Notes from the Dead Letter Office: Apathy of Masturbation and Caffeine.

The fragmented epoch between thoughts at rest
A diminished habit since the onset of compulsion
No more fantastic than the illusion of fear
Personified at regular intervals
Complications jammed tight in the nooks
Made accessible from intrinsic endeavors of thermal dynamics
A great longing of purpose, dislocated dispelled abruptly
Snuffed out indecent
…and what should we do on high?
Fornicate with figment
Possibly doubtful. repeatable transactions
Firm loyalty, a place seen fit
A dusty shelf forgotten
Tell me of this woe, a fraction, I will carry
Opiated warmth that only we can fulfill for ourselves
Addicted to this prison
Wealth of duplicity between death and love
Sweet nothings on the nape of your neck
Transfixed, a stain on the ribbon of time
The shoe will drop, a Cinderella of sorts
To turn off the lights.


Wishes are Granted for a Price: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

I can’t seem to love
My consumed apprehension
Filled with every trope
too close to the sun.

Come back… it’s all over now.
I’ve done so much with so much less
Can’t seem to get clean.

Nightmares once dreams
as Lucifer once angel
Never to be forgiven
returned to the shelf of grace.

Hit me with everything, give me all ya got
It’s not your fault
There is nothing left to fight.
…and it tastes just like

Before others there was home
out there configured, cataloged
1995 summer edition
with a power all it’s own
mistook, maligned
calling out lip-less.
976 popcorn
show stoppers.

I’m fine said the wolves
dragging you down
unraveling distant echos
of men built on the framework
of children’s conformity.

Repeat, rewind fluid destroy
to keep me close
cold, uneven cloaked enveloped
rational unclean, absorbed intrusion
inject once empty
fluid dynamics.

We adore only to destroy
whispers do wonders
ponders paths obsolete
panders sweet ego
greedy little piggy
undisputed reciprocal
shit diamond cherry pickers.

Things we can’tt say
Baby on board stickers
Traffic jammers and crammers.



Internal Revenue Service: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

In the man of god I was a tree
In the palm of many I was a seed
In the hearts of few, actions speak louder than words
My vision a gift, the blood of dreams
caught between warring factions
Unable to stop time, a man was built on the frame of a boy
Squatter in my dreams, maintained on the back of a man
Running out of time, an equation so weighted
I’ll fail less I promise
Trying to figure it out
I promise, next time.

The Cons of Hitchhiking: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

I can feel a storm brewing deep within myself.
I look out into the vast space of my mood and
can see thunder clouds on the horizon.
The lips of gods and the tails of demons
this too is the past, present, and future.
Being written, unfolding and shelved.
The dust of plausibility, self worth and
all points in-between.
Where is my mind?
I at least know where some of my other parts are.

Happy places and wishes of building bigger and
better things beyond what I can accomplish myself.
An open minded temporal distortion,
Wondering what it is I have to offer.
Beyond peacock dreams.

Am I intimidated, where is the missing cog.
Did I lose my self-worth in the wash. or
am I too passive? or aggressive?
An Ursus complex? Does “just right” exist?
Fumbling at my own existence.
Maybe waiting for the rule book for engagement in the mail?
Maybe I have never seen it done right, or
felt normal with the social norms.
The dust bunnies understand these woes.

The writings of Lovecraft come to mind.
Elder gods dark in their slumber haunt me.
As lucky as I am, I cannot help but squirm.
As always the ticking.
It drowns out all other rational thought.

Want and desires pent up in the back of my skull
Internal pressure up against emotional blockage and
other missing cogs of my value system, minus the baggage.
The long division and tax document of life filtered through my soul.
At some point I have to make two trips for all the bullshit.
Chalked up to rants and raves, and 72 bpm nightmares.
I can’t help but smile.

Name your poison,
I know the name of mine, and
all these years it hasn’t gotten any easier.
One might think it would. but silly rabbit…
We are a creature of adaptation after all.
Is this just and ego trip?

Half glasses would be much better put to use
at least then the glass would be full the rest would be
spilling onto the floor.
Your feet sticky, yet still breathing.
I’m not sure any more.
I’m yelling at myself, others are yelling at me.
What’s missing?
I could get into this subject deeper, but
I don’t think I have the fortitude.

Missed quotes and left by the side of some blog.
I feel stupid.
Really, you included my misspellings?
Thanks for the press, yet
I could have done without.
Maybe next time you  could give a heads up.
I am single and far beyond articulate
enough to weave together a story of at least some interest.
Maybe, I should rest my case?
Click… grunt. I feel like an asshole.

In the end this could be any other day, but
today it seems lackluster.
A balancing act that is getting too hard to follow.
For the sake of anything I am bless with some good friends.
I wish I could help them more because I feel like I’m getting nowhere.
Is it weird to think that if you cannot help yourself you should help others?
Maybe that is Karma in a round about way.

All I need is a some sort of convoluted sign
that I am heading in the right direction.
My compass is spinning.
Holding my breath, is hopefully enough.
I have gotten a lot of positive feedback,
Chomping at the bit. yet I need a tender hello,
and a minute not wrapped in fear.
Welcome to my constant head fuck.
not to mention a perfect timing for a cold sore.
Rock out with your cock out.

(September 28, 2010)

Cross My Heart: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

Looking inward looking
heightened sense of panic
my life.
I needed to get things in order
to remind myself
to come to grips.

Looking back, I made a promise to myself,
and if you cannot trust yourself, what else is there?
I need to be out of the bay by 35
while I’m still alive and in my current configuration.
the condition for me sticking around
is a partner

I have tried for a lot of years to find a partner
so far it hasn’t worked out.
trial and error, good time and the bad.
one way or the other
the ins-and-outs and everything in between.

I feel like this geographic area has something to do
with the state of things
So might as well checkout a new area and see if things align
or it is easier for me do live without the perpetual hustle.
So I need to stop being hung up
on the worries of living for nothing but an expensive coffin

Sure, I got shit to work on,
Places to be, thoughts to think,
Come home to something more than dust bunnies
and car key gnomes.

I have trusted in myself my entire life,
so far that has worked out well.
The deconstruction of reality with luck on my side
identifying the best coarse to steer
It has gotten my from there to here.
Under my own power
a sense of control

What is left to conjure is
out of my direct control.
The marketing and artifacts and in my hands
but the rest is left up to chance.
Gravity, laws of attraction.
maybe I need to turn on my magnet.

On both end of the spectrum,
this scares the shit out of me.
the pendulum swing no better,
if it kills me than so be it.
at least I am trying.
to shake lose all this plaque
and be the person I want to be.

Request for Transfer: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

The internal pressure has me running out of time.
A white rabbit looking for Alice.
The ticking won’t stop.
The cat is driving me crazy.
The worm is constantly questioning.
The red queen is off her head
in the center of my chest.
Using fictional opiated characters as a vehicle.
I’m not getting anywhere, and everywhere
is the right direction.
We are all mad here.

If a double negative is a positive
Does that mean a double positive is just flattery
The math seems right, but the ethics seem all crooked.
Social masturbation right there in front of everyone.
Lacking a voice that can be heard
Sight unseen rattling in my cage

I woke up one day and realized that I had fallen love with the idea
not the person but the dream grew inside me black like cancer for 13 years
turned sour, a spilled milk metaphor.
at the time the tears spilt much like the lubricant to this rusted machine.
I wanted to be the everything a girl like heroin.
Feeling more creative, physical dependence, considerable salivation
ascribed to two alkaloids, codeine and morphine.
an emotional crutch, I wanted to be a piano

Upon realization that a life of harm would not suffice
Spooning out the rotten bits that kept me going.
Running out of steam, the strings of hope taunt and twisted.
Haunted by echoes dangling
There is something in my eye.

It is ok to laugh when you are dying.
badges of honor, the motions of life.
The stitches of security (blanket) unraveling
the momentum of trial and error
The passage of time, looking through the spring catalog of dreams.
Nothing seems to fit anymore
Tired of the same story and disappearing acts.
Where are my fairy tale niggers at?

Shut up!


(August 2, 2010)

Through the looking glass: Human observation and thoughts: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

One more business trip under my belt.
A quick jaunt out to San Diego
I have to say that the new terminal in San Jose has amazing seating.
It looks like something out of a 70s sci-fi movie.
The chairs have enough device charging outlets to power a small city.
The other travelers, I’d say at least 80% are attached to a device at all times.
They hide, or can they not get away for a few minutes.
Will the world as they know end if not on top of things?
Will their life become fiction.
Alone, surrounded with people, their faces all glowing.
Did I mention the free Wi-Fi?
This will run over the usual 140 word count limit.
The digital divide.
It is swallowing whole our ability to communicate in an analog fashion.
We are losing our voice.
I want to know your faults and idiosyncrasies,
The small cracks that make you real.
The world is moving on.

Walking around San Diego with a coworker
we talk and I shoot the world I observe.
I find a lot of things interesting and have somewhat of a compulsion
to try and try to capture these moments.
Bottled time, trying to share the world that I see.
We wonder through the Gas Lamp district from end to end.
An interesting place the later it got.
Roaches and vampires crept up from their sewers and dark nooks.
My boss’ boss and I wind up at a place called the Tipsy Crow
I like crows, so it seemed like a good enough bar to waste some time in
We were greeted with a bad soundtrack and some kids playing shuffle board.
Does anyone else think that Gin tastes like Christmas, or is that just me?
Drinking followed, a cigarette was gobbled up outside
I watched a very dark gentleman in a bright neon orange hoodie
puke into a trashcan while the people around him took no notice
He would look up from the bin, take a drag off of a cigarette, and then continue to vomit silently
I took a few pictures of this man because the sight was amazingly real.
I want back in and told my story over a salty dog.
(fresh grape fruit, vodka, with a salted rim)
It was tasty and strong enough to warrant another.
I tried to recall the shots on my camera but they were replaced with question marks.
I tried not to think about it, but realized that the 16GB SD card was faulty.
Safe to say that I am in the market for a reliable SD card of massive size
hopefully on somewhat of a budget.

At “work” the next day I begun to realize that I liked working for this client, just a bit.
All of the people I met were in love with what they did and
treated me with the respect of my position.
To set the stage more correctly, I have just had to ditch a client
Certain prejudices displayed that should not enter into a business relationship
The one that blew my mind was a statement that broke down to basically
don’t send that blue haired kid…
Oh I’m sorry, I thought that you hired a creative firm.
This current client seemed not to notice, it felt good.
At some point in the day I had convinced my coworkers that men with flipped up collars
are in fact rapists.

We ended up wrapping up early, so we decided to pack things up and head home.
Back in San Diego airport, dealing with Southwest to change out flight was pretty easy
The catch was that we would be on stand-by for an hour,
but we were booked for an 8pm flight.
We weighted the hour and could not be packed into the 6pm flight so it was time for doubles
Slightly lubricated, gate found, camping began,
At one point a female voice came over the intercom paging
“Juan Banana” that’s right “one banana”…
My eyes shot up and I scanned the holding pen we were in…
No reaction from the heard…
I glance over to my partner in crime… I ask him if he just heard the page for one banana?
at that point we both bust out it the most intense laughter that one should ever try in an airport
with out being arrested.
about the same second that I had calmed down the page went off again…
I think I pee’d a little.
The pages for “one” went on for about an hour longer…
I started to worry a bit for poor Mr. Banana
Jokes about sex appeal were made…
The hostage audience around sat with glazed eyes
Around 7:30pm there was a page that almost killed me.
It went something like this…
“There is a Lime green Ford Pinto parked in the loading zone…
it is not being towed or cited… it is just ugly”
I looked around with tears in my eyes followed by
Cackling, wheezing…

The flight home was the same as it ever was…
The collage radio station was playing a bunch of interesting songs on the ride home
Most of which were dirty in the most unusual ways… raunchy-folk?
I hit the sac around midnight replaying the tip in my head.
and on that note it is time for me to end-rant and get some sleep.
Over and out

(July 2, 2010)

Use of Facilities Contract: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

The room is shallow walled,
untrustworthy and blank
yet filled with all the information
a growing boys needs
He sits in his corner
wearing death like a bath towel
His eyes slur across the screen
drunk with the attention of detail
The son becomes the father
states the dark
a body tenses wire tight
Where is the honor of dieing…

Words etched of the plaque of fear
The distrust mimics security
like modern day candied flip-flops
(Change the channel)

A world moving on, or
are we dragging it, kicking and screaming.
Tolerance is a crime of passion these days.
Natural talents discouraged and untrained,
The day-to-day merry-go-round.
Animals sticky with bodily fluids…
(Please sign here)

Getting sick and want to get off this crazy thing
Watching the sick just ponder
looking the bright side,
squinting at God,
running away and joining the circus.
Hello, is this thing on?
If it knew what you wanted
it knows how to do
it knows how to bleed
it knows…

counting backwards, breathing
take it back and fill it with diamonds
forgive and forget
oh wait, scratch that first bit

Bite down and shake
We are that animal on the inside
locked inside sport cars and power ties
We have trick ourselves into carrot driven

The wonder-wander guild trip
I will be your tour guide
on your left is shame
we call this his orange period
So the epitaph reads
in some, this inspires incredible empathy
others turn their back and have a smoke outside
The fumes in the cold night air linger
maybe too long to seem real
questioning reality

whatever happened to all that?
wrong place, wrong time vibe
why is the truth hushed and told to put on different clothing?
how we make it dance, how we admire its limp of plight.
An audience member coughs “bullshit” into her hands
don’t worry she will be shot once this episode is in the can
mind you by the men in charge,
… good lads

The things that go unsaid…
now living in the basement of the dead letter office.

(June 24, 2010)

ATTN: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

Re: Making Masturbation an Olympic Sport.

I am under the strong suspicion that those around me believe that I in fact have a functioning time machine. This is hard to explain, but my future self told me this in a dream I had last week. Think back to Tuesday. Can anyone remember the orange? We all sat around and talked about it at lunch. It was the best time we ever spent together. Breathing oxygen like a fish that is slowly dying on a beach. I remembered all the clapping, between the forced smiles, eyes locked on the future. Did you notice the bad spelling, and the lowered production value on the reproduction of your YouTube funeral? Did you ever wonder if you were in fact the, and I quote, THE BEST SPERM?, unquote? A sperm that has been manipulated through of years of the genetic deformation of your food stuffs? Building better people, for more years than we would like to admit. But never mind, how was your day?

Some things just ring truer on nights of broken dreams. The sky opens up revealing that it is not wearing panties. On these nights the moon looks down on the best of us. Gypsies and old oaks wondering when the stars will blink out. At times like these I remember being kisses like a long distance trucker. Walking past the shadow of what was once a man I over hear his mumbling to aliens gods in this atmosphere. It’s all a joke, short order souls. We feed them in their image. Succulent sins basses in never thanes whispered into our ears and capped in with a body that is geared for the opposite. Great hunger quantized and regulated, the rules to supply and demand. We no longer wonder about the basic nature of the plastic carrot dangled to and fro. One inch is all we ever need. Look up the definition of never. based on the faults of those who came before us , name that spit that you revolve on. Sweet dreams, schemes, and headaches for the hell of it. Today, I will remove my eyes. Mention magic and “they” will explain it with math. The Human Complex. The apple is iconic for what? Write down the top 10 things off the top of your head. Look around you, and think to yourself,… what would someone around me write down? Find the person who has a completely different list. That person and yourself have things to talk about.

You grow tired scratching at your box. Like a coffin, it smothers you as if it is loved one. Staring at holes, wondering if somehow we could just get out of here. An do what? Dammit! I have the worst luck baking cookies. In his calendar he wrote down… Today, hell froze over. Have you ever looked over while driving on the freeway and wondered if that person is crying because they shit their pants?
So has science fiction caught up to anything that was written in the 40s? I remember being a kid watching the Jetson’s, and thinking to myself, 1995 was gonna be like bad ass! Like the fuckin’ Boba Fett 12 inch figure, the old one. Yeah, the one with the red missile shot out and shit when you were a kid. Dammit! What would the one, two, and three generation kids think about Blade Runner? I have to admit Primer is one of the best sci-fi flicks out there. A few French films have had an interesting spin on some new one trick ponies. A piano cries one chord at a time, and for the most, in time. I am out of touch. Mr. Pink cannot pick up the phone. A destination vibrates and the thought. A clock winding down, the typewriter clicks over.

The wonderment of detection, the little hairs on the back of your neck raise. Not lost or found, a static entity lack of stimulation. Anointed in to the brotherhood of death. One of our oldest fellowships in these parts. So in these wee hours I will you all well out there in internet land. Is TV land like a trailer park off of some nameless freeway? I’m not sure how to deal with the baggage of a silver back ape telling me that he held his mother in his arms while she died. The tears welling up where his face and the cell phone met.Me on the other side. I forget sometimes, it is becoming less that I remember. The eye twitching. The strange desire to rip out my eyes to get the sand off the pack of them. Catching up is never fun. Location undefined, but at the moment… needs a head change. And at the tone it will be late, and this head ache is confusing…

Then this pops into my head… Do people that have Coulrophobia watch clown porn, like racists are most likely to view, slash own, end quote, interracial Boom-Boom all night long movies… So therefore I no longer sync with the gravity of the earth. With this in mind, equals time travel, Best Movie ever.

And hold, please.
(insert hold muzak here, maybe something in general midi)


(February 2, 2010)

Making a living versus the will to do so: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

At some point the abyss begins to stare back.
So I wave and say hello, maybe add a wink for inflection purposes.
I’m not too sure to formally greet all impending doom,
do I bow?

The doom generation’s stains
Each and every time I prey to continue on.
The only man left without a saddle
Invited to an all inclusive fool’s quest
to the tower of babble.

Spread thin, watch me scream
Just right then, killing you with kindness
At the swap meet in the trees
Where I tried to sell this thing between my knees

sitting so wasted, so willing to wander
It’s untold
So up, so down
just trying to get out of
all this headfuck

behold the miles and days
and last minute delays
on the road…..

Hello, they smell it
The hot musk of uselessness
they run so slow…
undone, sorrys
sorrow is just not doing it anymore
we encode as they erode
or so I’m told

distant memories
Smells like time machines
Wormholes composed of sounds

Something to wake up to in the morning
again, another day
this has been my mantra
the 411 of heartache

One of the great philosophers of the 20th century
you might know of his work
this Pink Floyd
another brick in the wall
as I have gotten older
I understand a whole lot more
the more I lose sunlight
I have built the safest nowhere
anyone has never seen
My heart curls inward into its shell
A throbbing mollusk of an organ.

I think I got this shit down.
Reoccurring events in a rhythmic intervals
Pi repeating backwards
Fasting to feasting

(August 4, 2009)