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Mothers Day is just around the corner!

Mothers Day is just around the corner!

(via jimmythemustascheman)

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You think your pain makes you specialso you lug it aroundyour whole life
No one understandsyour sufferingso you explain
endless
to anyoneand everyonewho will listen
The real tragedy isno one gives a fuckand once you’ve outlivedyour fuckability
You’re out of luckand truly fucked
you’d better brush up your marketabilityget richmaybe become some kind of artist
lest your church of self worship close up shopand you become a gloriously worthlessregular old beautiful human beingwith nothing to sell

You think your pain makes you special
so you lug it around
your whole life

No one understands
your suffering
so you explain

endless

to anyone
and everyone
who will listen

The real tragedy is
no one gives a fuck
and once you’ve outlived
your fuckability

You’re out of luck
and truly fucked

you’d better brush up your marketability
get rich
maybe become some kind of artist

lest your church of self worship close up shop
and you become a gloriously worthless
regular old beautiful human being
with nothing to sell

Tags: poetry freedom
Text

Anonymous asked: I feel so fortunate to have found your blog. I don't know if this makes sense, but the way you write is the way thoughts sound in my head.

Hey Thanks! Yeah, I just write the thoughts traveling through my head/heart. Where they come from I dunno. The trees, earth, stars, or the great water perhaps. And we’re all the same inside. This strange hopeful flesh, eating cereal and watching it all come down. Our bones imbued with ancient music and used car commercials. Sacred clearance sales suckling love, looking for just the right fit. It’s fun, terrifying and often boring.

Glad we can keep each other company in this… whatever this is.

Thanks again - Jade

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I got a dream recorder for my birthday, it’s a wonderfully interesting machine. This morning at work I’m looking at last nights dream on my laptop. I’m not quite sure what to make of it.
In my dream I wander the streets of the small town I grew up in until I become a lazy river. No one pays any attention to me as I grow larger. Even as I grow wild and raging. Even as I overflow my banks and I submerge the entire town, drowning everyone in my tears.
A great hawk flies down and plucks me from the lake town, but when I look to see exactly what the hawk is clutching all I see is my new dream recorder. The hawk then drops me into a warehouse with a bunch of other dream recording machines. We all fall into tight stacks like magnets, growing heavy and dark, heavier and darker until the weight is unbearable. We begin to collapse into each other and fall backwards through the floor and when it feels like we can fall no more we burst into flame. We are the sun, rolling boiling fire.
I am a plume of flame belched deep into outer space. I’m shooting towards earth at a ridiculous speed. Diving towards Florida through the roof of my house, into my own human head that lie asleep in my bed with my wife. I watch myself wake up and hit stop on my dream machine. I watch myself shower and get ready for work. Kiss my wife and wrestle with my dog. I see myself drive to work in the winding rivers of traffic until I arrive at my office.
Now I’m watching myself watch myself. Watching myself on my laptop dream machine feed, falling in love with everything.
Sometimes I wonder about all of this. Sometimes I hit pause on my machine and float like a blue diamond hum rolling in the blackness. Rolling as the entire cosmos with you and me as everything. There is no other. Sometimes I hit play and honk at you at a green light. “Get outta my fucking way!” I yell. Sometimes we fuck and kill each other. Sometimes we ignore each other for years. Sometimes we worry and fret about the silliest cutest little things. Sometimes we are nothing and everything and there is no fear or death, just this, just this, just this.

I got a dream recorder for my birthday, it’s a wonderfully interesting machine. This morning at work I’m looking at last nights dream on my laptop. I’m not quite sure what to make of it.

In my dream I wander the streets of the small town I grew up in until I become a lazy river. No one pays any attention to me as I grow larger. Even as I grow wild and raging. Even as I overflow my banks and I submerge the entire town, drowning everyone in my tears.

A great hawk flies down and plucks me from the lake town, but when I look to see exactly what the hawk is clutching all I see is my new dream recorder. The hawk then drops me into a warehouse with a bunch of other dream recording machines. We all fall into tight stacks like magnets, growing heavy and dark, heavier and darker until the weight is unbearable. We begin to collapse into each other and fall backwards through the floor and when it feels like we can fall no more we burst into flame. We are the sun, rolling boiling fire.

I am a plume of flame belched deep into outer space. I’m shooting towards earth at a ridiculous speed. Diving towards Florida through the roof of my house, into my own human head that lie asleep in my bed with my wife. I watch myself wake up and hit stop on my dream machine. I watch myself shower and get ready for work. Kiss my wife and wrestle with my dog. I see myself drive to work in the winding rivers of traffic until I arrive at my office.

Now I’m watching myself watch myself. Watching myself on my laptop dream machine feed, falling in love with everything.

Sometimes I wonder about all of this. Sometimes I hit pause on my machine and float like a blue diamond hum rolling in the blackness. Rolling as the entire cosmos with you and me as everything. There is no other. Sometimes I hit play and honk at you at a green light. “Get outta my fucking way!” I yell. Sometimes we fuck and kill each other. Sometimes we ignore each other for years. Sometimes we worry and fret about the silliest cutest little things. Sometimes we are nothing and everything and there is no fear or death, just this, just this, just this.

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Alice In Wonderland by Nicole Eisenman

Alice In Wonderland by Nicole Eisenman

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Life is a dance between a giant birthday cake and a little chihuahua. The chihuahua eats the entire cake, gets sick and throws up. The chihuahua then eats up all the vomit, gets sick again and pukes it all up again. This goes on and on, the tiny dog eating all the barf and throwing it up again and again until the dog gets old and dies.
Happy Birthday!

Life is a dance between a giant birthday cake and a little chihuahua. The chihuahua eats the entire cake, gets sick and throws up. The chihuahua then eats up all the vomit, gets sick again and pukes it all up again. This goes on and on, the tiny dog eating all the barf and throwing it up again and again until the dog gets old and dies.

Happy Birthday!

Tags: prose
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How much does a tree costone like this big oak
How much for birdsongis there a group rate
Do we rent the sunrisesor lease to ownIs the sunset included
How much for a motherone that doesn’t run awayor a father hiding from everythingyears of unanswered questions
How much for the mystery
How much do you pay until you realizeif you don’t like the storyyou’re free to write your own

How much does a tree cost
one like this big oak

How much for birdsong
is there a group rate

Do we rent the sunrises
or lease to own
Is the sunset included

How much for a mother
one that doesn’t run away
or a father hiding from everything
years of unanswered questions

How much for the mystery

How much do you pay
until you realize
if you don’t like the story
you’re free to write your own

Tags: Poetry
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A splendid blog! Old Erotic Art

A splendid blog! Old Erotic Art

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Everything is fuckedand we can’t fix it.
So bring on the drugsthe critically acclaimed televisionthe 99 cent double cheeseburgers.
Entropy is measured in unclaimed garden weasels.
Last night Billy Mays appeared to me in a dream.He was in heaven, selling the 70 virgin setdo it yourself “Anal Bleaching Dream Cream.”
Not only does it make everything, including assholes,incredibly white, but it transforms infidels, karma, and original sin!Act within 30 minutes, and you’ll never feel guilty again.
Billy Mays wept joyfully as a host of angelssang the product’s praises,even as the devil read aloud the fine printeven as my cell phone lost all hope of reception.

Everything is fucked
and we can’t fix it.

So bring on the drugs
the critically acclaimed television
the 99 cent double cheeseburgers.

Entropy is measured in unclaimed garden weasels.

Last night Billy Mays appeared to me in a dream.
He was in heaven, selling the 70 virgin set
do it yourself “Anal Bleaching Dream Cream.”

Not only does it make everything, including assholes,
incredibly white, but it transforms infidels, karma, and original sin!
Act within 30 minutes, and you’ll never feel guilty again.

Billy Mays wept joyfully as a host of angels
sang the product’s praises,
even as the devil read aloud the fine print
even as my cell phone lost all hope of reception.

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Selfie of a Selfie of


I interviewed myself for a literature magazine no one reads. I read it on that comedian’s podcast, you know the one. He did the music for the co-host’s podcast from that other really famous podcast.  Well, it got quite a few listens. Sure most of ‘em were me, but I don’t think I’m bragging when I say, I sounded pretty self aware.
I especially liked the part where I accused myself of lying about the time Prince offered me some Peanut M&Ms. There was a brilliant moment of silence where no one knew who anyone was. Was I waiting for another question or waiting for the answer? Which was which? Who wants to know? Who cares?
This all reminds me of a story the Buddha used to tell. He’d heard a beautiful bird singing one morning and recorded it with his i-Phone. He played it back to the bird and the bird sang happily in reply. The Buddha then hit repeat and the bird sang to itself until it grew weak and eventually died. All that was left was the recorded bird, still singing.
I  have the story on mp3. I’ll play it for you as soon as I get done recording it.

Selfie of a Selfie of

I interviewed myself for a literature magazine no one reads. I read it on that comedian’s podcast, you know the one. He did the music for the co-host’s podcast from that other really famous podcast.  Well, it got quite a few listens. Sure most of ‘em were me, but I don’t think I’m bragging when I say, I sounded pretty self aware.

I especially liked the part where I accused myself of lying about the time Prince offered me some Peanut M&Ms. There was a brilliant moment of silence where no one knew who anyone was. Was I waiting for another question or waiting for the answer? Which was which? Who wants to know? Who cares?

This all reminds me of a story the Buddha used to tell. He’d heard a beautiful bird singing one morning and recorded it with his i-Phone. He played it back to the bird and the bird sang happily in reply. The Buddha then hit repeat and the bird sang to itself until it grew weak and eventually died. All that was left was the recorded bird, still singing.

I  have the story on mp3. I’ll play it for you as soon as I get done recording it.

Tags: prose selfie