{maybe i just need to prove that i’m still crazy}

i wish i could’ve
work was fun tho’ hahaha
man we should hang soon,
and if yer gonna have a myspace
thingy to look at all the band shit
you have to click the little button
that says you want to be my friend,
or else i’ll spread vicious rumors of you
all about the internet

who are you
in those moments
when
you’re
only
trying to be
yourself

[first frame]
“How can it be so hard to tell the truth when it always feels so damn good?”
This in a speech bubble from the jester; who . . .

[second frame]
realizing he’s caught up (once again?) in pointing out a most glaringly-obvious-truth, looks abashed and exits the frame . . .

[third frame]
a car passes, life goes on
this not in a speech bubble from the jester who leans back into frame to provide commentary on the great not much of everything that keeps occurring as he tries to define it

quick hard fluctuations of interest
overloaded screen

i think i read nausea about every year round this time
as a sort of inoculation against the angst
we wind up drawing in
in the winter
seeking shelter naturally
scratching out across the terrain
that surrounds us

i know why the caged mind dings

so there you are, living your life . . .
doing that which is expected of you as a human
(un)fortunate enough to be born here, now
just in time to witness history
as it passes on by

and all of a sudden, an invitation emerges,
out of the clouds of confusion;
a message arrives

the phrase - bat’s chance in hell
rings a bell
but still, there it is, just waiting for you
the clarion call of opportunity

i’m a dreamer; and a very lazy man

been meaning to write this post for weeks now

My entire life is sitting on the back-burner,
i’ve fallen into a rabbit-hole of sudden ability
to entertain my apathy,
and i’ve succumbed to the sensation
whole-heartedly.

Time passes as a series of pipe-dreams,
passion bursting into ephemeral flame
to paint moments rich in meaning,
so far away, and fading
as i trace their shape into memory
to be preserved with all the other artifacts
of dreams untested.

sometimes there is nothing but trouble to be found in the exercise of rational thought, sometimes it’s a terrible idea to go to the bar

you find yourself tangled in the decaying tendrils of the hard-won hope that there is enough inherent intelligence and good-will in the human species to undertake the admittedly difficult tasks of seeing to the sustainability of this human experiment

wow, way too much silence from the jester’s end of the world
this blogging thing began with the most impossible aims imaginable
a pure reflection of my general take on life;
namely that unless i’m doing something to make this world better,
i’m wasting my time

all my dreams scare me

at night
i toss and turn
wondering
what it’s worth

howling into the void

if you could feel my rage right now you would fear me
or if not me, you would fear the things i would be capable of
because right now my anger knows few bounds
and is just barely contained
by a few thin wisps of moral fiber
and a handgrip connection to those i love

i am furious about the state of things
the way these stupid polititians
try to prove to us that they are needed

so i made a trip to the guitar shop,
had to purchase picks

and since this activity required
a quick lap to run envious eyes
across the equipment on display,
i happened to see
not one, but two!
young guys
wearing iron maiden shirts
each of them towing
a pretty young girlfriend

after a sleepless night
spent with a thousand thoughts
about the futility
of dwelling on your failings

the seven a.m. sky sings of
deep-blue potential,
partially hidden by hot breath
exhaled into cold air

the world feels inviting,
soft and forgivable
despite what the papers tell you,

the uneven hop-scotch court,
scrawled in some child’s earnest hand,
and covered in cigarette butts
seems beautiful . . .
or at least poetic

With the latest frenzy of discussion regarding the good doctor, I figured it might be worth my while to snip apart an interview I recently came across for a few of the tastier nuggets and present them for your enjoyment.

Hunter S. Thompson was one of those rare individuals whose true legacy has yet to be fully understood, a genius and a giant of american letters. This world desperately needs more like him. If nothing else, those who attempt to inform their lives from the lessons of his legacy are bound to keep things interesting . . .

Every once in a while you stumble across something that just works so damn well you can’t hardly believe it. I had one of those experiences the other day; what seemed especially fascinating to me was the fact that I’d had this particular piece of ‘perfect poetry’ in my possession for quite a number of years, and while I’d enjoyed it, it had never really struck me the way it did when I stumbled back across it a few days ago.

let’s do something
tragic together
we can call it living

let’s cry out
to and against
the emptiness of all
we cannot know

let’s create:
. . . loves
. . . religions
. . . corporate entities

loud desperation
and
silent negation

let’s continue to create
this world
in our own image

let’s see how that goes

i can only forgive
those who continue
to change
and i need
to absolve myself

i was going to write about
the ultimate futility of something
then in the time it took to step to the keyboard
and get to the page
the thought slipped my mind

so i meant to put down something profound
bear with me
just play along for a while
and please forgive me my lapse
gimme this one
and you’ll have one coming

we all have those moments sometimes

yes, this trend of posts that plant, Fullery and myself have been making here on Lewd Cognoscenti has certainly taken something of a political bent as of late . . .
and

i,
as the finite jester
speak only for myself
in the following statement

i’ve been somewhat obsessed as of late

i could not even attempt
to count
the nights spent
dwelling on mortality
and (for lack of a better word that rhymes)
destiny

The following is in response to talking plant’s retort to a post of mine. You may wish to read the original posts first, but certainly don’t have to.

Links: (for those who want ‘em)
- living this life of illusion (my original post)
- allow me to retort (plant’s response)

To the extent that a mere exercise in semantic brain-flexing can be called a controversy; the controversy stems from the various implications to be taken from a quote . . .

This wasn’t written to convince anyone of anything
This wasn’t written to be a great work or to explain anything

This was written because I had to write it
This was written because I hope someone will read this, and be reassured
This was written because writing is so often all I have . . .
In these modern times.

I swear it’s not doom and gloom, and I hope you’ll agree with me.
-finite (do me a favor and play along) jester

will you miss me when i’m gone?

when i look at life
with a wide angled lense
i can tell you honestly
that i won’t be here much longer

and as i look at this world i’ve made
all these possessions
the things that stay behind
i won’t miss them
and they won’t miss me

so what is there left
where have i touched this world
enough to leave a lasting mark

Today I was walking around,
Doing my usual: paying attention to everything that looks even remotely interesting, dodging in and out of traffic with my usual sense of alacrity, all while keeping up my standard (here read fairly fast) pace;
When it strikes me -

the thing i do most when i’m walking is Dream

weird little pipe-dream motifs
the occasional bit of fantasy
integrating all these
interesting elements,
(mostly human)
that i won’t actually engage with,
into the flow
of what exists
only in my mind