life’s not so bad, man.
in fact, i really dig it.
no, life’s not so bad.
Everything fell apart in me. How are things with you?
i’ve often been described as ‘lucky to be alive’
but never once
in my life
considered that ‘luck.’
Q:I want to see your penis
well. have you taken any measures to further this wish?
it wouldn’t be hard. i have helly windows.
and i get drunk a lot. but, i mean, if you ever just ask, i usually have it on me. lololololololol for real tho
i got a hug
a good one.
and i had a dream
also very good.
and now i have
coffee, but only some.
sometimes i feel like
i’m a really major nuisance
today i do.
but it’s oh kay.
i got a really great hug
and i had a really great dream.
so i’ll sip away this coffee.
The Ink Spots — We’ll Meet Again (1944)
God is Love, and a lot of people don’t get that, i think. they search for love in things they dig instead of finding love and digging the things it gives. like, a girl or boy. don’t find a girl or boy and say “This! is love! This! is why i live!” no. no, that doesn’t work at all. it never does.
first, find Love. Be Love. Dig Love.
Then, and only then, show Love to another.
the Love you’ve discovered.
don’t share something you’ve never known, it’s a lie.
and don’t pin it on someone else to create, they might lie in the same way, if only by accident.
if you put such a tremendous expectation as Love on someone’s shoulders,
anyone would break.
It’s just too much,
for any body to embody.
don’t put that on someone,
you’ll break them.
and that’s not Love at all,
breaking something beautiful.
i rolled a long, pretty spliff and licked it end to end, grabbed my hammock and some tea and set out to find a place under the stars.
i did, and three coyotes came, and though they hardly came within thirty yards of me, i felt it safer to climb down, just in case, they’re sneaky little surrounding bastards, sometimes.
so, i grabbed my sleeping bag and set out again, this time finding Home under the big bright beautiful moon, white haze reflecting across my skin as i stretched across the grass.
i smoked cigarettes and talked to God and watched the coyotes terrorize the outer limits of The Shadows, smiling and beaming in a euphoric cocoon until i drifted off under my beloved constellations.
around sunrise i was awakened by an infantry of rain, and i went inside to put some coffee on and read until work.
i dig this morning so far.
Brock and I have the first two on lock still even though we’re old as fuck now.
and where there is no Echo, there is no description of space or love.
there is only silence.
how long does a life devoid of meaning last? days? hours? years?
what is worse: to lose a life of no value immediately, to die, just die, no one to weep, no mourning for the world’s perceived loss, no notable loss for the world at all, just one more body someone has to dissect and another has to bury, another notch on a to-do list is all your life and death surmount to, and the moment you’re checked off, knocked out, completed, that’s it. dunzo. you are no more.
or is it worse for all of this to happen somewhere down the line in time as you rot inside the carcass of your frame, only partially conscious of the prison that is your meaningless existence?
i suppose the former is worse, in most cases- or, at least, i like to think so.
the latter wields the possibility of impact on another’s more prominent and necessary path, even if only by accidental happenstance.
then again, the time you spend in the purgatory of uninspired existence may have a negative effect on something majestic, something poetic. you stand in line for a box of cereal at the wrong supermarket and BAM! you’ve ruined it. the guy behind you who was meant to lock eyes with the cashier, fall madly in love and begin a cataclysmic relationship of fire that ignites a revolution of thought and action across the universe, decides he doesn’t want to wait and walks to the self-checkout three aisles away, never looking back at the Love he never knew running your wheat-thins through the scanner and you’ve unwittingly deterred the most beautiful course for the world as a whole to take, simply because you chose to buy a box of cereal you didn’t want in the first place, only obtained as a way to kill time until a program you don’t even care for but watch everyday nonetheless comes on the television.
what if you ruin everything just by being there?
what if choosing to live damns the rest of the world to the purgatorial rut that you inhabit?
what if you ruin it all by simply being alive?
what if you’re the man who has the chance to meet that cashier,
if only you wait for the man ahead of you
to pass along through the world,