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.
sleep is dreamenvy
sleeve stabbing—someone cuffed me
zero yellow entropy
my slipgrade mindframe mounts demonlust speedseed wheelies
speed is a car’s libido
stuffed chicken head, my nasal drip
tangy tart ‘n WYSIWYG fun!
a day of desperate incendiary dream-wakings
a deplorable indecision
a friend no longer included
a display of disillusionment
a sometimes grin; lopsided think
squeezing into infinity
a sagging disposition; melting civilization
sneeze in a handbag
ballast is jettisoned; oh yes!
love is a blink in blindness
folded into nature’s handjob,
jerked around by irresistible forces,
I quit the present for a dream glimpse of you.
we wrap ourselves around relationship realities
sailing away in an imaginary space ship built for two
sleeping in cyberspace
bones frail as birds
dope young daybreak
black sky jumps dizzy
stars fuck just like us
cosmic insecurities gravitate
toward black hole relationships
resulting in darkness
so much love is daylight
lost in a blue sky
empty yawning morning
moving west in circles
driving in a rain of leaves
eating orchard apples from trees
a smooth pumpkin pie—dreams of imagined october
a wholesome wistful sadness
a wrenching heartbreak
open heart surgery with tweezers
kissing drunk girls at parties—october memories in platinum
This morning on the bus, reading Rilke’s Letters to a young poet, I was
struck impossibly by the beauty of a young mother. Our eyes tangled, and I
imagined futures with her and her seemingly intelligent toddler. (She spoke
to the baby without baby talk.)
Upon leaving the bus, the baby said goodbye. I felt as if I’d lost something
in a vast vortex of morning. I should have tried to speak to her—this amazing
mother. Normally a child is enough to turn my every lust to thoughts of
diapers and christianity’s choke hold on our social structure, but somehow
this child only increased my curiosity about its mother.
Perhaps she only looked at me with such frequency because I sat directly in
front of her, or perhaps it was merely my interest in her curious child.
Regardless, the moment is lost, and I feel lost. Rilke says young people
are incapable of love. I think, perhaps for myself, I am bombarded by it.
Love pummels me until I am an unrecognizable bruise of loneliness.
wizened rasbery ripe pulpy seeded stuck-in-your-teeth sweet
whatever spurns your spanky
punk rock sasquatch rot
whorlwind brainblather busted
cut-jack free-loaded cold
windowutside sweeps leaves from branches into the street
feeding off bottomfeeders bottom feeding
wasping patiently for the wax to dry
fastidious attachments or appendages attacking self
wipeout on night’s inception
a sleep glop eye-gunk’d weekend
thirty ton space-suited gorilla
space tongue chewings
squat strut satisfied
drifting in the dull upper atmosphere of my bedroom
white cotton brain fuzzies
victims of mundanity
business card madness, fancy flying factory focus
winding the heart ribbon
Ever have those days where it feels like you’re stuck inside your own body, looking
out from a foreign perspective? I imagine this is what it feels like being one of
those children forced to live in a bubble. Lately, I have felt this way even from my
computer. I am stuck inside the confines of my monitor, looking out into the internet,
into servers, into an amorphous void that is reality. Everything is seen as if from
With this feeling comes a certain lack of responsibility. Disassociation from
everything, including responsibility, including individuals, including myself.
text is so appealing
slivers of words, sexy meanings
ten days a dream surrenders
slime yourself, slim down, slave maybe, sliver saddle, sit
we are all crawling through this great intestine of a universe…
dramatics, dreamatics, dromedary
water’d dawn pr0n
click-laden icon-heavy desktops slide slowly off the monitor
scent laden socks sweaty slime
white sausage in a steaming pot: rotting flesh or zombie skin
dining on vampire’s blood
wet eyes close quietly whimpering slowly in sleep
Follow the yellow brick node!
weird mastication funkitron
french fry moments, greasy and salty
instinct sparks urge brings action belies instinct
get yourself senseless
wasting away on wooden loaves of bread
stomach insides itself outside
distinct in my pale self, pale words, pale life
seeing spots on the sun can cause blindness
Chick flicks are for “chicks” because “chicks” are always hitched.
when waiting, minds fluctuate
spring lifts the edge of the curtain and numbs the winter.
we agrivate ourselves, our fingers, our minds, our tongues
all weep in spirit
structures emerge from erosion
great swinging pendulums are the planets and poles of the earth
tethered to suns and stars
white winter’s rain draws dandruff jokes
black writhing tentacles speaking in slippery tongues
black hands in soot silk
chimney sweep clean
slithering dirt snake
mud ugly urchin of underworld
worm, you wow me.
madly madly, I love you plain
my brain is set in gold jello
slithering sprites and animations with pixel excretions
pens and party favors
we’re launching a masquerade of madness
snow, fickle in the sun
grinning madly, making faces at the moon
we have sticky hearts
our brains form complex webs
connect us to those we care for
we need a peanut butter for lust
divine scratches and biting
nails on skin sacrilege
wild jack rabbit running, gorilla shoulders, mental hemorrhage
some dreams are like chocolate pudding
gothic amphibian entropy explorer
With every keystroke, I am a virus. I spread my seed in digital wildflowers,
blossoms of crystal matrix and checkered perforations in twisted wires.
My love is seeing tendrils of often saturated glaze spread like fancy
glass on a hot street. Glass melts easy, and my mind does the same.
Still, one can wonder at the speed with which something spreads, the
electrons move freely across the way. Electrons move freely across the
body. I sing the body electron. I sing the body. Bodies are meant to be sung.
I get caught up in the not-me-ness of storytelling. My stories are my own,
and fiction is not a story that is mine. I can’t complete a thought that
isn’t mine, even if it is mine!
We exaggerate the emphasis of certain phrases. Certain questions become
aught red wings to fly
keys are weird things,
jagged metal edges meant to open something
you’d think they were for slashing or cutting
until you discover their size
betraying them as knives in another way
keys are knives for killing doors
knives for treasure chests and PO Boxes
knives specific to their purpose
or maybe knives are just keys
without the speciality
god saved the queen. Enough already.
thoughts fire from a cannon
big like dynamite
a muse finds me at the club
suffering from desperate delicate breakings
hearts made of china or
glass thumbs in green eyes
wild kernels of kindling
how do you think faster?
time saved is time that could have been spent playing tribes
friday liverwax earmuffs
dive drink-bomb bangup base-busters
velcro suited messenger of the 80s
night rider sunglasses style
hot wheel kickin’ it
inside—a white trail across my desk
both barrels blazing
eyes piercing needles
there needs to be a dr. suess for adults:
good fuck, bad fuck
happy fuck, sad fuck.
byte sized dream packets
digital conveyances of desire
systems streaming ongoing appreciation
constant ping on heart-port:80
a make-believe binary nirvana
almost viral infection
defragment me, I’m scattered
can I reduce me to 0s and 1s?
is this all I am?
for you, yes. This is all I am.
read me in ascii,
store me in your memory.
a dark brooding about syntax and definitions
brainworms dig swiss cheese holes in memory.
I’ve lost life’s lust somewhere—forgotten where—and it’s unbridled boredom from here on in
library of unreality submission information:
message resource link credit site
feature article list
contest arena update
nature of magic
core dumped like floppy drive failure
neural net overload?
All the babies born this year will not realize they get to start from scratch.
Thomas Jefferson said to revise the constitution every 25 years.
My fingers curl around the keyboard like the tentacles of octopi,
stuck there with the force of their own suction.
My eyes ring my head, and I see into the future, the past,
but the present is obscured.
perhaps our lives are tailor made for transition, for change.
holdover from nomadic times
mood swings are mind-seasons
we migrate into depressions
build houses made of happiness
that we abandon come fall
no this page is not y2k compliant