Originally printed: 9th April, 2005
Haven’t the foggiest as to what I am doing here.. trapped inside these borders. Typically the letters and characters, pen and ink… they drag in a familiar yet extraordinarily unpredictable way. I hate stream of consciousness, but what is it then if you are watching yourself write, and reading along like some audience tied to a table and two drink minimum… it’s all watered down.
Then resolute inside these walls, I focus on the length and spirit of what words I came to say…. and here they care, vibrating a visceral thought from one brow to the next as I stand shape shifting them in the bathroom mirror in hopes that the external expression will help me to realize some cathartic internal dialogue… but it is at that point. I passed up live music, awkward sex, meaningless dominoes (with no emotion tied to them??)… and the slow, uneasy pangs of sadness that come from sloppy, dazed reading — DAMMIT! That is the third time I have had to read that over.
Tomorrow is different. It opens with a different vibe. I dig, I dig. Nothing wrong with this one, but I do like to mix it up.
I meant to reveal.. the reason I am writing is some staunch boredom that won’t creep away from my furrowed forehead. My lips are pursed in catatonic thought.. how to adjust this feeling.
The sting on the lips tumbles the pursed lips into a vibrant, squirming jellified mass. That sting is gin. And it might resolve some of these issues.
Gin, is not for the strong or weak. It is for those whom need a drink, and more than likely enjoy the outdoors. The juniper always reminds me of christmas. And doing a stand up act in front of an audience curled up in the fetal position, under a table, in the front row. That was another time, but as for straight gin…. try closing your eyes, taking a sip…. and imagine running nude, backwards through a pine forest in the snow at night.
That’s the smell my friend. Dig it!