Cleaning out gods inbox (or unedited mental fornication) at the Dead Letter Office

Relieved that all the problems perceived are nothing more than deceived reasoning
pens, guns, and swords at our backs pushing onward
casting couch cattle call, otherwise known as the fall of man
casting glances over our shoulder at youth and frolic
dearly departed semi retarded kin of post card luxuries
yesteryear dead end riot police
the motherland ways no longer keeping us grounded in the unexplainable
magic no longer mystery, fictionalized fact, a price for everything
paging extinction to isle five, clean up our sprawl
strip mall myth ponders unemployment meandering dystopia
On a smoke beak behind all points known
whistling a march of madness something like this
an industry based on blood, empty husk fuckers
we will sell you the cure when you are sick enough
marketing militia camps for kiddies
hooked on happiness automatic on disposal repeat
offenders thirty day trial
turn off your instinct to survive hyped up on hormones habit rail
I can smell it happening…
the hearts breaking open
we will ask ourselves in the future when this is all over and explained
like children’s dreams
everyone will agree it was wrong and we will blame a single body instead of the truth
being eaten away by cancer maintained by the whole.
turn off the self preservation, see how far that gets us
a biological clock confused by flickering images of everything that stimulates
the pink bits that we have to be of so unaware of
and in this bit we raise out hand and clap
….and clap
Apes did what we could but now it’s up to the bears
next in god’s encyclopedia, god is alphabetical
thank you and bow, drifting off to sleep
safe still rocking to alpha, holding ourselves and remembering when it all was ok
back before it got so small… so small we couldn’t see it anymore
slipping from grasp, the simple directions on how to maintain this cat-flap contraption
simulated reality so close, so clean, frustrated by the inability to catch up
so far lost tangled in a web of endlessly interconnected consentience
psychic vampires, what an underused term
vibration insisted sound
conjunction of containment
fractured dermal apparatus
that chill on the back of the neck
it is back again
always questioning
shut up
We think we are safe here alone in our kingdoms
inches away from other people’s mating habits
knocking precious items of dusty shelves
trinkets of once and when
times made better with calluses and time
trying to keep track of lost time
forgetting that time is lost this time
tripping over stale bread crumbs that have spoiled because
even the birds have moved on from this fairy tale bullshit.
That funny boy grew up onto a funny little man
pull his strings then carelessly
thrown in a corner and forgets with the dust
a veil or plaque of time mounted for all to see
held accountable for the lack of action
muscle memory fades brittle and weak
Gray matter slacks, forgetting to swallow
It never gets easy watching people die
right before your eyes
especially when the fight
they don’t all fight.
I guess that’s what comes to my mind when people say if it was someone’s time or not.
did they put up a fight?
on the other hand life is unexplainable to absorb
maybe one day we will get it right and we might be able to explain one tenth of one layer
of life the sensation… Zombies get it.
at this late in the game we still grunt
all this and we still grunt as our primary mode of communication
bundled with English 0.6 that is bundled with 26 letters
it really seems so small, and we still wonder
unraveling the universe and discovering we are
a creature of patterns and nothing more
governed and housed in system that mimic our internal structure
and organism that as molded that around him to benefit its species
perpetual fornication pleasure center overload
A new day is here folks
and there is a lot to do.
signing off

…now serving #2

(unedited trash really)


(June 19, 2009)

Passive aggressive notes on bathroom stalls at the Dead Letter Office

The unsafe sexual revolution will be televised and Tivo’d
media blitz hip hop karma sutra.
Can you dig it, grave slaves with nocturnal transmissions.
Constantly tapping S.O.S. milking of the American dream.
The media nipples never running dry
never weened from force feed thought or the desire
the bitter taste of carving out a niche,
never settling for the easy cookie cutter microwave lifestyle
with all your bullets, you have died of dysentery
There was no grass where I was, over laid with concrete
tucked into steel and filth of a city well live and over populated
midnight workforce, keeping it so clean
while you sleep, hanging onto your everything with one hand.
Burned out hippies selling mushrooms on street corners
Appreciative with a no thank you, his life strapped to his back
Song and dance for your dinner, carrot bait and switch
carefully crafted prisons of internal processes
aroused by memories of talking dirty in my ear and
sopping fingertips, on late night walks
jacking off in stange rooms, relief from day job drama
self contained, hermetically sealed homsteds
we are built to survive, have we pushed the boundaries
buy building better people, were we ment to live like this?
I hope so.
Who’s leg do I have to hump to get a dink in this joint?
I have to fill this emptiness with something
One day loved for these mood swings and over active dedication
how much does the fairy tale happy ending cost?
a piggy bank of dreams needs to be reconstructed
smashed by my own hand, in the name of faith

Please reframe from writing on the bathroom stalls.
it might be creative and inspire others to communicate.
any questions, Google it…

(June 12, 2009)

A wake, can you spell that?: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

At some point I become addicted to immortality.
The ever translucent stare far beyond mere mortal possibilities.
(A cross between checked out and checking it out)
These dreams at one point that were self-sufficient entities
Over an unspecified amount of time these dreams mutated
People became attached to these hopeful self-predictions
including surrogates, let’s not forget any of the players
In this example: There is a contest of strength, tugging , stretching
the surface tension dissolves, spilling forth
spilled milk comes to mind, and mothers telling us
not to cry, but we do it better than anyone else
crocodile tears, rough skin, living in motes
Now to a point of building bridges
a head above water
how long has it been?

Gambling with equity locked in escrow and long forgotten even in its native tongue.
laundered heart shaped boxes, dormant and dusty
A gas light time, a thing of the past as we ride the wave to the future.
Crashing down on our established relative huts
A violent reaction causes us to vomit vile ichor
Caveman cellular fear that was once innate to our survival
Imprisoned for our protection, safe from harm
Far beyond interpersonal exchange
Not feeling safe in our communities, much less our own heads
retreating behind walls and fictional representations
Problematic reward system stealing from itself
devouring its own tail

Where is the place for truth in times of smoke and mirrors?
gaze upon this pool drowning in external madness
devised and directed by the hoarders of power
An exchange rate berating possibilities
good genes and a media release upbringing
Your privacy, publically slandered, and chalked up to entertainment
The lackluster, the afraid, the lazy, and the unwilling
all have a place to live out their possibilities
living vicariously through glowing boxes and blinking lights
hypnotized, homogenized for mass consumption

A name now denotes your value.
Quantity over quality and fairness
Fuck you, I got mine steeping stone repurposed tombstones
Open chopping black meat market selling you your private disease
Don’t forget the three hundred percent markup
Making ends meet the noose around your neck snaps
poor quality control, nothing getting done right anymore
where is the craftsmen’s ship the pride the distinguishing marks of love
the imperfection of assurance, replaced at a discount that you cannot pass up
import prostitution of everything imaginable
devoured at an impossible rate
that’s right natural resources, not longer natural
contaminated, twisted, gnarled, shaking with age and bitterness
Left to die, board out of your deteriorating skull
bingo! reminisce slowly sliding down the wall

What’s left of the unimagined endless nonsense
cataloged, filed, misdirected, diverted
harnessed and sold, slavery comes in a multitude of colors
named after food, or cars, or anything, but red or blue

I passed my childhood on the street today.
It didn’t look so good.
I felt sorry for it, abandoned
I wonder in recent passing
when did I lose my voice?

At times it writes me in frantic notes,
like it is locked in a closet
captive, it writes the notes, locked in a closet
it is dark. The voice uses bits of finger nail to scribe the messages
on the backs of cockroaches, tiny messages in bottles
cast out into a endless sea of darkness
they are illegible to a point
but the right eye can make out
the glints of light, the elegance of pondering
take the time to work with the slightest possibility

others walk by simply encased hermetically dead
the soul squandered brittle and stuffed into the little toe
Etched in my soul are things that cannot be undone
the time is now to celebrate with a community
that sees the benefit and put in as much as it takes out
too long has a well been tapped
bleeding fry, starving, the smell of sweet rot intoxicating
the cozy warmth of breaking down simple sugars

The rest is illegible.
We are sorry for the confusion this may have caused,
but in time you will forgive yourself
tune in next time when…


A Brief Study of Sexual Tension and Babble: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

Sometimes I wish
I had a leash for my libido
Teach it how to heal
Keep it clean
Away from the outside world
Not let run away
With my imagination
In hot pursuit

Tucked away
Alone with hard wood
Nothing to do
Not knowing where to look
Times like these
It wouldn’t be so bad

To fuck
Like a washing machine
Mechanically pounding
Against walls
Making awkward sounds
That you would never admit to
Anger management creative release
An event of static fluid dynamics
And devolved friction

Our little lives
Caught between
Thighs like earmuffs
Pubic hair Hitler mustache
Always wondering
What it looks like
From way up there

Nothing to do
Jacking off
We know how it ends
On film, credits rolling
Second cumming
Where the fuck is this going?

Drunk with passion
Desires and manifestation
Putting demons to rest

To Experience one’s self
Away from the physical
Pondering and living
Proof somewhere buried
Pudding comes to mind

An orgasm in an amazing thing
Like the creation of a universe
A symptom of the human condition
Hot and bothered
Tethered to the irrational
A clash of lust and temperance
And pure embarrassment

All this cannot be compared to
The arousal of cognitive arousal
Yet isn’t everything relatable
When haunted by ghosts
And childhood trauma
Detached from reality
Always through dysfunction

Sedated cattle
Unquestionable allegiance
To the big media feed trough
Allergic reactions
To the big brand suck off
The box needs to be fed
Because I won’t stop screaming

Lacking bubbles
Thugs and bitches
Incredible waste of time
A definition of cruelty
Phone numbers and small talk
Wondering what we could do
Only in my head
At least I didn’t get any on my glasses

Up at odd hours
Tag along fuck buddies
Divisible by needs wants and desires
Unexplored examples
Of juke box flunkies
Hipster trash bullshit
Swaying along
Devoid of their own reason
I think of lack

Kind words for a cold heart
Contained within a 365/6
Revolutionary process
A war worth waging
Simple easy, digestible
By design

All those nasty cracks
A whatever weakens
For the opposite sex
Temptation and arousal
Whatever that means
I’ll just finish


(April 24, 2009)

…and Back Again: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

The lonely, lost, and lovely
bleeding all the same,
never shall they meet
the unknown abomination
Knocked up, throw down

“The Amazing Fucking Shit”
Own one now
Limited edition
don’t be the last on your block
To own the most useless item ever

The soul has a swagger
A deep undecided bloated falsehood
Emptiness so thirsty
never fond of timing
The age, the amount
providing worth, dances with me
amazed into the time stupidly
angered into the path of joy

Born unto ourselves
then putting your shoulder to an idea
Without popping, making messes
Leaving stains
that have to be cleaned up
release again lost lacking light
judged from, with, and by others
tried and trying harder
trial and error
ideas within ideas

Favor me
in this gambit of earthly desire
A real smile
I’m going to be the Queen of all whores
unannounced warm endorsement
the eyes and ears
brains and brawn
learning nothing
on hopes of keeping young

Wonderful myopic accelerant
belief in the best
masked with hurtful intent
Those good ol’ times
seemingly endless possibilities

Littered with beauty and
keen instability
an intellectual torrent meal
rich creative bliss
yet balance and stabilization
send post cards from reality
nothing more than vulgarity
in times of greater designs

Blueprints of cold hearted lust
envelopes of time contracting
sources of light
expanding to infinite liability
on our death beds
quiet as mice

(Monday, April 13, 2009)

Semi-conscious orifice…: Notes from the Dead letter Office

Amend them
Fucking friends
Adore them
Second sexual traits
Mustache ride
Sweet sounds
Rotting teeth
Witness to the suck
Stuck in a rut
Smile haunted by spark
Of intellectual arousal
Ghosts of time
And Innerspace demons
Illusions of grandeur
Mixes with control issues
Battles with reality
In a disposable world
Unwarranted intuitional propositions
Glandular responses
Drunken wisdom
Soothing burning questions
Page of cup answers
Finding things hard to swallow
Just the beginning
All signs point to positive
Waiting in the age
of instant gratification
Not much to admit
The nature of inspiration
that comes to us
Spewing forward
Synchronistic encounters with
significant people
Pregnant with ideas
The unknown crowns my head

(April 8, 2009)

Job Openings: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

Sucking from this virus
The one that lives inside
Always and forever
The itchy little fingers
Scratching for their dinner
Bellies rendered fat and useless
So hallow sucking heads
Tongue searching for our meds
For better or worse
Tell me where it hurts

These raunchy little lies
So sewn up deep inside
Never really knowing
Which way we are going
Blind enough not to reason
With all theses ghosts that we believe in

A waking nightmare
Screaming inside my head
The need to let it out
Never making it to my lips
Draped across yellowing teeth
Bound by belief
Of things as they should be

Swing sets and toaster oven
Pastries made of giggles
Navigation past and present
A future never mapped
Ideals losing focus
Smoke and mirrors
Hocus pocus
This mess will get better
Once it is under shelter
Seeking harmony

Tomorrow’s problems solved today
Plan and execute
As simple as that
This is easy, but not as easy as giving up
Seem out of place every so often
Do what you would never do
It often works out better
When you do
I know it is a little scary
It wouldn’t be if it wasn’t
Stepping out of boundaries
Knowing our faults
And working to overcome them

Don’t be so greedy
This is not about you
That time is over
Adapting to the environment
Obtaining balance through any possible means to an end
An end that will be everything it can be
Everything we need
Salt of the earth

Light captured by gravity of the soul
Beyond windowless eyes
Beating hearts misshaped wreckage
Is all we have left to love with
I’d crush you with my hand
Or burden you with my thoughts
A heart attack revolution

Die’n to get out of this shell
Before I shuffle off to hell
Right where I fell
I belong
In a madhouse without gates
My ego I berate
Myself I shall hate
Worse than any of you could

From my perch,
hermit lantern shinning deep into
Sunday morning
Across these mountains
I’m thinking what I’m thinking
These pages filling up
Too soon to tell
If I give up
A map to dispel
The voices in my head
This bit that I have been biting
No longer serving purpose

A beginning spelled out
Projection, viewing
Expediter of energy
A direction seems right
Mother of invention
Turning to fruition
A final destination
Or part of my imagination
I don’t want to be wonderful
Attached to my flaws
Unique, prototype, Beta
Alphabet massacre
Chainsaw ballet

Then you notice days gone by
But in the wrong order
Yet, there is nothing good enough to remember
Thinking about incoming slumber
Too many hours filled with
Doing and wonder
Not doing anything about either
A stalemate with too many sides to count
Always ever after defeated
In the back of my mind
Barley noticeable
On the tip of my tongue

An apple in my eye
Wishing I could fly
But all there is
Is this
And with a bit of piss
And vinegar
Soon to be out of this mess
I have woke up in
Sometimes you feel like a prick
Cause everyone’s problems more important
Too gross to admit
That others matter more than I do

We can always get by on a little less
Fill it with something else
That something is hard and
Doesn’t really fit, but it makes
Us feel better
A canned response of
Why I get up everyday
Kidnapped, shipping and receiving, fuckup
Return to sender, victimless crimes of passion
Tomorrow I’m over the edge
Welcome to all the things
That need to get done
Still lost but not looking
To be found and saved
From the little fears eating
At the buffet of me
Now with more bacon
And dressing

(April 5, 2009)

Day the Circus Came to Town: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

Seduce me,
reduce me.
Back to basic elements.
Heart, bone, and
compressed thoughts.
Providing substance,
gravity and friction.
Weights of action,
the designs of freedom.
light forms and

Pure mathematics
Heart attack
Folding space
A holding place
Of this and that
Between nostalgia and nick-knack
Where do you belong in all this equation?
Under close observation
Watching always ticking
Flip flopping
Where, when, why, what…
Then it will be over
Away with all that worry
To rule time and space, predestine
The book of your TiVo’d life
The choice of a million better than HD channels
At that point we drool and fuck like the animals
That we all might be on the inside.

We are all alone

They are listening
Watching unwanted
Before our very eyes
The wicked
Clutching to transparent things

Can you dance?
Do you walk?
Do you talk?
Can you care?
Can you stare?
Upon yourself
Up on a shelf
Covered with dust
And starting to rust
Give it a rest
You are holding your breath

Seduced by the imagination
Something witty
Better than reality

Christmas lights
And cocktails of
Dinette sets and entrails
Misanthropes and in-laws
We are designed by our flaws
The push and pull
Like hands working clay
Molding our experiences
Road signs and truck stops
We are bleeding to death
Trying to like…

Killing hobby
Sinking our teeth
Drinking to health
Out of this box
Beginning new journeys
And all I can ask for is this

Full of misplaced puppies
And hope
Chalked up in time
Can we fail
At not feeling
So scary
And worth it
In question
Otherwise, not even try
Not by chance


(April 4, 2009)

Scribbles: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

The fridge is on the fritz as god plants his heart like a cactus

A beast biting, held tight with teeth and tongue
Eyes bulge red wild with saliva whipped into a froth
Cracking that epitaph in his back scalding winds blowing
A desert made of hiding places and worn out faces
Smelling rain crys out on grounds fertile with hallelujah
Sing your bird’s eye diamonds promises
Feeding the starved too quick choking with atmosphere

Photograph: Can the world see how much i love you?

Yer…driving me crazy, cause my feet don’t touch the floor.
We’ re flopping, like fished… wonder if they are gonna find us?
Lying here, dead on the floor? So stupid, with rug burns,
Haven’t I, Told you this story before?
We wrote it one evening when you said what you mean
and i asked that morning if you were just being mean

Shouting so loud to let me out
it is a funny story marked to forget
so if you got love then release it
before it dies in a cage
so long ago when I couldn’t
tell you goodbye
this, is starting… to feel
but sometimes.. I don’t to

(February 18, 2009)

I watched You Disappear: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

tiny voices at my front door
wicked outside knocking louder
in time to a different drummer
hocking truth till it doesn’t really matter
anymore, snake oil magic tricks
of the trade in value

sticks and stones and
broken bone slings
and arrows pointing that way
against time and gravity’s accidents
lying on the floor crying
over spilled milk and
coffee clowns juggling
alphabet humdrum conundrums

slight of hand substitute
with all the nicotine freaks trying
to be heard by crooks
I need out of this town
pack this black and blue
into this red all overnight bag

the happiest man alive
until the day we die
safe to remake all our mistakes
but not in the same old ways
remembering when I was younger
cause I needed you since don’t know when
I watched you disappear

February 18, 2009