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The man with a babushka brain

I’m sitting here eating a NYC bachelor’s dinner: sabra hummus with genetically engineered Dole carrots. If I eat enough I imagine I’ll spontaneously give birth to a crack baby made out of carrots while I’m sleeping but being genetically engineered, the crack baby will crawl to the end of the bed and die and fall to the floor where my dog will eat it since she is completely addicted to baby carrots and the symbolism will be to much for my dog. She will eat the crack baby made of carrots and then throw it up and do what all dogs do and eat the vomit.  I’ll wake up with a strange genetically modified form of emptiness; then I’ll sprout another head.   When I walk through a grocery store and actually look at the stuff called food I have no doubt cancer will be in business for the next hundred years.  It’s hard not to eat crap when it’s so available and the world practically dares you to eat it.    Every time I see a new Dunkin Donuts or Uncle Hottie’s BBQ Gut Destroyer Rib Joint open, I can’t help and think we’re moving a little backwards in evolution. But it’s better than another bank.

It seems I need a fear poker swimming somewhere around my sphincter in order to move forward in certain areas because I can jostle between being very lazy and exceptionally motivated which has been as miscast as Johnny Depp going to play Tonto as manic depressive or bipolar.   Now it’s slid over to lazy and focused.  I am evolving beyond the lonely halls of the DSM IV.  The fear here I create is unemployment and homelessness and when I used to prep my Oscar speech now I edit it to use on the subway to beg for money; they’re really not that much different.  For now, I am drive, getting driven and like all artists there’s about fifteen things I want to do right now, mentenant! As I’ve stated before. it has been such a lonesome streak if I knew it would have been this much aching and solitude I’d a taken a life as a squid on Saturn.  I live in a hipster type neighborhood here in Brooklyn and when I look around everyone it seems like a college campus.  I feel like another species at times and I look in t he mirror to make sure I don’t turn into a talking plant or a werewolf, though as I said, the moon moves inside me like Loch ness.  When I walk around at night and I see couples hold hands, sometimes it’s a bit hard to take because I know I’ve had my time in the twenties, not so glorious as in the brochure, and now when I know what I want it becomes harder to find; aiming for the top of the pyramid where there’s only room for one, not fifty.  I am moving towards something and fear of staying where I am in certain areas of my life is fine. The worst people we have in our life are our best guardians in disguise; they push us, they kill us, we rise again like a mountain full of sunrises and thank them later when they’re seven hundred miles in the rear view mirror. Right now there is someone in my life and this person feeds darkness and suffocation like she owns a warehouse for Overstock.com. There isn’t much I can do about it except push myself to move ahead so I do, I let my guardian dressed as Satan’s barber prod me in the ass until I feel burned enough to scream.  Unhappy people are a quiet epidemic because they murmur their blues;  quiet deaths are the bloodsong of the lost.

So tonight I get ready to send reels out, the best I’ve ever made and marvel at where my life has twisted and yawed to this point. I have no idea where I spent my first forty five days on Earth (I’m adopted). At two, I had two imaginary friends and I hated one of them.   That’s already a dose.  We’ll talk more about the rest as time unfolds either like a nice homemade American flag or like a dead snake.

Good night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Familiar hurts streaking through the tundra of silence

The deepest relationships in my life have dug up the ugliest bones inside me.  Sometimes it’s too much to bear at once and at least once, it almost sent me off to the showers, to be sporting analogistic about it;  I use sports analogies quite a lot; they’re great for matching wits with life.

And at times, once that connection is gone the hurts go quiet, the heart goes quiet, all is silent like the night after a Midwestern thunderstorm.  And so some of the hurts seem to rebury themselves and the temptation is go somewhere where they remain buried, to clamor for someone without a shovel or a rake or a hoe or even the gentlest hands to cultivate the compost of the soul and grow something magnificent, like a lilly crossed with a unnamed flower to create a new species for the garden.  I am not much for compromise; I’m stubborn as a barn of bulls at times, I despise cowardice in myself and the thought of living a compromise in a relationship has I think kept me alone for a while.  I had a life between life session where essentially one is hypnotized and can speak was their higher self about what they’re doing between incarnations.  Mine had a lot to do with forgiveness among other things.  I could see my Cosmic Steering Committee as I call them.  The other issue is unburying those bones, except these bones inside still have flesh, like misdiagnosed zombies.  Somewhere things got buried and that’s where I want to start my show again, to remind myself of the struggle, of entering this immense colorful mouth of soft teeth like a whale made of silly putty and old pianos, and that is the battle, the fatigue, the real jihad, to sauce up and face myself or oneself in totem, in complete view and see that not all things that are buried are rotten; no, some are waiting, unopened, and I call this looking for the black box of my soul.  Search, scrounge, through any damn means possible to stay awake, deeply awake.  Lately I have been skimming the surface and creating a silent little tundra for myself and it takes a moment or a crafty series of them to wake the yawn and enter. To be hungry, so starved for most of my life, and know that it is part mulch and part joyous release is the essence of living.  I can be jealous, petty, almost inwardly tyrannical in my moods that may seem to last for days.  When someone thinks I’m ‘mellow’ as a neighbor I just met the other day said, I honestly cringe; I get pissed; I am losing the battle.  The fervor is sitting in the bottom of the pan like old Crisco and I need to reheat.

I am upset with myself for maintaining radio silence when I should engulf the entire FM spectrum, or in my case AM at this point until the music unfurls.  I am shy, I mutter when I should shout and when that happens, a false life begins to create itself and it’s like mold. And even though my brain understands that, getting the visceral thrust to finally erupt is a real grappling with the angels, grabbing one of Michael’s horns and playing it out of any orifice available on my person.

Like after going to the gym after a week; all the muscles are sore and it feels good; that’s how it is writing; my heart has that ache of expansion. mouthfuls of rainbows with tattoos of dead generals on them.  Every scoundrel has an idea of paradise; it’s the ones that think it’s the same for everyone you have to watch.

Good night.

 

 

 

 

 

Born again Titanium Virgin

So, after about five or six incarnations of a blog which is almost as many therapists I’ve had over the years and much like I’ve settled on one therapist, mainly the hieroglyphic looking cat I see in the mirror, I have settled on a blog and with it, the first and only official rambling arena for Lee Barton, the true and only half brother of Obama. The resemblance is stunning; we have the same third toe nail and our kneecaps you can barely tell apart, especially the patella once they’ve been removed and hosed down. Beyond that, you have to squint a lot; plus I haven’t had electroshock therapy, outside of the pleasurable experience at my birth of being yanked out of my mother’s vagina with salad tongs and lacerating my nose.  Already I was born wounded, like any warrior worth it

Over the next few weeks I will consolidate and connect everything of my twitters and facebooks and such to create a mass fervor of reading about what brand of almond butter I bought and why it affects my male menstrual cycle; I am tied to the moon, and so as she warbles and grunts and pulls the earth’s liquids to and fro so it does with me.  I look forward to getting consistent with my writings.

Alternate title for my blog is ‘my animated drooping wiener dog heart’;  I believe that will be my WEB blog once I figure that out here.  Because the last two years have been very lonely.  I can hear time.  That’s how lonely it’s been.  Cavemen’s unwanted thoughts come barreling through my third eye at 2am when I can’t sleep and am wondering if I should trade my king size bed for an army cot so it feels appropriate for the usual quota.  It’s my own doing and yet, my dang-sloughed penis, full of floral prints and empty frames, is waiting, tapping its foot on my thigh, for someone to pique its interest;  I have this theory that the world’s first orgasm still breathes somewhere on the planet, like the world’s first living singe celled algae unless Monsato found it and turned it into Sugar Corn Pops that makes your kidneys turn into ice cream sandwiches.

I will wring out ache until it yawns and then screams and then sings.  Good night. Bonnuit.