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Monthly Archives: March 2009

And a day comes and goes yet.
i watch from a distance. the television. runs my head. but what am i but stoned again. and the thoughts go off. i have not been feeling my way though with words of late.
i have only given to the actually published , the wasted worlds of thinking. thrown to wolves of the normal. and the less than me. as i try only still. still. my words have become as dry as my heart. a left over from a romantic past. a giving without knowing, the present made and disentangled to left overs of Christmas’ shiny, burning wrapper. coffeehousenumber As working into the night. as the past was. A darkly colored wood worn bar to rest an arm on. the lean back of my favorite stool, against the window with the square laid out before me. The Hair salon with women coming in and out, the liquor store where they know me enough to not even ask me anything as clerk put my cigarettes on the counter and i say Gracious. pay and leave.
there you can see lives no different except in language, the bar is Irish, and that only really means there are Irish people playing American behind the bar, families live off drunkenness, the cheer of good times or the pinning away the hours to a death unconscious while playing darts.
And checking out what new loves can be for the night. For i believe every drunk has a love inside. somewhere, a pain of the left behind in the continual process of achievement. here were we might only achieve another job, for construction contractors come in looking for help. Or a conversation will prove a point, of where you are in that interview with a beer and a shot. Talking long enough to secure work for the next day. or a rumor of what might come. the over lords of realastate linking though whiskey and smoke. i sit kowing the love lot , will never come back, and my determent to achieving more is just that unloveing stance i have taking for loving so much. Who will jump thorugh this saddness.
She will look very appeazing, leading me like a fairy in the trees, i will spend what ever money and time necessary to be lead out of this cold refined judgment of another in the lose have i have been leading.
and maybe that is all that is ever needed. Someone to love where there isn’t any but a phantom.
the years of this looking out. this three beers to the wind. and staring at the movement . out side, like a cat, Each little trace of motion so relevant , and normal. The higth and depth all around a Square that is really a circle.
it is something to look up , the why a circle became called a Square. All over Boston, mass, are Squares with many irish names. each is like a three way intersection or more, but they don’t call them circles. they are Squares. making you think there is something going on there. There is . i am sitting in the window , watch people cars , and lives.
Enough i guess that is.
i listen to the room , the bar accordingly, oh no i am not listening to your conversation. i am wrapped up in the name, or the symbolism, i am couaght up in the books on each wall. many and older. like fifties and older printings. symbols only, still. for each name is a rampant part of the knowledge which , outside these walls to be so important. but they are names , and civilization usage of the bible. the blame and the “we stood for this, so we bought this” importance of the printed page. the not printed dialogue inside each piece, knowledge is reasonable while the strength of being , sits here and drinks, because we are the doers. the raw handed, the equalized common adjustment to what the back bone really is. the sore and warring destination of excistances. material so important. Fighting daily with tools designed to cut, and hold, designed to rip and score. A subtle death is everywhere, lurking for the forgotten blade spinning two seconds for amputation. Material is important, that bricks and mortar, hold up weighs so fantastic that a movement of one support could crush a man in less time than to think of one. We listen to the misplaced brinks on an outside scaffolding crushing two men, we listen, and spend days caring about each second with a duel nature, my life and my quantity. dueling, for emmenance.
At the end of the day.. it is to wonder was that enough to make the day suceesful. was that living. muscles hurting in places the older you get. Tired ness and attention deficit flung at the innocent spirit told not to feel the pressure of another lifting. not to mind, and continue after you crush your finger. with a well placed blow but wrong. the sixteen penny laugh at you, waiting to be placed forever.

and yet. with the names of the martyr, we are the displaced farmers of India. we are the left over black afriacan diamond workers. looking to remember where is not a greater cause than to live. the rest is just what you got and can’t handle. for even as the rise of material comes; a balence sufferance is the rise labors to maintain the same. Labors can be done lovingly , but who notices. Grinmy jeans and worn tool belts are rarely on Valentines day cards,, .
Emotions. touching, caring with time, that is the muse,, the what we give away, the living being and being done. civilizations clairvoyant continuous nature, except balances is removed for the importance of the whole.
i love extremes, the monk on the hill invented, the special distilling. or am i wrong , was only the pototes,, or was it the druids? who the hell did invent the wine.
who ever the world expandes inside the contraction little. such that to dream is the live of living , the rest a planning of material. and you can “be it”. It is alwasy a joke,, you turn from for a second and it is gone. the ultimate of achievements.
lol. Such the sitting seems so normal and like the wind blows flowers. and dirt sits from the spray of the street on a stop sign. Calm against the rise in the mirror over looking. the Square.

I talked say purpose. my weak shoulders.
as the point at first sitting here remembered lose ( closing a coffee house smoking. Walking in Fanueil hall, Boston. the range of faces in the late evening, each store closing slowly proceeding. workers seeing the clock separated from the clients walking, they are always separated.
It is part of our world. the treatment of workers in a perfect world?
funny I talk of the world of purposelessness , of materialism, of education by environment and where do i go. A tourist trap, to watch the workers, or maybe it is this booth before me, one with a dark hair women black like a plaster drawing, hair spray, a covering to take away imperfections, Maybe it is the music from continuously playing human in the club by the door, trying to entreat customers, who are not there already more more more. the slight nasal isn’t noticed as much , the quality stemmed through a sound system, you turn down the high end and loose sound you loose nature, but you are not effected are you , the second hand performer playing third hands songs above the dinner’s heads. maybe that is why i sit here, now. The voice going through each song mixing them together into the same one. Left at the door an equalized excitement a balanced repetition.
You know purpose seems so trivial to consider Love is only
Three carts, each busy, store stock, Passing a barbie, a yellow lab . a San salvodorian flattish brown face, Equadorian more Maybe, the Peruvians have sharper features like caucasions her face heavy with thick lips puffy cheek bones,
a couple kiss I have said people like to kiss in font of people writing. often.
the black haired girl wears tight white top and kick bottom jeans, laced though with handkerchief . her nose extended a little , fine straightness. her hear to a cell phone. One handed ly placing the last items.
May people gather a conventions of teenagers, maybe a local high school . their conversations in every direction, little to represent the organization as they decide en mass to move, debating with little money and even less phone numbers to call to move out in group. so the group breaks. three go off , glamorized up. looking like strangers even as they wave good bye to their friends. older strangers. the looks back with a certain secret the others can not share, the secret of sex, the planning to fool .. one even where’s here shirt way loose to the breasts she is really only starting t show.
the one looks attractive for attention Your breasts forget age
her fourteen year old friends waving good bye cheering for the song as it ends.
Nine o’clock comes but moments away. I want to sit until ten , just to write those things of human purpose.
the teenagers break again Seven girls leaving the guys all went out the exit next to which they were standing.
A family walks round, the father with a broken leg, doesn’t have crutches but instead , his knee rest on a seat at almost the equal level to the other knee, and the seat like a big bike is attached to profession tricycles wheels. he pushes along.
Purpose two year old passes with mother slowly walking the carriage ahead the young one ,alittle behind, is soft clothed , each stand a face a touch to her little eyes. as she sings alittle with the music. new new new.. pulling at her mothers had to see what has never been seen , timelessness starts at the end of a mother’s grasp.
Purpose, Darkly uniformed teenage Navy(ers) walk self importance, but fast on leading as there must be , the other square walking double time behind. Pressed uniforms of a just landed ship dress uniform.
Now the last seconds our sellers, have closed theirs stands, three I include now. A man five noting pudgy hard shouldered. big glasses, asks the next “ you need Help” his arms loaded with the personal possessions a coffee canteen a huge winter jacket, a leather over the shoulder brief case.
the one aside him between both I have mentioned . an older women , also five nothing, funny that each is less than what would be the average. Maybe that is a trend for Kesok booths. ?

the one with wheels you could roll, but these hardly ever move.
the women looks like a school teacher with short grey heir. ears exposed , rimmed shaved edged square glasses delicate hands winkled to the knuckle but flowing over each item to be hid away till morning.
Purpose, to leave here and live. A separations which doesn’t happen in truth. She flew out like the trains are on time sometimes and the walk home need less of the night to entice trauma. Purpose survival.
A women come through the exit doors.
Golden jacket a puzzled look of the middle class Whatever called Fanueil Hall Boston. She waits and a moment passes she looks around. her body is huge as in she is tall and thick, her legs seem very dark underneath like they are hairy, I wonder if she is a man.

the last entry was written with a pen first then cast into the typewriter-ing word.
There is a muse. with the pen . a drawing . almost. the composed scene changing . the air assuming what ever context we give it . more than what it is .. I like to imagine every life in the room. having partials of the living i am doing. watching.
but even as i say that, the watcher , often is seen, and that changes the watched and the watcher. for roles are exchanged, and definitons become the element for which a relationship starts.
To night as i walked thought, a large shiny multi-colored supermarket. the perfect Isles, the Faced shelves. Even to the objects themselves like the Rows. this one taking you pass what is complimentary with the last. but some precept of perfect marketing. “ Now to get them to come all the way back through the store , we place the water bottles separate from the jugs of water.. yea then many signs pointing to the “WATER” but in the confusion they shope for everything else they don’t need or are going to have five of when they get home,
the story really isn’t about the supermarket. Even through i love to walk around in them, Y es of course the women,
and that is the nature of our story ,, this is a story about me, and a stranger. sort of ..
for i passed a women tonight who energy i felt to my core. and couldn’t feel free enough from my last love.

i

But when does someone stop changing. i want to say never. the dysfunction is my being in this. for change was always the devastation of my birth under a very strict step father. i wonder how picture-2Bach or Mozart felt. for their pains were much worse. right now that is the music playing down stairs and my sound track. i think on the pain and resulting beauty created. like one and the other come with heightened voice. the world celebrates the common life of our heroes are rarely heard.
it has been long since the advent of psychology and it is funny that the over abundance of media makes us forget self for the mass opinion of the same. the mass selling , you are this to buy? this you need, this you are, this. when you are what the past has created and you have created far beyond what can be bought. your happier world has to do with the acceptance. i guess i am talking as i should to myself.
yes i have food and even as it is snowing i have shelter. Large walls for which keeps out the winter wind and snow. but inside i think about living in my car. think how if i could live again in the car i might be able to have my phone back. have my struggle back for which made me get up and do something every day. as it is right now i have. and it is making me lazy. my big struggle is to brush my teeth, take a shower, look at the world with some positiveness which will create a future. but i am not happy. and i also don’t accept my poverty or my pain. No wonder but for me it is a survival mechanism. a place where you feel the past has been just a second of life like the future, there is no where to go or be it is all the same, just some have money and other don’t but we share the space of being. we can fool ourselves with materialism. and foster a sense of calm from it. but it is not the reality. in that we are sharing a dieing earth.