moniker42

Steven is back, that infuriating asshole, Ashley should be happy.

I bought 80$ worth of booze, a huge bottle of tequila, a bottle of gin, a bottle of jack Daniels (pop 361) two bottles of cheap champagne, a case of Leinenkugels honeyweiss, and a case of shitty beer.

I will give Steve a copy of Leaves of Grass, from 1935 to make up for the mix tapes I never made him, but I have to stand my ground, can't take orders from Steve anymore, military weatherman.

Josh Da Silva's bastard play is on Monday.

I work on Monday, building houses or some shit.

Catching a nap, before the party, a great big stomach full of bad delivery pizza sloshing around in my gut, causing problems.

Anxious about the party and the emptiness if I see old friends, like something was supposed to happen, but it doesn't. Hey how are you nice to see you couldn't be better couldn't be happier hello.

The disingenuous feeling I get from push button living, Off set by two much ease, rather be chopping wood or eating Quinoa in far off Incan cities observing (secret) funerary rituals of a dead Lord, enshrined in gold, prayers to un-named gods and Jack Kerouac, who I discuss Rashomon with.

Rashomon, oh Rashomon.

My brain isn't full enough, I want all secret knowledge that the universe has to display, chemistry, shallow alchemy, astronomy, the geography of Kathmandu and cucamonga, the quantum physics of a quasar, bursting light into the womb of an unborn princess. In Prague, whose wispy cheeks eventually will drop the jaw of yours truly as an old man, dieing and a monk whispers in my ear

"OH ye nobly born, although one liketh it not, nevertheless being pursued from behind by karmic tormenting furies and feeleth compelled involuntarily to go on, and life cutters as a vanguard leading one and darkness and karmic tornadoes and noises and snow and rain and terrifying hell storms and whirlwinds of icy blasts occurring the will rise again the thought of fleeing from them"

and I pass slowly into the Bardo, my friends there, speaking another ancient Sanskrit blessing, personally written to me, and another in Hebrew with the stars shining out from behind his eyes

And all along now, back into the real world, anxiety about the lack of authentic experience in life, all lulled to a big cozy cow sleep.

MOOO

And your jaw drops and you go all cross eyed, like some sort of monster zombies seeking nothing, attaining nothing.

Fe Fie Foe

Etc

and I should like to work as a seaman, and sing old shanties with fisherman gods,

But fear prevents me, and the excess of unreality, and the loss of a train of thought, and masturbation, and ADD diagnosis, and money and my mother all prevent me.

'Stay in the light, Eric' I told him 'Don't come back, not for me, not for Matt, anyone'

and college is an industry, and our complex of the military and

Schizophrenics

Everywhere, who will jump out or no where, smiling a big smile, and kill you
Like
it
were nothing.

because they weren't breast fed or they never saved up all that money for Thailand or some other such insanity.

But the world never seemed so whole again after that.

And you sigh and moan and somewhere thank god in a lonely bar in some wondrous fantastical heaven.