fucked up

Our city is a labor camp run by warring chieftains. So on my weeknights I invite the anarchists over and screen movies about armed insurrection. But only one comes and falls asleep half way through. While he sleeps, through my wall window I look for whales but instead see the whole frame is boxed with shipping containers slowly moving on a shipping container ship, with a belly wrenching grind. I can hear it in my sleep from four floors down. I remember dreaming of you there but never told you, instead I told her, in the dream of her I was in. she, who I used to dream of often.

my primary goal as a writer I assume is contrary to most others, in that I just want to communicate without coming off as a pompous asshole, in this, perhaps I have failed. We occupy a unique period of understanding writing, in that we operate off an assumption that oral conversations in the seminar and in our personal relations remain supplementary, secondary, and unnecessary to the real work being done in the essay, in the novel, in the highly stylized and partially fabricated autobiography.. of someone who maybe ran for office. Cheeky coconut oiled faces on the front. Little white dots in their pupils. I think this is a fundamental error of assumption. The written word has gained an eternality greater than the humans that write it, as do our recent cities and mostly the reinforced concrete they occupy. But this is a blip in time unreality, that reifies our present conditions. I don't think so much about 9th grade macbeth's tumbling through deep space. There will come a point in which humans will no longer have the capacity for even paper and pencils, and that will be tragic. But not as bad as the deafening silence for millions of years after.

I think so often of leaving that my reflection drifts off glass in similitude of water.

sittin’ on hot tea while that fuckin’ dog stares up me and begs- up into the loop of my arm ‘til both our heads are hanging, mine, main from the tisane. mine, pounding dribble of a night to night fornever; and the drumming courts at the end of the glass, icy and down three falls at the cracking asphalt in bone at the base of the knob of bird attached at hip. there where creaking speaks there numb and hollow, and waits for me to sleep.

been working this job that typically puts me and a few guys in a car a few times a day forced to listen to whatever is on, so my exposure to the top 40 these days is more in depth than an occasional trip to the supermarket, or from the sidewalk as a car goes by. every few years the PR wizards come up with a new trick to woo us into forgetting we have no idea what these songs mean, who they are by, or how we ended up listening to them. the most recent of which is this recurrent vocal oscillation effect. imagine autotune except more automaton than before, now it echoes in and out and augments actual vocal rhythms, or exaggerates them or something I don’t know, but you’ve all heard it. though I usually find this sort of thing gimmicky, this one I find particularly hypnotic. it just sticks in my head obsessively, it is all so predictable and simultaneously satisfying. like maybe finally some part of my brain stem has been convinced to be impressed at the ability for the rapid vocal range a machine has as opposed to a human. like maybe I am okay with the slow replacement of people by their robotic versions of their negations, just because the vibrations they can put down my ear canal quench some vital compulsion. like I can just ignore the doomsday scenario lurking the back of my head, where the vast majority of us have lost the opportunity to use production for collective human liberation, yet production continued to advance all in preparation to instead replace our increasingly meaningless functions as workers. and at some point we all decided it was okay to lay down our heads as hard drives hummed us lullabies, indifferent to the capacity of the pillow coming down upon our head to smother us into oblivion.

It's tiring to stay alive so long that the static in your eyes turns snow to concrete.