Dreamless Sleep

I have a hard time sleep
ing at night I have a har
d time falling asleep wh
en I can't sleep I stareup
out the window up at th
e trees towering in the y
ard their dark shadowsf
lexing in the breeze and
I am out outamongstthe
ir cold indifference I ha
ve a hard time sleeping a
t night I have a hardtime f
alling asleep when I can't s
leep I stare up out the windo
w up at the trees towering in t
he yard their dark shadows flex
ing in the breeze I am out out am
ongst their cold indifference I hav
e a hard time sleeping at night I
have a hard time falling asleep
when I can't sleep I stare upo
ut the window up at the tre
es towering in theyard th
eir dark shadows flexin
g in the breeze I am o
ut out amongst their
cold indifference I
have a hard time
sleeping at nig
ht I have a h
ard time fa
lling asle
epwhen
I can'
t sl
ee
pI
s
t
a
r
e
up
out
thew
indow
up att
he tree
s in the
yard thei
r dark sha
dows flexin
g in the bree
ze I am out out
amongst their co
ld indifference
I have a hard
time sleepin
gat night I h
ave a hard ti
me fallingas
leep whenIc
an't sleepI st
are up out th
e window up
at thetrees to
wering in the
yard their dar
k shadows fle
xing in the bre
eze and I am o
ut out amongst
their cold indif
ferenceI have a
hard time sleepi
ng at nightI have
a hardtime falling
asleep when I can'
t sleep I stare up o
ut the window up a
t the trees toweringi
n the yard their dark
shadows flexing inth
e breeze and I am out
out amongst their cold
indifference
I have a ha
rd time sle
eping at n
ight I hav
e a hardt
ime fall
ing asl
eep w
hen I
can't
slee
p I
sta
re
u
p
ou
t th
e wi
ndow
up at t
he tree
s tower
ing in th
e yard the
ir dark sha
dows flexin
g in the bree
ze andI am o
ut out amongs
t their cold indi
fference I have a
 hard time sleepin
g at night I have a
hard time falling as
leep when I can't sle
ep I stare up out the w
indow up at the trees to
wering in the yard their
darkshadowsflexinginth
e  breezeandIamoutouta  m
on  gsttheircoldindiffer  en
ceI  haveahardtimeslee  pin
gatn  ightIhaveahardt  imef
allin  gasleepwhenIca  n'tsl
eepIst  areupoutth  ewindo
wupatth  etreestow  eringin
theyardt  heirda  rkshadow
sflexingi  ntheb  reezeandI
amoutoutam  o  ngsttheirc
oldindiffer  e  nceIhaveaha
rdtimesleepi    ngatnightIha
veahardtime  fa  llingasleep
whenIcan't  sle  epIstareupo
utthewin  dowupa  tthetrees
towering  intheya  rdtheirda
rkshad  owsflexing  inthebre
ezea  ndIamoutouta  mongst
theirc  oldindiffer  enceIhav
eaha  rdtimesleeping  atnigh
tIh  aveahardtimefall  ingasl
ee  pwhenIcan'tsleepIs  tare
u  poutthewindowupatthe  t
re  estoweringintheyardt  he
ird  arkshadowsflexingint  h
ebre  ezeandIamoutoutamon
gstth  eircoldindifferenc  eIh
aveaha  rdtimesleepingat  ni
ghtIhav  eahardtimefall  ing
asleepwh  enIcan'tslee  pIst
areupoutt  hewindowupa  tt
hetreestow  eringinth  eyard
theirdarksh  adowsfl  exingi
nthebreezean  dIamo  utouta
mongsttheirco  ldi  ndifferen
ceIhaveahardti  m  esleeping
atnightIhaveah  a  rdtimefall
ingasleepwhen  Ica  n'tsleepI
stareupoutth  ewind  owupatt
hetreestowe  ringint  heyardth
eirdarksha  dowsflexi  nginthe
breezeand  Iamoutou  tamong
sttheirc  oldindifferenc  eIhav
eahardt  imesleepingatni  ghtI
haveah  ardtimefallingasl  eep
whenI  can'tsleepIstareupo  ut
thew  indowupatthe treesto  w
eri  ngintheyardtheirdarksh  a
do  wsflexinginthebreezea  nd
I  amoutoutamongsttheirc  old
indifference

Deep Shit

I live in the vericose veins of society. Oh what? Shit. Damn. That's deep. Yeah, and that society is a a disease. No, wait. You know what? I'm the disease. Whoa. Fuck. Me. Shit, man. Yeah. But she. She is the the antidote. Fuck. She's as pure as snow and innocent like a child. Like like damn. Yeah, I know, right? She's a saint and I. I need to repent. FUCK. I need to cleanse my soul and take my medicine. Shit, or this shits gonna fuck and we're all shit fucked in the damn vericose deep down in the the the disease.

My Feet, at this moment, Are Tingling

These are words going together, letters going to gether and measure the great frankness of nodding.

"Iunderstoodupuntilthepartaboutleather.:"

Well, says the narrator, that's good. That's good that something not written makes sense, as we fall into this typical post-modern construct, delineated by proper punctuation. The narrator talks about himself in the third person, but talks about others as if he's dead and they've forgotten him, which makes him a third first person third person omniscient limited narrator. Right? I think that's right. Or should I say, "He thinks that's right."

In other news, the baby I'm having is a squirrel; sandwiches in Winters are hard to come by; and Martin Luther King has a pretty direct connection to Johnny Depp.

I got a haircut

Today the summer seems endless: empty days stretching to the horizon to be filled with whims and glad routines. Today is the promise of bike rides, of day drinks, complicated recipes, of The Price Is Right, of nothing. I am sitting here at 5 in the evening next to a just sipped cup of coffee, in no hurry and happy. I know tomorrow it will be August already

Disneyland Part 2

It's a tender thing to say, "I got this Diet Coke for you. I got  you this because you looked thirsty and I know Diet Coke is what you drink these days." It is meaningful when one, not sure how to say anything else, asks, "Would you like some Nutella and pineapple?"

In other news, The burly usher at the Disney light show belted the lyrics to every song in the "World of Color" medley; at some point, ice cream is replaced with Monster; and high school students wear Disney sweatshirts that say "Husband" and "Wife," fully aware of the emptiness of these promises.

Disneyland

Pounds of flesh converging aimlessly in crowds: That these cells, here, glob into meaning and become this thing in a starbuck's line, black pants tucked into neon green shoes, craving connection, and these cells, here, converge to run down a half empty street towards a dance floor, fist in the air. This thing and all other things breathing.

A shortcut from nothing to nothing

An attempt to write a perfect paragraph: of stained glass windows made of death, of raised instruments in the silence of the moment of the end of the dirge, of the paperwork that is the cost of living.