Once upon a time I kept a journal of brief mindblurbs. Random brain noise bits I tried to wipe out onto the keyboard at least once a day. Usually they were one sentence long, but if I felt particularly feisty, I’d blort out as much as I could muster.
This is a page of old mindblurbs, and no longer gets updated.
relative conformity breeds despondency
god lives on radio highs
gets feet wet with solar drippings—molten lov’a—god is gif
god is jopy
words on eyes:
pain glare sharp glints
a sword of sorts are smiles
asymmetric and assimilating
glances asking or asserting
faces masking or revealing
lips studied are lips loved
laughing at tongues’ slippery sensation,
sidling, surfacing, swimming
lips the labor of our adoration
is infinity just a number?
what do tactile touches taste like?
do storms sigh like avalanches do at gods?
Slick like icicles hanging,
vine-like visions of invisibility
vane on their overhanging perch.
drunk with cold
brain a frozen bit
gone are dovetail lovers
wrapped in silk ribbon
their eyes have sunken in
their bones are surfacing
their baggy bodies drift alone
amoebas in a social film of rotting water
dusted morning breath of dew
frozen microscopic figurines in frost
the morning’s cough
the morning’s snot
morning gets sick too
numb crosseyed gonzos
midnight black in my wrists
hard on the table
turned up to the keyboard
flippant fingers quiver words
trees of data
grip my brain with root
I’m getting sysop-soft
head swimming with hostnames
a social datablip
explaining the infinite:
stretching hardshell plastic minds
around universes and mobius strips
get it wet or get it warm
our brains expand painfully
there is always danger of meltdown
wilted rotting pedals
scent of death
eyes on hyperblur
wish I never got tired. time isn’t enough.
too many things to do, too many interests.
The dictionary says: warble flies live under the skin of animals;
they get in through your tongue
(when you lick your ankles because the fly has laid its eggs there).
OK, so it’s mostly cattle,
but we could have used human skin for leather—little painful warbles in the middle of a tan.
One might warple if you had a warble.
once a misused, now a misshapen
missile sodomy ballistic baby yeah
writing sucks, I fuck’n breathe and the earth produces better slop than my shit
I’m gonna hack an slash till my fingers bleed ink
I’ve got a 3140 page dictionary, but I can’t write one poem I like.
lucky day break
butting our heads up against wall sized dreams
Nobody thinks their life is interesting—except maybe artists.
We all live plain lives.
days zoom by in zero mode
I don’t see except through the narrow red cone of this moment
Newspaper writing is less about writing more, and more about writing less.
Imagine shark tooth eyes
and jaguar lips;
my dreams are taking surreal cerebral forms
and bending blindly to my bare emotional deprivation.
She’s got active desktop eyes,
a body that runs like the new AMD chip, overclocked.
She’s like a million megs of ram in a billion megahertz bus.
Her frame rates are phenomenal.
why does forced exposure foster emotional closeness?
indiscriminate line noise
mingling with night scrawls
dealt with indiscriminately
washing west winds off my brain…
shapes of a stinted sun
saturation of reality
soaked in intangible
red radio lines—sky high
giant tree LEDs
mind behind a red eye
we’re split head nails
rave ride riddled ripe afternoon
widening gaps in apathy divert sympathy revert despondency
desolation road? desolation deathstar.
without exception sitting
hunched shoulders fingers flitting
keyboard crunching eyeballs bleeding
mind exploding close to dozing
individual seconds counted in drops per square inch
rain to the mathematician
drizzle in numbers
no blur—every blink clear as a galaxy
this is how my heart pounds
I’m no good swiveling eyes in sockets…
blindwalking behind half-slit eyes
afraid of a moon
trying to stay on the sidewalk
tripping on the curb between blocks
counting steps between eyelid snapshots
jump when the dog’s bark makes steam
slide into my sidewalk, my porch
eyelids continue walking…sleep
a million email march
on the servers of our capital
the clock festers swimmingly
tired hands run streetwhere
numbers give arrows the eye
you can always tell when I’m up too late
perverse flat expanse of individual
I am increasingly disgusted with myself
squat squish of stomach
universe in bitstream bubbling over
glinting pixel lit teeth grin digital
a mechanistic moon gets jumped
I glide a dreamland dynamic
going gorgeous into the electric ether
sweating on a cold morning ought to be impossible
our minds crumble at terrible velocities
With every pop song added to my RAM, I feel deprived of another word in
Trickling paper marks—pen on weird words—sniffling syphilis ink snails
across paper leaving slimy images of snot like secretions.
We want to see and hear and rupture like gross watermelons exploding in
fields of dirty wheat.
driving is poetry of perception
objects at varying velocities
pass perfectly in steady parabolic increase
speeds subject to sustained inertia rising
horizon hooked threads
become raging rivers
toothpicks become tornado sized towers
only the sun retreats
steady as the clock’s center
carts of brimstone flaming
flamesword dazzled kings
slinging data like the pony express
a welling of zen-jedi-BS in my fingers
bit-shit buzzing between my keyboard and my claws
hunched back in my office chair, eyes squeezed dark
work escapes and terrible poetry creeps in
sitting in underwear
waltzing the wires
In the collective reaming that is our existence, some assholes fare better than others.
night storms day
river shivering wet globules line sinksides
electrocrackling skies bind to dirt
showers in storm—lights flicker
darkwater reflects black bulbs
sky is in every raindrop—from below
reverse retroflections capture pupils until
drops divide light
blurbglory begets blind wordslides
I apostrophized into a state of mental bouquet
glory of awakening:
stubbled eyes, crusted face
pain in brain, throbbing neck.
I’m not the type of person who pays attention to whether their socks are
inside out or not.
shame shame, pale tree, swaying in lust’s wind
frequent body stops
fucking in datashops
brain expanding yellowords—word expanding brainblorts—taking advantage of chatflirts
asciizombie deadbeat trips
far flung relationblips
hinging on powerstrips
Shoo π, don’t bother me.
groping at binary darkness
sleeping to police siren song
canadian border bounced
became one with falls
2 story frankenstein
travel trundles spindles and springs
mind expands exponentially at point zero, black under fingernails, blemishes
mind doesn’t capture, glinting in a sun, white hot afternoon summer blacktop
sweat in the air gorgeous day—-makes me squint, going blind in binary, going
digital in Yamaha diode eyes, making bitwise visits to the ascii asylum,
slugging through 14.4 mirrors and backend site alleys, sighting sinking eye
sockets, eyesore pages, gouging jpegs, and piercing gifs, glancing blows off
rapidly expanding online novas…
when trundling through datajungles, never forget your trusty crowbar
marked blurblings mangling moss ridden trees
turnip trodden tubes of telepathy
going gotcha bonkers on seaside, starside’s tides up, waiting for the julyflower
hair under spandex from Krypton
rants and raves of outrageous misfortune
reading and breathing like holes in ozone
my how time’s flown
the cock’s crown
her words are sewn
and unbelieving, self deceiving, depraving, depleting, unseeing, unfeeling,
I grasp desperately at the unknown
Her words random as Jitterbug Perfume
feeling like Robins, or Borges, or Noon
feeding my inside geekgoon
on random and plastic spoons
on tin pan pies and DDT resistant flies and…
word souflés… I shouldn’t have compared myself to Borges.
Back and forth the violin bows,
kneading my brain into bread and cookie doughs
brain cutter cutouts of elephants and mosquitoes,
I’m teeter totter for her
not leper skin uncertain,
more like zippers—two sides to lock together
teeth of my brain all neurons firing for her
sure, and there is a long distance separating the halves of my brain
long walk to pull this metal thing
long steps and long wheels turning
long, lonely, sing.
mind mulching manages to mingle with dead worms
find your own mind
long loverly lips licking night’s last rights
shooting star lights shimmer invisisimple
lingering in imagination’s lit lamps
a lazy brain sort of way
activities not taken-under in ice ages
now surface, silk-like intentioned, under a glass dome.
wording reversal all utterpated—lips on a sugary crystal surface, stalactite
a driving force behind the behemoth of bombing birds and berries in bahklavadeshikabbab
is the budding of biochemical boarfare, where the one country rips the other out by its