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1st draft: 9 March 2007
unpublished
There’s a song I love so much I stole
Every precious note I took, I sold
Now I spit out words, do you see my lungs on the dance floor?
—Alkaline Trio
Until it happens that I’m fluid and lucid, blank paper. Trying too hard. I’ve become lazy. A good sentence is a fillet in a sea of fat. This room should be clean. Colder days should not be forgotten because I’m always two steps from more of them. May the music fade to background. Everything should be as free as air and time’s more valuable than any currency.
I dreamed in detail of a revolution this morning.
Consider this hand exercise. Masturbation. Guess that’s both. I think I’ll refine this and send it down a dark internet asshole. Haven’t even got the internet at home—I currently operate on a war-torn laptop and at the library. I’m definitely refining this into one of those pieces whose only quality is the allure of the spastic mind, then submitting it to an internet asshole for publication. I maybe should delete that sentence but I won’t. I don’t think my newfound laziness is the result of things being too easy, I think after a period of continual frustrated failure I began to lower my standards of good until I wound up in this basement room. Pretty sure my jail cell was bigger, and that didn’t cost anything. Someday I’ll be famous or infamous. Jack Kerouac or David E. Winters or someone, anyone, who didn’t fail forever. Motivation is a fleeting flighty whore when you live on the bottom—memories of rich guys who recognized our similarities but never our disparity in starting point sicken me. Had I been born with loot, it stands to reason that by now I’d have stolen more from this society of dedicated slaves. I’d have been successful. Since I was not, it makes sense that I have three two-dollar bills and three one-dollar coins and eight pennies and some food stamps. This song’s rhythm always stimulates pen-to-paper. I wonder sometimes how many are actually alive. I write long-hand first, even unto stillborn novels. The current dimmer brilliance is about losing friends when losing psychological stability.
This town could be worse.
If Beth calls, I’m sure I’ll leap back on track. Keeping promises and losing weight again. Fat rolls bother me.
Eighth draft of a very ridiculous piece of writing, but I have someone in mind for it and at least I’m doing something right now. Eight drafts, though.
There are days that I just smoke, get munchies, and stare out various windows. Marijuana should be more abundant or simply eradicated—there’s never enough of it. Even though it’s murder on the work ethic. My balls itch and my body aches. Money baffles me. I’d rather recycle it for loose-leaf paper—there are madmen who kill over the stuff. Also: dirt and oil.
This page is blackened with ink. With the ash of Winston Cigarettes. That was an earlier draft, actually, but here lies an American dreamer. Nonetheless. I’ve always had faith, even unto the days of squatting and eating from dumpsters: I always believed that war stories could somehow culminate in an end worth the struggle.
Earlier I considered the concept of an ampersand.
Bohemians and pseudo-intellectuals are neither attractive nor any better than real intellectuals. Language has its limits; a smack can sometimes do all of the talking.
A former room-mate was fond of pissing in bed unto the point that he was kicked out of the damn place. At least this roommate’s got the dignity of making it to the steps before letting go. I’m too young for this.