just a post

"This town, is coming like a ghost town"

poetry means nothing. less than nothing.

the bulbous head of an expired poppy is dancing in the wind. jude is coming up the steps. I don't even look at his face anymore, just which book he's carrying. my camera is inside and i hate american beauty for cheapening the power of a natural moment for all time.

that damned bag scene. they stole something from us there.

it's monday and i'm too healthy to ignore the work ahead of me now. that's a shitty feeling; the one where you can do it, but don't have any wind behind you.

everything i read lately is pissing me off. everything.

i'm feeling that particularly distinctly never felt by anyone before ruzz feeling, as if, where i've put too much of myself out there and need to pull something back for myself.

you're a dentist today. i'm sprawled in your chair. i'm semi-hard, of course, and you're arranging your tools. your assistant is eyeing the exposed nerve like it's the last guy who might ever try to pick her up in a shitty low-life bar. she doesn't want it, but she does.

sometimes the work is the best thing in the end. it releases me from my head for a while. cleans the pores and burns the images from tired eyes. weary eyes.

nothing but me and a problem.
no context. no meaning.
no confusion or fear.

my text editor becomes a bottle of tequila.

i want tori amos to work in a coal mine for a while, then write a new album about strife.

oh, the ridiculous irony.