conversation with a ten-digit number

I want to know who this is and I think I do but if I am correct it is no one I was ever friends with or (if I am honest) even liked and purely out of my own disappointments and dissatisfactions I do not like it when people I was never friends with and honestly never liked text me since those seem to me to be the only people who do text me all randomly while the people I was or am friends with or did or do like don’t bother and I’m all eclipse triggered to begin with and therefore as a baseline underappreciated and misunderstood and rambling and I woke up startled to start this day and week by Walter scratching plastic boxes that contain multiple shifts in thought. I shift my thoughts.

The number tells me I should study cryptocurrencies the number tells me it used to be just like me the number assumes it knows me the number tells me in response that it also hopes I never change. But its words its next words are still suggesting taking an interest in interests I do not and do not want to have regardless of their potential.  I have interests: they consume me. I have beliefs: I hold them dearly. I have the idealistic thought of a world where individuals value the exchange of ideas, as one would a currency. I am idealistic. I believe in the importance of the cultivation of a cohesive point of view before advocating for opinions. I am trying. I am against technological advancement for the sake of providing too many unimportant choices. I say this. I am against mindless consumerism for the sake of today’s entertainment. I am repeating still unaware of who, if anyone, is listening on the other side.

The number tells me there is good and bad and in response that those are not purely human constructs. But look at everything else We have constructed and don’t stop there but look at all We have destroyed. I have the feeling this stops at the agreement to disagree I have the feeling this stops with me not answering I have the feeling of being just like this number but before it decided to gave up and move on and learn about the future as it is already written and as it will take over if there is no one holding onto the past. And I do hope that I never become like this ten-digit number if to become like that number means to make suggestions to someone who is trying to hold onto all that is being let go of in the present for the future’s presumed sake. I hold onto the past.


I am waiting for the part of the story where the title is explained with some big picture summary: some explicit statement purpose governing: black words on white pages: close up, not grey faded (blurry eyed and far away). I am waiting watching waiting waving wavy ups and downs – down and down and drowning coming up for gasps of air – held under diving under sinking settling then rising up and up until finally: some surface breaking eye to eye with the ebbing tides: just pieces just some ashes taking form and taking flight forgetting unsung tragedies of unsolid shifting surfaces.

The skies are clear: I see it now: the far out stars: we’re under heaven. Traveling unraveling: some Brownian motion pathway: flittering far down below so far beneath the dawning light. But the skies are clear: they’re blue: the shortest wavelength traveling photons can will use. On Occam’s razor’s edge: the simple path is sharp and stinging. Shrink down small enough to not be sliced: the path is paved with mountain ranges. The shortest path, the lighted way, the lessons learned, the faces saved. No curving lines to final points: no question marks signaling a choice.

You look me eye to eye and you try and you try to let my hopes down carefully where i am still left standing. You’re holding on to letting go: grasping for some final straws: my fatal flaws our problems: the absence of enough being as it is defined: as enough. my white flag is waving saying: let’s fight on let’s go and if your burden is too heavy: my back is yours to break, but the guilt in your eyes is heavy too: the guilt of decisions too certainly made. But am i certain? I am certain: the shortest path is clear: fly with me towards the sun: there’s no use waiting here.

the war on drugs

recock gunshot sudden recoil. drugs smoked off aluminum foil. falling fleeing losing feeling. unknown unplugged rewind reeling. fast-forward timeline’s torn to tatters. breathing in breaking down losing touch fried grey matter. op-ed opt in open call open role. state your worth sell your time pay your taxes take your tolls. reductionist absurdity boiled down still bubbling. evaporation nothing left drinking air for sustenance. words on tongues: dissolving melting. thoughts on repeat: screaming belting. a helping hand’s a handout when necessity commands. supply some bad ideals create demand demand demand. mixed media mixed emotions mixing drinks with pill prescriptions. doctors put on pedestals for treating all our fake afflictions. but does it help who does it help? the difference is the payout. we’ve done all that we could do says a whisper seeming like a shout. pain killers kill pain until a shake rings empty silence. in absence needles fill the veins of new street market clients. advertising: consult your doctor don’t dare live days discomforted. a war on drugs is a fight for big pharma: don’t believe all as it’s contorted.

modern communication

I reach for my phone. I check my texts. Nothing from you. Nothing from anyone. I reach for my phone. I check my texts. I start to send one. It feels unimportant. I erase I erase I erase. I reach for my phone. I check my texts. It’s just me here with my problems. It’s just me here seeking substance. It’s just me here reaching for my phone my connection my lack of barriers my lack of space. I reach for my phone. I check my texts. Nothing from you. Nothing from anyone. I think about listening to music. I think about wasting time. I think about the nonsense I want to send you so we can share something insignificant, but ours. I reach for my phone. I check my texts. Nothing from you. Nothing from anyone. I hate constant conversation. I hate my constant need to speak. I hate that I can tell you nothing the moment that nothing happens. I want to tell you everything, but everything seldom happens.

I reach for my phone. I check my texts. Nothing from you. Nothing from anyone. Strange numbers left unsaved. Words from people left nameless. If you don’t know their names, they don’t feel like people. If you don’t know their names, their emotions don’t matter. I reach for my phone. I check my texts. Strange numbers left unsaved. Strange ways to find connection. Sharing nothing with no one. Sharing nothing with me. I reach for my phone. I check my texts. Nothing from you. Nothing from anyone. Nothing from you nothing from anyone. nothing from you nothing from anyone nothing from nothing is nothing gives nothing to no one to anyone who will take it and give nothing and take nothing exchange exchange exchange nothing waste time waste space waste goods and bads and trade them for nothing with no one and what does it matter it doesn’t matter we don’t matter to no one but no one is what we need.

an untitled rant for those alive in 2017

running on empty but i am running still i have to run. running on fumes and breathing in acrid air and holding it in and building carbon dioxide in tiny little cells that are parts of tiny little lungs that didn’t ask to be born but are being used and abused because people in places need products at a low cost. look at the methods when there’s a decrease in gross profits over time. look at the methods when there is the need due to force due to gross neglect made aware to the public. and not a second before, no, not a moment before, and then use your charm and personality and your platformed press releases to build trust where trust was broken. where trust had been built without cause but as an delusional acceptance of general human decency even though there is no reason to believe this exists. we accept the delusions we need to get by. we accept the delusions we need to go buy. faster cars faster food faster women all as a means of empowerment. confidence at intervals. self-deception and self-loathing. is equality what you really want? is that what you’re promoting? i see grasping at straws. i see loose threads pulled tight. change isn’t always literal, sometimes it’s just perception.


Dovetail. Love tale. Love stories gone to waste. The rise above stories, lost down below. Below me. Blow me. Billowing willow willing, waiting, wading. Candy taken from babies and pleasure taken from it. Hay right from the horse’s mouth. “Heys” right from the whore’s hoarse mouth. Throats close. Necks breaking at breakneck speeds. Speed demons haunting speed addicts haunting enablers fixated on unrequited love. Love lost. All bets are off or at least off-kilter. A blade for a sword’s hilt. Words without filter. Inhale. Exhale. Embarrassed coughs before you pass. Passing grades. Passing out. Fleeting. Flailing. Hands where you should see them. Failing. Give help only when it’s asked for, not needed. Shoot the messenger. Kill the affected. Long live the cause because we always have. You have always lived in a castle. I have always been aware of social class. Classic tales of rags and riches. Rising out of urban jungles. Hang from trees or hanged from trees? Neither: we cleared them out. Hangouts on corners. Cornered markets seem clear in the land of possibility. Possible profits with fingers worked to bones. Yours, mine, ours.  Skeletons are wearing thin. Debts promoting desperation and causing destitution. Where went a destiny that was once manifested? “Where went the constitution?” Erase. Replace. Build quicker. Build cheaper. Don’t offer free repairs. Foreign markets’ manufacturing. Improbable dreams seem possible. Align online. Know your market segment. Sell your stock. Sell your soul. Sell your hopes and then your dreams. Sell your hair for a hair comb and your pocket watch for a watch chain. Chain-link fences put up to sever ties. Do what you want to do as long as the law abides. Smoke cigarettes. Drink until your liver’s pickled. We’ve mandated health insurance. Let’s cause the problem and strive for a solution. Let’s mock preventative measures: we have abortion. Let’s continue on an ill-paved road: it has to lead us somewhere. Let’s herd like sheep for shepherds: I hear the slaughterhouse is open.


I am so very tired of thinking, but I can’t turn off my brain (I’ve tried). I am so very tired of thinking, but to not think would be to give up on moving forward, because moving forward requires some thought, I think. Moving forward with time (keeping slightly constant the other three observable dimensions) is a possibility, but problems pile up without at least some planning. I am so very tired of thinking, and it’s probably because I have too much time alone to think, but to not have time alone to think requires other people’s presences, and I do not have easy access to those – at least not in the personal way I want to access them.  I am so very tired of thinking, because all of my thoughts these days are worries about failures and insufficiencies, although I have almost no concrete evidence of the reasons for my worries. If I lost my job today I would think, “that makes a lot of sense,” because I don’t feel like I am doing well at work because I am distracted, although I am still meeting deadlines and producing competent work. I am so very tired of thinking, and I feel like I am flailing, and I don’t understand how one could wave hello and then goodbye when I am motioning to be rescued. Maybe all attempts at human-to-human understanding are fundamentally flawed – and so why am I trying, and how could I think I am trying, and why am I angry or surprised that I failed you?  I am so very tired of thinking the same thoughts that have lasted days and then weeks and now months.  I am so very tired of thinking, and the world still turns on an axis and continues to make days turn to weeks turn to months turn to years turn to lifetimes lasting lifetimes. Whole lifetimes living stuck.