i'm watching a lot of tv

'this is bad for my writing' i think

then i think 'it feels better
to keep doing things that are bad
for my writing'

i think it's good to say 'it feels good
to do things that are bad for my writing'

song books lay all over
the house while we opened gifts.

one gift was old camping gear, handed down.

i won't have time to backpack for multi-day chunks.
i won't observe nature from an immersed vantage point.

we will enter a large wallet and sleep
for extra time, develop angry eyes, and
search for runaway fishing boats.

this is the blue light poem
that when i see it, the blue light
i'll be leaning forward
and move my eyes up
and raise my eye brows
like i see ten poodles coming
towards my bowl of avocado
and lettuce and lemon juice
that when i see the light
it's relevant to remembering
something from my future
here i go, day
a snow filled window
i feel neutral.

why is being sad relevant?
and why do i want to talk about it?
i can numb myself
until i die
continuously with chemicals
and intellectual material

'it was something i remembered'

i always stick in one line, of something

'her muddy drawers'

i made those up
to escape. i don't even want to escape.
and escape what.
myself.

i put on a sweatshirt and three pairs of socks
i didn't do anything, like the day would never
end, or, i'd never have enough energy

i put 7-grain organic bread in extra virgin olive oil
with cayenne pepper, and pepper, i think
played the star wars game on xbox

i ate cookies and napped for two hours
got up from my bed and walked to the living room
yellow light flashed on the walls from a truck

the night just suddenly came
i don't know what a person is
i am one
who made all these things around me?

i'm so tired
i miss my stop
have to change sides
and ride back

i'm so happy
i poor poison down my throat
it doesn't matter
i grab your face and laugh
demoniacally into it

hello bed
hello sky

fuck the world
we're going to a winn dixie
should i get a case of beer
i get a case of beer
but they don't drink anymore
but i see them holding them
appearing randomly
onetime some one gave me a cig
for one
in the winn dixie you said
there's trash here
'corporate bullshit'

opulent cosmopolitans from the 80s
saw a rigid structure
hovering with iridescent lights
the man thinks his wife
believes him because she loves him
i know the man
he asked me once to go door to door
with him
or he'd hold a gun to my head
there was catered food there
and i felt like escaping
with heinekans across the dark lawn
i had to inch out to not hit
the mercedes

the conversations came in wheels
and stopped at every thought
they weren't substantial enough
so i poured rubbing alcohol
on my hands
then rubbed my face
until my eyes burned
i saw little green novels
with scenes of restaurants, caves,
and black forests.
i picked plaster from my pours.
i need to wash my hands and face.
there is too much sugar in me.
to my left is a doctor washing his hands.
there is Kahlua next to the soap.
Kahlua is on my hands and face.
the doctor looks at me disappointingly.
the doctor says life is suffering.

at this time the cats come out from between the houses -
orange, black and white, black;
pausing in the road, creeping along porch edges,
hidden in the flower garden

i see a month or two of posts
that i don't like anymore

where's the deep blue fleece blanket
i brought home with me tonight

where are you?
i always think about you
we've told each other stories
that are 'at' 'the root' similar