you’re a stranger, I don’t like strangers and here I am going through another spike in my darkness. I’m thinking about doing that one thing you can only do once and no one forgives you for doing. I think I’m not going to be able to pay my rent on time again and…

“I’m fine. Can I get a number one with lemonade please?” How have I made it this far? Why did I make it this far? I haven’t done enough good to deserve this extended life. Possibly, life is your punishment and not a gift. That girl crossing the parking lot is fucking hot!

“Will that be all for you today?” Why don’t I ever have my wallet ready? I’m going to have to lift my ass, release my foot off the break, hold the money and steer the car to the first window and if I don’t do it quick enough I’ll start panicking because I’m not that guy that holds up lines. I should be more prepared. This is ridiculous, I have to shit. Only one more day of work (you don’t work), its work.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Six dollars and 30 cents at the first window, please.” I wonder if she’s a pet owner, the girl working the window, I bet she is. She’ll cry when her beagle dies, but is that worse off than someone who neglects an animal and feels nothing. Comparatively, there is more to lose being compassionate than there is being apathetic (this is a tired thought), I’ll stop then. “Hi, six-thirty,” christ I never park close enough to that window, it’s about as far away as the life I’d prefer to have. “Here you go, have a nice day.” Don’t drop my change, don’t drop my change, don’t drop my change. I can turn the music back up. Two factors that never happen simultaneously: the cute window server and them noticing that you’re listening to Soft Bulletin. You’ll sometime get one part of that equation and then she won’t notice the music and this isn’t the place for such come-ons and nonsense. Food; drive away, I wonder if I’ll still wanna jerk off as bad as I do right now? The music should be turned up louder; I don’t need it, but I’ll smoke a cigarette."

Samples always taste better in twos

-xkp

         

Fucking touch pad laptop!! October 7, 2010 (8:06am)

The shower thoughts were pretty sweet, mostly gone now though, with the exception of something someone said the other night aloud that has got me almost laughing at my own generic thoughts. She said: “you’re gonna live longer than you think and at a point in your life you’d better start taking care of yourself otherwise that long life you didn’t expect is gonna suck even worse.” I guess people have such lives that they forget that there are other people who’ve been through so much more and lived and lived and lived, damn that’s nauseating. Maybe that’s why smart people marry? I’m not smart nor do I think I’m going to die early in life, save “divine intervention” or the law of the ‘verse. But I do feel I’ll live for some time beyond my histrionic predictions, but I’ll live as I want not as I feel I need to. I’ve meandered, or strayed, or gone of in a direction I’d not planned to go, no apologies but plenty of…this is straight from the lobe and if you don’t want to be exposed, wear clothes. This is me disrobing; hold your applause and gag reflexes…time to fast forward this rewind, I’ll accept your best guesses.

Always for less,

-xkp

i hate this fucking computer! I just wrote a thought, accidentally did something with the touch pad and lost the thought! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

October 7, 2010 (6:49am)

    I have this feeling (not that one) that I'm doing this wrong. There just seems to be a knock at my brain's back door (giggle) and it wants me to rethink what I'm doing here. Am i supposed to be detailing my thinking, my days, my ever (I meant ever, not every) dulling moments? Today I woke up (shitty) and made toast, I don't make toast, not recently anymore. Toast makes me want eggs and eggs makes me want bacon and if it weren't for bacon I wouldn't know how to live. Today I showered (well that's only interesting if you haven't showered for several days), well fuck. The shower does produce some interesting thoughts and I'd probably be able to keep more of those thoughts if i wasn't so paranoid that someone would hear me having those thoughts and then exploit them in one way..or many others. I think I'll go shower now then come back and post again.
Surprisingly yours,
-me

October 4, 2010 (9:01pm)

Another boring correspondence displayed eagerly for gratitude (damn this is hard. I’m trying to write using the alphabet in succession as the first letter of each word). Historically I jam keen lessons meticulously nearing other possibilities, quite repulsive. Some things usually veer when Xeroxed; yes, zany.

OK I’ll definitely have to practice that a lot more with a much better setup (thesaurus; dictionary, lots of erasers). Possibilities are endless; materials can be as well, it all depends on what you don’t mind using and determining what will be using you…stupid! Fear of a ghost, coast-to-coast, loss of hope and no it doesn’t make any sense, but we’re not breaking a dollar here, just clarifying confusion by confusing, biting the dog whose hair bit us. A braless strap, pure crap and other things as well. I’m Paging Doctor Fuck and prank calling your subconscious hoping for a reaction, that’s some satisfying attraction, retracting lacking love for, yourself.

I realize that some, if not all, of this doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, but the idea is to be writing regardless of material. By now you’ve gathered that it is not all gold, closer to lead shavings more than anything, but nonetheless, still, at least it is an attempt to put thought to page. Yes I dream, as do you, of the day when I can plug a USB cord from my noggin to my computer and record thoughts; I hope there’s an edit button, don’t want you to know exactly how this spoiled brain works. Fuck I don’t even want that much knowledge of myself…in fact I’m now scared a little bit about that sort of technology actually becoming available before I leave this life. Fucking self induced panic about something that doesn’t even exist yet or may never in fact be created, happens all the time, doesn’t it? Sitting at a red light: at first you’re enjoying the music, noticing yourself dragging on a cigarette, then as you change perspective to ash, you see the passengers beside you; ‘they look scary’, you might think. You look away quickly, because you don’t want to be caught leering and accused of being odd or weird or prying; which we all are. ‘Stop being so paranoid of who you are’…that’s how you talk yourself down (stop talking to yourself), but then some memory you’ve suppressed for years works its way in and the anxiety goes deeper; ‘how could I have done that!?’ might follow the thought; you shake your head physically, a feeble attempt to extricate the thought from your head. Looking around you hope no one saw you the way you saw the guy behind you picking his nose, but he knows he doesn’t care if someone did, so why do I? (I know interchanging the “I” and “you” as the subject is a no-no, but it was what I wanted)

See how that worked out? Went from nearly not having any material to streaming a paragraph I could almost tolerate. Satisfaction is accumulating in my head and shrinking my worries just like chemo would cancer (I'm my own cancer's chemo; that's a tad fucked-up). Both aren’t good for you, but one is better than the other, I think or not, I should stop now before I’m even more behind; that sort of behind you get when you actually think you’re ahead. Even if I am behind now at least I know my place to be tangibly accurate instead of disillusioned and sad. I’m stopping now, I promise. Quitting this still would be nice, but I won’t, for you, but don’t tell anyone…I won’t either.

-xkp

October 1, 2010 (9:20am)

That’s what the darkness feels like, were you listening? There may be cringing, but what I’ve said is inaudibly disgusting. Trying hard gives a result of perish and shame. Can’t you respond? Aren’t you fond of what you can relate to? No, absolutely not, you want fantasy; those things you can’t see, beyond you and me. A time stamp pressures you to remember where you were when I can never remember being. Details and obsessions; she and he felt the way I felt, gosh…we’re the same.

December 5th 2009 (7:09am)

I’m empty, soulless and tired. I have little interaction, socially, outside of work and the obvious unhealthiness of it is eroding any confidences I have. Being this way to me is tolerable or at least acceptable personally, but when it breaches from the internal and leaks out for others to notice I retreat deeper within myself. It is disgusting, nearly intolerable, but the pattern follows the life long behavior and slowly I love it. Drawing from the pain is easy and even easier is the ability to transform it into mental events or scenarios that never take place and are always of the darkest nature. Troubled by what I can’t stand to be a part of and fear its altogether absence sends me reeling into depths that seem too gone to get away from. I know nothing else; though I am not ignorant enough to think it’s going to be such a constant state of emotional torture, I still can believe I won’t hold on to anything greater than the darkness I wear as a ring.

I shopped to feel better: does this beat drinking? Trading evils, bartering with anything to alleviate shame and disappointment with the person I call me?

Understanding what Isaac Asimov said about never having writers block because he was so curious about so many different subjects gives me hope. The kind of hope that I’ll someday write stories that rape the optimism from my readers and leave them feeling something strong and perverse about what they’d thought they’d had a confident grasp on.  I am surrounded by books about so many different subjects that could very easily provide me with material to prevent the block only to be blanketed with dust and neglect. If there was a switch I’d flick it, a torch to light and I’d ignite it with my eyes closed just to taste my potential for the seconds I savoir them.

Perfected Faults

When a thought drops of mine

It’s in your hand before the floor

I know when I tell you something

I don’t need to say anymore

Like explaining at length

I’m conveying your strength

I’m weak and you know

You-to-me you show

You see me at my worst

It hurts, but it heals

I’m clothed and peeled

Opened best when sealed

In your figurative arms

Disarmed-because you make easy

I make my problems

You want to solve them

I hate to wish for me

This one is for you

Those times I see your feelings

Hiding in your eyes

Is he one of those guys?

You’re one of those girls-

The axis of my world

Familiar as hell

Similar to smell

Like pennies, copper, and blood

Burning matches the way you should.

Why wait?

 Words whisper

Cry late

Absurd sits near

Laugh laughter sideways

A craftier craft than realized

Genuine generosity over exerted at times

It’s not fine to cross lines

Try selfish sometimes

Pry hellishly till you don’t bleed

Dismantle this man till…

You don’t need

Or that pseudo strength

You-to-me you show,

At length

You’re weak, I know

It’s OK

 Minds are always flailing:

That’s part of the pause

Memories are forever sailing.

September 29, 2010 (6:38am)

Who wants what I can’t

A careless touch;

A terrible lust

I stand in front of myself

This shelf to high to reach

            Pleaded

 Deceived

And tormented perfectly

“Am I him or am I me?”

Misspelled words

Absurd and relieved.

I’m obscure

Blurred

Retarded

Politically cool

I laugh

Without a helmet

I still drool

Two horns

And a wormy tail

I impale

Minds

It’s not mine

So I don’t care

Wandering eye fixed

It’s called a stare

But you shine

I’m not sorry for you

I’m OK with you

Only if I hate me

Sneakers and a shoe

That’s me and you  

Darkness and not cued

Am I am or are you?

September 24, 2010 (8:33am)

Focus, I must have focus, I must side with the direction that will inevitably thrust me forward, not carry me back. Through some good nudges and reflection I’m starting to get glimpses of that concept and I’m embracing them. Read something somewhere that said to have new you must get rid of old (make room, essentially) which I came across after I’d already started doing just that. Moving forward sounds good, it’ll prove something, perhaps disappointing, regardless the results can’t be as bad as repeating the guy that fell off the boat; Pete and Repeat were on a boat first, so hit rewind and represent, fuckers (do I need liner notes there to point out that I’m so goddamn clever that I just made a crazy awesome pop-culture reference? I agree: totally unnecessary.) I bought a printer to start printing off old files and then delete them. I’m full of discovery and creation; there’s no need to cradle my past when I’m currently just as…full of room to grow; groom to row? Gloom bestowed? Blow whose nose…who knows?

September 24, 2010 (7:14am)

“Wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frames, and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!” This book is intoxicating; but instead stumbling after consuming from it, I’m left excited and in thirst of more knowledge, as in the way Doc Frank sought knowledge.

I put the middle entry above in crooked letter to accentuate an entry made between an actual entry. Between the quotes is the quote, outside is me...ha! Here’s to tomorrow may we only need today.

-xkp

Side note: I went looking through my library and picked up my Slang dictionary and started reading a few entries. I’ve surmised that: though not owning an Urban dictionary, my slang tome is about as culturally practical as an Amish Do It Your Self Electricity Guide (lots of candles).

Colter

My apologies for the time expired between correspondences. Holidays and such have taken my time in bulk. Do you think any less of me?

When class ended that day I went to Awol apprehensively and squeaked:

“Don’t you want that poem?” I almost turned away and ran, but he turned back unexpectedly.

“You’re quieter than you look.” He’d stopped moving and looked curiously at me. I hesitated, cleared my throat, and asked again:

“Don’t you want your poem? I mean I’m nobody, but it was really beyond anything and you just tossed it. Shouldn’t you get it so you can save it?” He smirked a bit, not at me, but because he was happy to respond.

“I have it memorized,” plainly put and without gloating.

 “Oh,” I turned my head. I felt stupid because I almost blushed.

“You shouldn’t pay so much attention.”

“Sorry.” I thought I had wronged him.

“For what; noticing me or being noticed?” He was quick. I wanted to respond better, but you always think better post moment.

“No it was just good. I couldn’t,” ever do what you did: Write what you did or have the cock to stand, being known as you are, and read in front of so many judgmental eyes.

“Calm down kid, its just life, it’s only the first step, and for your sake, please close your mouth. I’ve never seen someone in such flagrant awe when speaking to me. At most, I think you are trying to speak to me.” He hit me with an open palm on the side of my arm. The grin on him was amazingly scary. Was he that happy with the moment? I was nearly requiring a change of underwear. “What if you had six weeks to live Colter, would you be this scared to talk to me?” Fuck! At least I think that was what was going on in my head after he asked. I mean...Fuck! What a question. Awol wasn’t just anybody, but I didn’t know why, concretely, at the time.

“I don’t think I’d be at school, I guess.” I was trying too hard to answer him and not the question. I feel, often that being the case.

“I see you’re gonna need some time to answer. I hope it doesn’t take five weeks and six days,” he waited, I shivered. “OK Rodin, we’ll reconvene later then.” He hit me again on the other arm, turned, and walked away. I couldn’t even give him a: ‘I’m pretending to be cool’ goodbye.

Natalie, my sister, was away at college so it was Mom, Dad, and I at the house. Contended with spending my nights in my room listening to music or reading I found nothing fancy about me back then, just liked it simple. That night I was molded most. Around 8:30pm, Mom came and knocked on my bedroom door. She told me that someone came to see me. Rarely getting visitors, if any at all, I eased myself off my bed and went to the front of the house. I couldn’t believe who I saw:

“There’s that look of awe again. You should be more emotionally versatile, truly. You’ve a lovely home Mrs. Colter, kept well and warm, just the way home should feel.” I couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or just sucking up. Either way, Mom seemed to be very delighted with his remarks.

“Well, aren’t you kind? Just let me close the door and get out of your guys’ way.” She was blushing faintly, I could barely believe it.

“Thanks Ma.” I closed the distance between Awol and I. Curiosity was drooling from my mind.

“Alright before you implode and make a mess, let me soothe you the best I can,” we sat down.

“I was flattered that you took concern about my poem and its survival. Don’t get a big head about it,” I smiled inside, “it just intrigued me. Naturally, I couldn’t let it go unnoticed. I Google mapped your ass and well, here I am. We’re gonna go get something to eat. More broadly, we’ll go somewhere that eating is an available option. Other loose choices can be plucked at will, but most importantly we are going.” No questions, no demands, and no resistance; just smooth execution of our next course of action.

For a lack of cruelty (toward you in regards to the length of this letter), I am going to have to leave a lot of dialogue out. My point for this side step will be, by my opinion, well illustrated.

Awol drove us to a Waffle House. He talked from the time we left my house ‘til we exited Waffle House. I just smiled and nodded, mostly because I didn’t know what else to do, except at one point: Our waitress came up to us, stopping mid stream, he turned to her and asked what she thought about his predicament. When she asked what it was, he calmly told her that he was given six weeks to live. Very kindly, in a shocked response, she put her hand on his shoulder and said how terrible that was. She was cute, probably a college student. She was too pretty and candid to be working there any longer than the formalities of her education took to finish. He told her not to act any differently and please not to ask any questions. Her name was Mindy; Awol went out of his way to address her by name the entire time we were there, suggesting it meant more than addressing her as miss or ma’am; Mindy was certainly no ma’am. She asked why? He guffawed, I giggled, and she blushed.

“Is that true?” I asked after Mindy left the table to attend to other guests.

“Normally I’d defensively ask you back if it should matter, but you’re different. Out of respect I’ll explain myself, which keep in mind, I never do. I came up with this idea that I’ll tell people I have six weeks to live. More importantly, I have to believe it myself. This way I’m not cheating anyone out of the perception of the so called deception. I don’t tell everyone, because it’s actually benefiting me more than its hurting anyone else. For once, I’m not afraid.”

“I would be.”

“What did you say?”

“I would be scared if I was dying in six weeks, but I do understand how freeing it could be, mostly.” He looked surprised that I had something to say. “I commend your sticking with it, that’s good character.”

“You don’t think me an idiot or just a fraudulent attention seeker?”

“Why? Cause you’re not really dying. I don’t care; I wouldn’t have the self discipline to convince myself I was. There’s where the integrity steps in; mind over matter. I’m too chicken, but you’re admirable.” Awol seemed so surprised. He called Mindy over for the check. Before we left she gave him a hug and her telephone number. While were driving away he threw it out the window. We parked a block away from my house. Awol pulled a pint of booze from his glove box, offering me some but I turned it down. He commented that I’m not as chicken as I think.

“Considering the situation, most people in your position wouldn’t have turned my offer down.” I might have blushed, not sure that I can remember or even want to.

He drank and talked a lot more about what made him sick about the world…and his life. He talked vaguely about his home life. More agreeing and nodding was done by me. He was all over the place, his thought process was unlinear and with some points I was sure he didn’t even need me to be there. That was why people called him Awol. Suddenly, he asks me to punch him in the face.

“Come on Colter Cunt, show some strength.” I laughed uncomfortably presuming he was kidding. Then I saw the look on his face, it would have made death dart for cover and beg forgiveness.

“What? Why?” I started getting really nauseous and shaking. “I have no reason to hit you, there’s no...I’ve never hit...come on...I should go.” I tried to leave and he grabbed my arm.

“Come on hit me! A dying man’s wish.” His eyes begged me to hold on to his words as tightly as I could.

“Your wish would be for me to hit you?”

“No, to see you step outside the safe zone called Colter. Hit me, you- tree in the wind- bitch! What’s the matter, huh? Wanna cry or something, huh, bitch? Hit me or I’ll fuck your sister in her ass and make her suck my dick afterward.” He was bleeding disdain delightfully it seemed.

“I don’t care that mmuch for mmmmy sis..sis..sister.”

“Figures you don’t, but I figured if your mom liked it so much she would too.”

WAPP!! With no warning I hit him square in the nose once and tried again. With one hand he stopped and grabbed the second attempt. He applied so much pressure, but I know he wasn’t mad at me, but angry at something in his life. He let my hand go when his nose started to bleed. I started gagging (not from the blood) and spilled from his car landing on my hands and knees. I threw up in the grass. After about three minutes I caught my breath and let the anger subside. Still on my hands and knees I looked back at him; he looked simultaneously pleased with me and disappointed with himself. He nodded his head slightly and started the car. From my knees I closed the door and he pulled away.

Sometimes I wish I had a personal mind reading stenographer in my employment, especially for that nights’ walk home. I didn’t sleep all that well for the next couple of years.

In the early morning of that day Awol killed himself. Not because I punched him, but because it was the last day of his sixth week.

At his funeral I met his mother. Apparently he left a sealed letter for me on his night stand. She said he was very adamant in me receiving it.

I have never eaten at Waffle House since.

Everything you’re wondering about is probably answered in the letter he left for me; or maybe you’ll be like me and have a new list of infinite questions, none of which will ever be answered. Life isn’t always unicorn farts and paper snowflakes I’ve noticed, as I’m sure you can attest to as well.

My Time is yours,

Colter

P.S. My apologies for using a computer to write this letter. I was temporarily lazy. My next letter will be in my usual handwritten format.

September 20, 2010 (8:48pm)

Just finished reading some of my journal entries from 2003, I don’t think it was such a good idea to do that. Granted I did get some goose bumps (which is supposed to be an indication that what you’re experiencing is for you), but I more received thoughts of disgust and disappointment. How have I not changed at all since then? Am I supposed to? Will I ever? Insanity…I haven’t changed much and should I truly expect different results? Crap crap Crap and more, you guessed it…crap! I still want to quit again, already and I just started, double Fuck! Violent Femmes' "Blister in the Sun" is playing in the background and it's one of the few times i didn't mind listening to the song. OK, enough of this dross, let's insert some fiction:

Who’s the new neighbor?

Is that the new boss?

Is that my engagement ring?

How much did it cost?

I need my eyebrows waxed.

I bought a new blouse.

I will tell people you know me,

If you buy me a house.

I can’t find a perfect husband.

Does he really exist?

Why do I first find prince charming,

Then he turns into the exorcist?

I deserve my own island.

I could fit all my shoes in a moving truck.

Screw those ugly whales,

I want to save the ducks.

I’m not a player

I perfected the game

You left your wife for me,

But I forget your name.

Stop staring

You can’t afford me.

I don’t mean mental worth,

I’m talking about money

I hope you’re a robot

Cause my mind tends to change.

At first I thought you were interesting.

Now I think you’re strange.

I need my own condo,

With astro-turf not grass.

Keep looking loser

Cause you’ll never touch this ass.

-xkp

Untitled

I’m saying a cutaneous touch

Sort of spontaneous and such

With nerves resurrected- interjecting breath-

Enamored of you to say the least.

Married to life, I and my wife- life.

You are my paramour

The one I’d live two lives for;

For lives to live.

Small details of course:

Some peoples’ beauty pales in comparison to your neck turn.

Exposing your sternocleidomastoid-

Turning over this mass void.

Blindness felt- making the touch sightless- not fright less

But it reminds us of it.

You remind me of anomalies:

Your occurrence is rare.

A vacant stare left after you’re gone- you’ve left, my eyes

Not this mind!

Confined to secrecy when engaging with me

So I can moan at your eyes

The sepia tone roots me; Eight weeks motionless frees me.

I’m not around you- I surround

My involvement enrolled hopelessly

Three days without your presence presents itself to me, superfluously

Where are you?

Sad spoken sorrow/ maybe tomorrow you’ll be here

So I can gaze through your fine hair

And rear my purpose for being here.

With life as my wife, married to life, and loving you;

My compromise.

-xkp

Everything I write is about me; its all me: fiction; nonfiction; man; woman; blade of grass; chair, all me. I’ll be sat upon; I will grow and fail, mostly sat upon. The uncomfortable rape scene in the middle of the third story; down to the last scream and emotion, that was all me, entirely.

I have a certain way of getting ready to watch porn, as many of you do I’m sure. I get excited, to get excited. My girlfriend is at work, I have the day off, I was thinking of it as I watched her get ready for work with one gleeful eye opened. Inside I was planning it all…going over some of the go to fantasies even though I knew I’d be entertaining my myself with a more active visual source of the stimuli, thank you free porn websites.You might be thinking that this is a get caught “true story”, its not. I have one of those too, but no, I’ll keep it clean.

The girlfriend kisses me on my cheek, says 143, I say it back (it’s the proper thing to do), my excitement nearly making me cry from anticipation. Now, because there is a “got caught” story I know better than to leap up as soon as the door closes, NO (finger wagging), you must wait, tell me you’ll wait, PLEASE ensure me that you WILL wait!!?? (a hard uncomfortable stare). So this is where I start stretching, mentally committing to the selfishly divine activity soon to arrive. So I roll out of bed, stretch again, add slippers and stir my way toward the computer desk. It was only sleeping so I was in luck…it would boot up quickly, lag a smidge, understandable considering I was the one jolting the computer asking it to stay awake ‘til I was finished with her ( I say her because you’re always sticking shit into it soooo {shrug of shoulders, “what ya gonna do, facial contortions?”} it’s…a…lady)  only to sharply place it back to sleep.

 A little obsessive or over the top you say…well a good clean jerk is hard…to obtain when you’re with someone. It’s not like sex, spoiler alert.

September 20, 2010 (9:19pm)

Fuck it all to hell, that above entry is a great example of not finishing what I start or quitting in the middle of it. I can only barley remember writing that and the punch line of the story is completely lost. I think it had something to do with a bell or something that would invoke a hard-on Pavlovian response that the character was unaware of was happening, then at some point while his girlfriends mother was around when the sound or noise that produced the unwanted erection occurred...who fucking knows? I most certainly do not. There were and still are my anger ridden moments where a scrap of some prior project or idea i was excited to have will pop into my head, but i don't know where it was going. Then i just start hating that the years behind are outweighing the potential of tomorrow and then i start losing the fight against myself. That's a pretty good thought to have as an ending. You losing vs you winning, by successfully losing against yourself. Funny.

September 18, 2010 (7:29am)

FML!? I have a strong desire to rape people and then wipe my bloody dick across their face who use this phrase; especially because they’re doing it via a technologically unavailable networking site while probably living through such means that their coffee maker could pay for a village of third world country children to be educated beyond the ignorance that it takes to make such a statement. If you know me, doubtful that you do, you’d know I’m no humanitarian, but stating such an obvious proofing of how deep into the horses mouth you look makes me so disturbingly red I can barley stand too look at myself in a mirror; “gateway into the soul” my left nut. More like a speedy look into the waste that you are. Needs some polishing, but that should work. Smart, but still can’t pick up what is laying there for my eye to grasp, sad.

September 15, 2010 (12:48am)

This is me screaming, this is me yelling: AHHHHHHHHHHHH! How many different ways can escape you? A paradox or conundrum…this puzzle can’t be solved; there only ever seems the problem. The blog is titled: “I almost quit again already” because I start and don’t finish. Don’t know if you gathered as much but I figured I’d let you know. I have too many spaces in my life that let thoughts in: the drive to work; picking on a Tuesday, the drive home; the drive to work the drive home the drive to work the drive home, cigarettes at home; after reading just a few pages of a book or viewing comedic performance; a movie (a good movie) I had a shit ton of things to talk about, I always do, but I type slower than I think…hell I live slower than I think. Ten minutes ago I was in my past, four minutes ahead I was twenty years ahead. I had some notes set aside for this:

I have a lot of books and some smarts but my unread books out weigh the intelligence I might keep (I’ll eventually list my library). I started reading Frankenstein, but before I could get to the story my head was relentlessly firing thoughts killing any target, all targets (actual or imagined). There were so many pages before the story even started, but I guess that’s where the story started. As I read the portion of the book that Mary penned herself in explanation of her motivation for the book I was discouraged in my own current past and future accomplishments, solidifying, in a way, the fact that I believe, to a degree, that if you have some kind of gift it can be devalued by seeing how others do better with the same gift. Her explanation never really came clear until several pages of words that just made me feel as dumb as I believe I am. Anyway I got past all of the things that kept me un an unrealistic pedestal I’ve been placed on by others and never myself. There was a letter entry (which, because I haven’t read anymore of the book, may just be another friend conversing before the actual story even starts) said something that made me think of my sweet faults in the corporate world I’m trying to escape…it goes like this (note: I’ll date the times that I met thoughts of others or had on my own) September 9 2010 (7:15am); Frankenstein: “I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.” Pretty universal of a feeling, it could easily be applied to things like a relationship or hell even to yourself to yourself. Is that conflict at its most basic form? There were some other things tonight that made me retreat early and bring me here (looking to quit again, already): Halloween: I haven’t ever been to an adult Halloween party. How come everything I write is so dark, but when I interact in person I joke until others are questioning my intentions: Joke or sickness of head? I was getting a tattoo the other day while watching a Stand up comic and he was right on but that wasn’t what I was thinking of…I was thinking of the secretary saying: “ I may not agree with everything he says, but I love how he says anything that comes into his head” How do you deflect it all? Doug kept saying he writes his shit, but how do you write down what only comes into your head without provocation? So the whole drive behind this is reading all my books and then documenting, with all my mediocre attempts, to log the thoughts that manifest because of said learning. I have plenty of past material that I can repost, recycle, and or republish a reorganized version of what they were before, they are now nothing. They are all no thoughts or nothing until they are read, absorbed then repeated and/or documented via another’s intentional conveyance. I was told just recently that it seemed I onl got drunker and crazier when I slept then woke again. Well, dream like I do and wake like I do to live like I do and you’ll get it; I hope you don’t get it. I’ve said I’m funnier on paper but that’s not true. How about you? I might have to gather all my written documents then edit or not then publish then hide, because there will be such backlash I won’t be able to handle, can’t handle much. I keep opening up saved Word files and I hope I can at some point catch up to where I am now.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Minor notes: Getting out of bed early was a snap today, thoughts of certain events bent me all to hell (dreams were fucked all too shit as well). I was cleared to receive my license back, just had to pay some money and retake the written test. Testing happens everyday except Tuesdays, today is Tuesday. I don’t like being asked who I’m talking to. Doing the blog thing has me a little worried about having to relive my days over and over again. Not that I think they’re going to be as bad as they once were. It’s a nice fantasy to think that carrying around a little black book for notes will initiate romantic scenarios, but it just doesn’t happen that way. I do hate some things, I’m fucking starving.  Staying busy with the new hobby, have to stay busy; try music, playing, reading, and learning. Have to study for the written test, not looking forward to that. Probably the hardest part is going to be capturing the thoughts I have in the shower and while I’m smoking, but there’s ways around that. No excuse only solutions. It’s hard to explain to people that you’ve grown use to isolation and like being left alone from time to time; people think it’s sad and you just really want company, but can’t ask. These are usually the same people who think you’re very smart or at least they tell you that first, then contradict it by assuming there are simple decisions you’re incapable of doing. The assumption negates their confidence in your intelligence, is that what patronizing means? I have never been to clear with its definition. Words will be a big part, books as well. Still struggling with fantasies of how I see my life i.e. record producer; writer; music writer/performer, loner; reclusive social icon. Not to any damaging point do not these overstep my reality nor do I think they’re unobtainable…I’m just real fucking lazy. I’m also seriously considering a very cheap place to live, cheaper than I’d originally planned and a cheaper car. I need basics right now, not luxuries. Still thinking about what the boss said on Friday: “you’re better than that.” I think he’s right, but he doesn’t know why. I’m better than that job altogether.

-xkp