i w i s h t o b e u n d e r s t o o d

Man, you take my pretentions and you
iterate them like minimum wage Warhol
So reckless like you own the technique
and I watch you and I
can’t begin to fathom the magic
When you take that farce and reconstruct it
making truth for the only population
that still knows it —
those ever-fucking monkeys, cultureless but alive
and imbued with that essence
you so shamelessly exude.

I think your words are heavy and you
know that’s what you wrote, what you sang,
tire walker, sign talker,
bridge stranger burning.

Yeah, on the universal train
my thoughts went to you,
and at the final destination like a night shack monk
they were whole, better for the journey,
driving, driving to the gates
to zen candy afternoon, murderous peaceful
cannibal king.

You are the loudspeaker plague and I —
I wish I was your shaman.

I am really tired and somewhat depressed.

I don’t know what I need.

I need something.

End of day.

The world = too big for me. The family was here for a few days. They’ve gone. Things have been wild. Things have sort-of been decided, but are also sort-of as open as ever. I worry that my co-workers and boss read my blog. I worry that someday I’ll stop blogging because of the fear that the co-workers and boss are reading.

Applied: About.com, Council on Foreign Relations, a few other things. I want to be out there, where I something that matters in a place that matters. Here I am sleeping under palm trees, always, no matter what it is I am doing. I want to touch the world, not escape from it.

I am tremendously unfulfilled and lonely and horny right now.

I miss Chicago.

I miss my girlfriend.

I miss my independence.

Life is too short. Life is too long. Life isn’t even there. I need another tattoo.

Fuck all.

—

I’m not me. I’m not me these days. I’m so fucking far into being somebody else that I’m completely unrecognizable. Me = the guy that went to Chicago and sat around at The Pub having a beer and playing shuffleboard. Me = the guy that reads Proust. Me = the guy that writes books, essays, and verses. Me = the guy that takes pictures and sings/plays folk rock on guitar.

I’m not quite sure where I lost me, or where the fuck me has gone. Gotta find him before I get too old, before it’s too late to turn back.