today's a soggy grey die
last night's air was sickly warm
I'm tired of her (America's)
rampant brutal bullshit

it's like the way good people
can evaporate from your life
it's like the way you yourself
can never from your own

what I said to my sister:

 

I don't argue with fuckin retards

it's mean

I am flying over green rolling fields of grass and moving men playing a game like golf but more mixed, as with horses and telepathy
always fly so high and fast and each time a lesser sense of falling

I roared back down and then I was in Riley's basement, scanning buds;
he wasn't there: I was thinking of pinching some, I had the green dust on my fingertips and felt guilty, for I was certainly going to steal

then I was out in his driveway roping my truck into the back of his; someone needed one for some errand; I was roping round the back wheels, a terrible job

then I was back in NYC some bullshit job taking measurements with napkins
amongst the coiffed and dressed,
blah blah blah
I got fired on the spot for standing faking work by a tall model looking douche of a guy he said
your breath is not the greatest
I said your fucking shirt is untucked in back
I said if you're kicking me out of here at least have the courtesy to direct me toward the exit
I came in here from on high in the air on like floor 27 and had a hard time in a gray stairway coming down to this job

he took me down, I followed him, then I said, you're like [some movie star] except with no talent

he said, you know what makes this job so miserable
it's guys like you
there was a cute young girl sitting at the bottom of the stairs
from earlier that day

talldick and her exchanged a little look and laugh about me, the Asshole,
I looked back at tall and said, "You're a shiteating monster cockface who's gonna die in a burning wreck in the desert if my head has anything to say about it; I don't even know what you

represent

then I turned to the cute bobbed young girl with the magic smile and she holding a baby and I said,
but yours is a beautiful child

and I exited back on the the street of my nightmare NYC which dont even hold a candle to the reality of that nightmare
(of this I'm certain)

I am not a ball of holy fire yet.
I need ore. I need stumps to cut off and to hew from them my sick sculptures. If I face it I bet I could bet on that shit. I need to codify my own personal details.
Here's the ugly beersoaked entrails of the idea: the idea is true.
wise another drunk winter another wise winter another cold drunk
or drink like a gentleman
I could fuck you now bitch hard for a hour: I said that to the green winter sky. I am the ether of lost friends whipping white on the roadway. I am still out of control. This'll all get on the Internet because I'm the whip, the whip, already
Mott:

confused
erratic
tired
in a hurry

wanting a cigarette
wanting to get wrecked
wanting immortality
wanting all possibilities

gray
gray
gray
like today

like the ocean
like steel
like the color my hair will be
gray like wolves

simple creatures
to be is to do
wanting sustenance
wanting all possibilities

wanting to get wrecked
wanting

when we go out there with our various bottles and incendiary-ingestive products
we call it getting "pined"
because we're among pine trees

and also for the thick
rough pungency you get
into your head and guts out there

that is like
the gum from the pines
and that you try to keep
 

for later

I never rode the lightning

I used to dare it

to strike or so I thought

but now I see written 

in headlight

tracers on the wet

roads the answer:

its one and the same

all the way 

 

I can tell: I woke up drawing blanks,

and here I sit drawing more

 

better get to work

The phone rang. I hesitated to pick up. I won't get any work done this way, I thought. Already I'd wasted the entire morning working on my "Personal Glossary - The Deep Cover Edition," a work which, if discovered by anyone, would certainly result in my being institutionally committed, perhaps indefinitely.

 

So I didn't pick up. I waited for the ringing to stop, then walked to the bathroom to take a crap. On the way back to my seat, I used the water bubbler and then chatted briefly about last night's game with the guy who brings the mail.

 

When I reached my desk, I resumed my seat, fully expecting to resume (read: start) the day's work.

 

I then quickly picked up the phone.

 

"The only thing that could interest them, the only thing that might possibly matter, are your nightmares," hissed the voice.

 

"I don't have nightmares," I hissed back, issuing quick glances to my left and right while imperceptibly (I hoped) cupping my hand over the receiver. "They're not what I'd call scary...usually."

 

"You ungrateful bastard," the voice mused. "You don't really get it, do you?"

 

"What did I tell you about calling me at work?" said I. "You're impacting my job-related performance. You might very well get me fired."

 

On the line's other end, I clearly heard what sounded like a large book falling shut.

 

"You do it to yourself," said the voice. "You disgust me. See you tonight, ingrate. Goodbye."

 

"Now you listen to me -" I said.

 

I had a good mind to call it back. As if that were possible.

 

I had to go walk around in the parking lot in the cold rain for about 20 minutes after that. The reason was I had suddenly started to hallucinate that I was a ward of the state hospital and that the doctors were conducting experiments using me as the test subject. Except at the time, it wasn't a hallucination 

driving down the town's main road on my way into work this morning (an unusually

bright warm and moist morning for November; I frankly could just as easily have gotten excited

about pale gray and chilly because that is how I am)

 

I saw this dude walkin along the shoulder, short, stout dude, cropped yellow hair and full beard,

amblin along the shoulder with a vaguely bemused air, as though curiously observing something

taking place at the construction site toward which he was walking (they are gutting the tanks

 

at a gas station, I am assuming to increase underground fuel storage capacity? Who knows). I

assume the fellow was heading toward his job site as he was carrying one of those "mini Igloo" coolers, identical

in appearance, in fact, to the one I used to use landscaping in Indiana 10 years ago

 

And why do you need to know all this? Point of convergence is our watchword and key this morning, friends. Take: the aspect of this dude; my Indiana landscaping memories

(the activity of those times, who I was runnin with, the girl I was sleepin with, the dudes I was drinkin with); and - wait for it -

 

the X factor of remembered dream content (as in I sleep to dream before I wake)

intersect these verticies and what we'd have - if I had nothing to but write about it all day, would be

better than this blog content

 

(what would it be like were I to commit to writing 5 or even 3 pages a night? If I ever do, I could post excerpts here as BONUS mott c. content

 

oh yeah and the other thing that occurs to me is the need for ancillary space for certain content. that'll be embedded in the Links at left. I'm not sure how you'll know to look for it. ya might just have to wing it, all four of you

I need the drugs that keep me up all night
but tight and ready for a head-seeing explosion

Green, the color of the ocean; Blue
the color of an eye; White,
the color of a pupa:

girl, the essence
of a

lie

The next American Jesus -
in the same way (sort of) that Lincoln
was like that -

sat back in the red-cushioned
diner booth and took a pull off
his St. Pauli Girl;

raised a finger,
ordered another.

Outside on Rt. 95
an 18-wheeler hushed by

The girl gazed at him,
bored, tired

sexed up
worn out

sexed out

I leap up and start running but I'm running too fast and too suddenly and my legs give way and then I am on the floor with my legs kicking wildly and in terror I begin to shout and bray, emitting a nasal scream screaming hep hep HEP NO NO NOOOOOOOO

it would be OK if it was a dream but it was not OK for a person just on their way to take a piss and then perhaps a drink from the water bubbler

(what was going to happen was the narrator who is not right in the head - not sure if he's actually retarded or just very mentally ill -

chapter 2 of this story is where the narrator takes a long bus ride to a strange city
and gets off the bus and starts putting on an elaborate act of mental retardation;
trying, in fact, to be institutionalized;

Chapter 3 is where he is finally institutionalized and then tries to convince his captors that the retardation is reversing itself;

Chapter 4 is where his bluff is called and he is semi-publicly excoriated in the hospital lobby;

Chapter 5 is where he hops another bus and moves on to another town, where he solicits a prostitute and gets her and himself terribly drunk and in trouble. This narrator always has money because of his mysteriously received monthly "Estate check" which is another story

What was going to happen was the narrator, who is not right in the head - not sure if he's actually retarded or just very mentally ill - finally gets to the basement, where he's hidden a blue thermal long underwear suit (top and bottom) and a red bandana mask

which he wears do-rag style, except pulled down over his eyes with eyeholes cut out. And a red cape worn draped from his neck, made from a huge piece of heavy bright red canvas stolen off a roll from the hatchback of Mrs. Healy's sister-in-law (when that lady was parked in the

driveway.) OK,

the narrator has a superhero outfit hidden downstairs, and his goal is to outfit himself and run out to the plane crash in the field by the highway.

Jim has some drunken hijinks in there.

Abdul is a mystery. can you see

why I'm not finishing this one? or maybe I will. who

gives a fuck?)

Mrs. Healy keeps the basement door locked to keep transient former borders from breaking into the house.

Two summers ago a heroin addict and former boarder known only as Shane jimmed open the rear bulkhead, thereby gaining entry to the house wherein he ran from room to room brandishing Mrs. Healy's butcher's cleaver (the one she used and still uses to hack up the chicken and beef parts for the Sunday stew) and demanding payment.

I lost about $50 in that raid. I would have lost more but I hadn't yet cashed my Estate check from that month.

Now the basement door stays locked as does the bulkhead.

Mrs. Healy has two keys. One she keeps hidden, the other she loans out to the boarders she trusts - Jim, Abdul, and me. None of us are especially trustworthy. But we have lived here the longest. Mainly deaf and wholly mute, Mrs. Healy has come to depend on us.

There was a plane crash out in the field by the highway yesterday morning. I saw it happen. The plane circled and went down fast. Then from my bedroom window I could see a pillar of white smoke rising on the pale day.

I hurried downstairs. In the kitchen, Mrs. Healy was cooking eggs for Jim and Abdul, two of the other boarders. Abdul was drinking coffee and reading a newspaper and jiggling his knee. Jim was pouring from an eighth bottle of Popov into a glass of orange juice. The radio on the counter next to the toaster was playing 1030 WBZ Weather On The Sixes.

"Mrs. Healy," I said, "Can I get the key to the basement?"

She continued to cook the eggs, working them in the pan with the spatula.

"Mrs. Healy," I said.

"Her hearing aids have apparently failed her this morning," said Abdul, turning a page of his paper. The paper this morning was the Boston Globe. Abdul occasionally lifted one from one of the neighborhood's curb boxes, on the way back in from one of his nightly peregrinations.

Jim sipped his screwdriver and looked at the floor at my feet. "I have the key," he said.

"I need it," I said.

Jim looked at me. "After my eggs."

"I need it now," I said.

The phone rings. I pick up.

"Why can't you simply drop the pose?" a voice insists.

I dissolve into mist for more than a minute.

Lucky for me the phone don't clatter off my desk when it fall. The phone instead drops rather inaudibly to the carpet.

When I phase back in
the cushion of my seat is moist and there's a beery odor.

I pick the receiver up off the carpet and listen.

"I'm still here," says the voice.

I hang up.
Go back
to work, but

it's no use. I start writing poems about mutations for the rest of the day

boredom
mill town

tower
must go

calling up the save entity

 

hard to say if all must harbor

 

blue sparks on the mind

 

soul of dog, hermit soul

 

how far north into the woods do you have to go these days to achieve that decent mastery

 

pretty far I reckon

 

For me it's easier to make the waking dream

 

in proximity

 

to woods

we all like to think that the world's insane but of course it's mainly America

 

this blue page is sort of a problem now. carries too much of inhibition

 

when the novel (s) come
they'll be everything that should've
happened and
everything that did;
everything I wanted, didn't have; everything
I did; everything I dreaded, everything
I loved,
everything I feared; what I still
fear; things far &
near; things I should have said;
what I did; what I almost did; what
I shouldn't have yeh
it'll be like masturbating, but in the end:

glory

(best part of all this statement is no one can say no and I

won't)

from here on out I mail it in

from now on I mail it in

seems like it's all gone. whatever magic was, gone; whatever's left, missing

that idling spark, a
map of a mind, my mind, my heart

magic. huh. a propensity for what's trite. music is a better analogy.

notes, accumulating notes,
what's missing is what was, before, a persona
what's left is not much of rage or striving; at least

I hope; best to take note from the Way which says
the wheel with 30 spokes is useful only in the empty space at center.

this page is that empty space; no, I am;
and if that were true; but

I still want it both ways. I cant lie; that's
what else you need

to know

and again

hey since no one's listening anymore anyway then none
shall mind if I try a little whang dang
here on my way back
to
doodle

yeh?

out of practice

but here riseth the shingle again. head case. yes
oh yes. to be

mainly