Cold Coals

I’ve breached an incredulous boredom this morning.


I’m not sure I have the magic in me.


The novel falls through my eyes like water does the fingers.


The idea of work tomorrow (and thereafter the rest of my life) has no more heat than the cat’s body under the earth.


It’s not that I’m grieving this morning, nor am I depressed or sad in any way.


I’m simply bored.


I just don’t want.


My sister is leaving today and that means I’ll be back to the world without such a fun companion in the house. The roommates will get calloused with the habit and routine of life. I will too, probably.


I need to find me a companion who stays. I need to find me somebody to make life a scientific experience. A psychedelic quandary. A childish game.


Somebody, where are you?


Town of Tradition

Once upon a time there was Tradition.

In this little town called Tradition, there were laws. They were laws placed down by the forefathers and foremothers that guided the dear children into narrow channels of thought. Laws that said “No! Never! Thou shalt!”.

There were always the laws on what not to do, where not to go, how not to be. Never had the inhabitants of Tradition thought of what to do with themselves, but rather instead they were too caught up in what not to do with themselves.

Oh the minds of the inhabitants of Tradition! Why were they so reluctant to see the morning sun? Why were they so unafraid of suffering and unnecessary turmoil?

I think, it is because they knew not how to live their lives. They only knew how not to live it.

So, of course, when one dreamer woke up and asked himself what he truly wanted, what it truly was to be, what the laws were there for, and if he could live his life beyond “you shall not”, of course the inhabitants of Tradition made him an idol. Of course they did this only after he was safely put away in the ground.

In Tradition, there is an illusion. There is the illusion of freedom, first and foremost. You’re free, but only if you live in Tradition, by Tradition, with Tradition, under Tradition. Only the birds could be above Tradition. The laws set parameters, the parameters set Tradition.

The people created gods who created the world which created the people. In this circle, they trap themselves with belief. There is never just the river which provides for the town. There is never just the garden which feeds the people. There are names and names give people false hope of control. They call the river Arthus and thus they feel secure. They call the garden Lopitat and thus feel as tenders to the fruit they eat.

Pride comes from that for which you work. But pride leaves you beaming and drunk of your own self. It clouds the people of Tradition like Irish fog. The rabbits that had lived in the garden before it was Lopitat are now thence treated as trespassers and are killed or run out. The wasps, which had built their nests before human was even building its loincloth, are now thence burned with fire (a discovery humanity treats as, due to pride, an invention).

In Tradition, with the river and the garden, the people drowned themselves with drinking. They suffocated and choked themselves with eating. The sky was heavy for he who came about to question beyond the words “thou shall” and “thou shall not”.

Dreaming Out Loud

I found myself, dreaming, today.

The music on my iPod


always seem to be for me;

words, just trickling their way

down the rocks of fate

to land in my basin.


I always felt that

the very weather

was an extension of me,

how I felt, how I Dreamed.

I found myself not in my skin,

but with my skin.

These arms that flex

and these fingers that dabble these words

are no less the Dream,

the All,

then all the dreaming done asleep.

This ice cream exists only in my enjoying it so.

These words only exist in your reading them so.

Notice the holes on this page

where the words don’t quite fit your Dream.

Notice how like sifting rice from pebbles, you read.

This word doesn’t make sense, perhaps.

These ideas are unpertainable, maybe even.

But, this one,


feel how this one rattles your spine and mind.

Upon Creating “Mister Convenient”

Alone, I sit. My right ankle resting on its counter, left thigh. The clock is running, my income is perpetuating, and I’m scribbling on a legal pad something about fire or something. The growing flames are contained before me in a rust-red metal barrel. The birds are making their songs and I realize, surfacing from my hidden reality of who-knows-what, that the song stuck in my head is so foreign to me and the birds sound more real. Closer to home and nearer at heart, I put the yellow piece of paper in my dirty jeans and I finish the cold gas-station coffee in two swigs.

Work is returned to, and my sobering intoxication of forgetting memories is, and will forevermore be, past. Throughout the day, I tend to my phone and the materials it provides for a quick thought. Mister Convenience, I craft from the sloshy dark waters of mind. Mister Convenience and his slip through karma, achieving the highest state a man can reach in this life: Perpetual Luck. I feel better, writing all this down, for it felt as if a dream were slipping between my fingers. Words always rearrange what I had in my head, but all the better. I’m not using them, let the words speak their lies. They are only of use to retell the story, and to make vivid my next stories via the art of self reflection.

Like editing a novel (something I have never done), the story is made creative and colorful after telling it over. When one remembers, he does no such thing. Only, his present moment defines his past. My morning of writing and downing cold coffee by a fire while getting paid was nowhere near as satisfying as spelling it out with those words.

What more would I like to say about this dream I am living before it extinguishes itself in its own ashes? Well, she made me smile, like most days. That is enough to remember her by. I love them all, up there on the swiveling pedestals of office chairs. They hold true their virtue, dudes with wooed attitudes and swoon moods for crude fortitude. Me? I’m an empty shell of the dreamer, watching with mild interest as his creations dance around him. Or, and perhaps more likely, I’m the awkward guy at work that people don’t know how to approach and thus pity.

I am awkward, as if I don’t fit right in these shoes I wear. Actually, my work boots do look super bulkitous on me. Anyway, the metaphor stands. I’m a weird dude, who packs his lunch and says things like, “God, I need to relax my brain.”

Mister Convenient

And there he goes, off to intuitively help another wandering and semi lost soul in a world of blind favors. He asks none and takes less, believes naught and expects even less.

He is the most convenient man alive.

What does he do? He was nothing before the accident. A lowly maniac damned to somnolence alongside the rest of sleepwalking humanity. But the accident changed everything. He has seen through the curtain of insanity and beyond, seeing the soul as one shifts ones eyes to see the glass and not the images on the other side.

He could have been a king when he returned, a prophet at least. But he chose a life of quiet indifference. Still, his dense wisdom of All seeps through the thin membrane that is the physical world, granting him a miraculous ability of being in the right place at the right time.

He is the most convenient man alive.
But Mister Convenient simmered in a lonely pool of tedious inconvenience inside his skin. Only Everybody loved him, truly and really. And Everybody would be a dultz, in Mister C’s opinion, but he hadn’t opinions. You see, he believed that Everybody was only one person, and that person was a poltergeist.

God was skitzo and had a bad habit of thinking aloud.

There was none that was separate or super, and so none stood out separately or superior in Mister Convenient’s unyielding, half-shuttered eyes. So he was a true virtue to Everybody (the faceless ass, he) and Mister Convenient had to be none other than the most convenient man alive.

Remembering My Dreams

I sit back with a heavy sigh. The day has finally burned out, only the embers were left glowing above me in between the water droplets of those familiar clouds. Looking at them, I remember the shapes they used to make inside a child’s imagination. The stories I was able to create from their constant shifting and churning.

Remembering is like dreaming. I sit here, picking my teeth with my tongue, thinking on remembering. How I lost the ability to see shapes in the clouds, but found somehow the means to remember. Even the meal I had just finished twists and contorts its way down the windy currents of my memory.