Again. Try it again. Just once more. You can do it.
Snow, the willing snow. Dream the willing dream. Transparently. Dream hard, walk gently. Say gently. Do gently.
Frozen mind. My mind. My mind is frozen solid. But my heart plays the blues all night long. Strike, reverse, switch back.
Don't think. Bear down. Do right. Do what you should do. Do it right. Observe a few rules. Have some fucking discipline.Everyday. You need to do it everyday. Whether you want to or not. You know you want to. Plus, you can do it at work.
Cry the willing dream. Walk gently in the snow. Go gently where you have to go.
Roethke. Dylan Thomas. Don't want to be too much like those guys. Except in meter if I could. Never mind that.
Winehead. Could be the name of a guy in some book. A book that I write. Like that's going to happen. Why can't it happen? It hasn't yet. But so haven't lots of things, and they can still. If I want it to and I want it, too.
No one cares, no one knows. Except me. OK, quite a few people care, but they don't know. A couple of people know. One or two and me. This is ridiculous.
Lottery winner, already near the apex. People getting blown up, getting wasted daily -- all over the world. Smarten up. Being an artist is over-rated. It's a curse. I've always fancied myself an all or nothing type of guy. But who knows if I really am. I'm clever like the moon. I'm here half the time. It's all about percentages. It's all about the horses.
The million yard gaze, the drunkard's eye. I've seen you, boy. Never let me drink bourbon; Scotch I can do. Drink rum and rage like a sailor said the blind man as he picked up his hammer and saw I hate drinking diaries. I'm cutting down. I'm cutting down bodies from the trees. Laying hands. Sending them back out, long past the fields. Aint it something
It's always something -- and it's always some bullshit. Truer words never were spoken to me.
No, we don't have Diet Sprite. This is bar, not a fuckin candy store.
Transmit the narrative. Going to be 35 in about a week. Drive the speed limit. You better stop fucking around. Except fucking around is what I do. OK, but write it. You can write some of it here. At least to get you started on your way. Slap yourself around a little. You can take it. Pick those feet up motherfucker.
Why can't I just blog like a normal baseline college-educated North American slacker with pretensions to this and that. I woke up, my head felt OK, I dithered my way thru morning exercises and a shower, I shoveled the driveway and let the dog run out back, it was snowing like a bastard, our plumber was coming to thwart a toilet that no amount of plunging would help, I drove to work, I put down an enormous deuce that I'd been saving (see: toilet, plumber) in one of the far remote bathrooms because when it's a bad one you don't want to potentially get busted inflicting that on the guy who sits in the cube next to you or any of your bosses, I ate a Lean Cuisine [Chicken Mediterranean] for lunch and an apple and a minor fuckload of Hot and Spicy Cheezits, I should be cutting down on me drinking but it's Friday and I'm probably going to get lit tonight because chief among my favorite pastimes is getting lit and zoning out listening to me old iPod. Next week however I'll be back to my new thing which is no drinky Sun - Thurs or Mon - Wed or what have you, when you go for about 4 days in a row dry you start to get terribly lucid and anxious to write, by you of course I mean I, and since lucid and writing and not unhealthy is what I want to be I should probably start. Normal blogging, I say. That's what the fucking people want don't you know. No they fucking don't. Hey at least I aint
I'll say it again. This is ridiculous. I don't believe in Beatles. I just believe in me.So, this is what this file is for. What an Internet, what a world, what a world. You can call me Mike. Mike R. Okozzum.
Good thing you don't have to be funny. Or I'd be livin in a box. Under a tarp.
I wish I was a German Shepherd
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