in search of an impossible honesty

i would like to say that i am an honest man. one dedicated to truth. but ___ words are mere dreams of ___ reality, loosely fitted. shifting this way and that as ___ walk. as ___ talk. and as ___ think. as soon as the stories are told, ___ find holes. there must have been times ___ felt sure. but ___ not quite sure. and ___ cannot recall these times. ___ do, however, remember the moments of uncertainty, quite clear. clearly there was a task where ___ mind stepped in the way of 'to act'.

standing on the cliffs edge ___ remember wondering what it would be like to jump into ___ vast expanse of liquid. would it cool ___ breath, make ___ bleed, lead ___ to the promised land or simply quell an itch?

the thirst for a life finally scratched into perdurable depths. ___ bones ripped from ___ flesh. and in the middle of some air with no ground left to stand upon, an eternal darkness plagued ___ mind.

and ___ here, without ___.

who was right, and who was wrong to have done so many... things?

and time was wasting away as ___ tried endlessly to convince ___ with a poem.

without hair to run fingers through.
without ___ and without ___.

___ had enough time to get beyond the notion of good, the notion of evil.

and still frozen monuments plague ___ mind.
if all of it
was right and yet,
do not forget
that if it was right
then it...
well, it
was also
so...
very wrong.

___ always being trapped.
a caged bird
instinctively singing
___ caged song.

walking past the people or
through them,
the throng.
eyes measure
and beats...
withdrawn.

well, ___,
like the beats,
roll along.

written in blocks
to avoid recognition
to lack a standing out
or a standing up.
even, quite possibly,
a standing strong.

___ believe nothing
and ___ believe ___ all.

for the time being,
___ here
and ___ cannot even
know
the places
___ have seen and
people ___ have been.

this and that -
- once again.

each and every containing
bits and pieces of ___.
bits and pieces of ___.

___ building.

nothing et all.

but ___ already...
(would like to say)
never ending
(but cannot).

said forever and never
a million times over
(only to ___ self?)
___ cannot remember.

the reality of the situation
is not that ___ cannot but,
___ fear what it would mean to...
and so it is not that ___ cannot,
it is that ___ do not.

the whip snaps and ___ knuckles crack.

this way or that.

weight,
too much to handle
at times like these.
getting ready for work
while getting out a word -
- to get in.

___ car runs and ___ walk.
a compression is happening.
an imprisonment of sorts.
a willful copulation
of structured schedules
coupled with...
a brief hello.

the bottom of the barrel.
no where left to go.
the pressure is too much and ___ feel small,
confined.
trapped at the bottom,
___ float.
only to gain a false sense of largeness.
empty.
to the top of the full half-glass.

a mirrored image
looking out to see.

Alas!

___ free.

___ nothing
but a plastic embodiment
of nothing -
- more than a dream.

___ ups
and yes,
there are the downs.

and ___ not really been around
or gotten around this world
___ mean wrapped ___ mind around it.
not like ___ at least.
always and never slipping out the back.

a place to call home.
a fortress.
a veritable war zone.
an invisible line determined -
- to be set in stone.

so on ___ guard ___ sit.
preparing for the attack,
___ sit.

upstream or down
or pulling off,
in between,
to the side of the blinding traffic -
- filled streets.

___ may stop to ask if everything is 'alright'
(well the answer being both yes and no)
___ tell them ___ decided to enjoy
something simple
yes, something simple
like,
the rivers flow,
from the banks.

take accounts.

no more or no less,
a fraction of a penny -
- ___ thoughts.

the child abuses
the freedom, in tact.

six years down the road.

React!

another scene -
- one of 'the play'

___ remind you of,
___ this, and that.
the usual unusual compilation of thoughts
and holidays.
and, only in time
to be -
- sewn together.

and it seems to ___,
yes, that is right,
it seems, to ___.

___ remember what
___ wanted to be.

chosen once
and,
then again.

the end.

everything.

all mixed up.

the words.

___ friend.

study which way the road will bend.

take that next wide angled curve -
- too quickly.

aborting child -
- like thoughts.

wrought like iron fences
and caught like... well...
like something.
or better yet,
like something that could not be caught.

___ bonds bound,
too tightly and ___ do not grow.
too loosely and ___ never know.

if there is one who is certain,
let the record show.

on cocaine

i am a free man... i am a lonely man. i am eighteen pages deep in nausea. concurrently i am thirty-two pages into notes from the underground. i may never finish either. of the first, i remember having been moved the first time i set out upon completion. and yet i remember nothing. eighteen blank pages collected and redirected to the pit of my stomach and the depths of my mind four and a half years ago. existential philosophy, the penultimate mindfuck if you will, had once taken me in, sheltered me from the storm. black and white movies with subtitles. late nights in a box, writing papers. trying to nail something down with words. nothing really counteracted the facts but nothing supported them either. the ideas were fleeting dreams only to disappear and resurface with the same heart-wrenching tinge of uncertainty. nothing i wrote would make sense. i refused to edit. i had become complacent with my perfect imperfection. i started a lot of stories. now they are trapped on a hard drive torn from its encasement, just like myself, waiting to be read. a loneliness had crept inside and made itself uncomfortable. i could not stand to be alone. i would lay down and wake up far worse, for where ever i found myself i was certainly not there. my mind leap frogs from one scene to the next and i cannot help but pick out the places and situations i speak of so as to give the reader an all too convenient look into a life i have chosen to share. the people walk by and purposely avoid this empty light in my eyes by noticeably staying as far away from my vacuum like stare. i wonder whether it be them or i who is afraid of this loneliness. i used to cry and feel human again or feel something close to definable again. but now i laugh to myself. alone, i put my feet up and look desperately from something to tear me from this mediocrity. a spectacle! yes, a definite scene. a who and what along with a where and when to give you something to hold onto, my friend. and then i realize something a little too close to reality for my taste. something a lot like well this must all be for me. something a lot like creating an individuality and then wasting away as some bitter old man who never has seen the places the others speak of. he did not want to go out there and be a part of anything. no one was inviting and so he sat waiting. never allowing himself to be the instigator. a swiss cheese american bundle free of fleas and flies because of an inherent disease. yes, that would be it. escape the bottom by making one's self so unapproachable that eventually he may float free from it all through an impermanent lightness of being one with the fluid embalming his separate self thus floating to the top and when the heat came he may escape to another, less viscous embalming material. another state of being trapped within another state and being just as wrapped up in himself and his story that the people would actually be able to forget so as to never have to admit that they too were just like him. had he never picked up a book he may be able to convince himself of such an existence and maybe still if he could put them down metaphorically to forget each and every word and like james joyce he may fly free from the nets. no, you are right, it would never work.

Yet another procrastinative endeavor

As of this moment I am certainly unsure of how often I will actually use this newfangled device. I cannot say that I have anything of great importance to share with anyone but I feel one must always strive for something. For if we are not striving for something then we are living only to die never having left anything behind. Thanks to fucking Herman Melville I also understand that doing nothing can be seen as doing something. So, yes, in a way, I have chosen a side. I would set perameters on content but, I think that would limit the creative and spontaneous individual by confining said individual to a taxonomic box predetermined by one who is the creator of this space while most definitely not being 'God' (whatever that is supposed to mean). So, if you find yourself intrigued, bored, flacid from whiskey, hyped on a multitude of chemical impulses, depressed, sleepy, in (or coming out of) a trance, religious fanaticism, heroin induced mush for brains, or anywhere in between, feel free to comment, post, or completely ignore any and all of this procrastinative endeavor of mine.