17 Steps for Tommorow and Tommorow.

The process of losing your mind is a selfish one.

This is not a lie. Just pretend to agree.

When mishaps are just missteps that seem to throw themselves in front of your disillusioned self, it would be rather impossible to pretend that you thought it was a lie.

When you try to focus on the whole picture and it seems to bleed its corners and fall into a crumpling heap that makes you wonder why and how and what and when it should be over--it proves to be nothing other than the truth.

When it should stop is another monster in itself.

So as I type I follow strict guidelines: 1) Do not look at the screen 2) Do not think in front of what you write 3) Do not write in necessarily long lines. 4) Indulge in music, surround yourself in an environment that enhances the mind 5) Submit nothing other than what is on the tip of your tongue 6) Do not blink unless completely necessary 7) If the feeling becomes too immense sit back and observe the blotted screen 8) Develop structures within rhythmic patterns, allow the notation to ebb and flow in polyphonically submitted structures 9) Show no sign of exhaustion 10) Breathe into what makes sense, while simultaneously ignoring the inaccuracies and figuring out the reciprocal modes of alleviation and epiphany 11) Lie if only necessary to provide concrete and evident points of subject or view 12) Never lie to yourself 13) Wash yourself, preferably with hot water 14) Laugh at your prissy mistake-- critical analysis is used for instances of self-defense or self obligation 15) close your eyes if the experience is enhanced in such a manner 16) Never leave it off, alone, or away; always press forward; never release; find yourself infatuated; never lose your head; always hope for the next big thing; remember to breathe; remember to float face up; remember to remember what you won't possibly ever remember tommorow 17) wait for tomorrow.

And when it comes, see if you feel like you should do it all over again.

This didn't come out right. What a mess I've made.

But I guess I meant for it to be that way.

Throat.

I think it's about to hit me. Yeah, I can feel it coming. Two spoonful shots of bitter sleep, washed down with tap water and a yelp of anti-jubilance. This convection is still upon my poor throat, swollen and tapped out; I cannot do a thing about it, however. Being sick is a mighty bitch. One who makes with your patience and steals all your laughter (When I laugh I seem to fall into a cycle of violent coughing).

Okay, well, I had intended to jot down some thoughts about the state of having nothing to do when it seems as though the possibilities are endless--but I think that the store brand stuff has just met my arteries. Can't go on. Must end pathetically. What an awesome weekend. See you sometime soon.

A Faulty Attempt of Explanation and etc.

I am trying to enjoy the smallest things in life.

It's a process that deals with immersing yourself within details and abstractions and dumb, funny, or irresponsible jokes. Let me attempt to explain myself in such a stream of consciousness that for anyone who succeeds in reading to the end of this mess has just accomplished the equivalent of analyzing a goddamn narcissist with a hole drilled in the middle of his forehead. All my contents will commence in oozing out, now--my apologies for the mess that I will unfortunately make.

I've considered taking a look at myself in the mirror every morning and appreciating the following as a sign of the inflicting side affects due to lack of sleep: an explosion of hair, teabag eyes, and a confounded ugly man look that I will seize with pride. Music is always an addition worth compiling. Maybe I'll invest in some sort of sound system, one that lets my minuscule computer speakers breathe peacefully while I sing along in my best attempt of being satirical to the point of self-degradation. But, of course, I'd rather be glued to this chair and create words which sound more intelligent than they really, really are. Words are funny things aren't they? Because they just seem to keep poking at you when all you want is some sleep. Or a nap. Or whatever else helps. Words and music are like really good food, only you don't obtain the unnecessary cholesterol or trans fats. I am no beefcake, but maybe in musically infatuated standards, I am. I once told someone that writing is just what I do when I cannot express myself in any other way. So here are some words; you choose what musical motions to exemplify the lyrics.

Because sometimes I really cannot explain myself coherently.
Because sometimes I just want everyone to realize what they don't already know.
Because I am trying to enjoy the smallest things in life.
Because the big things are just way too big.

Blot.

I stormed some house to no avail.
Non-worded and breaded to a crisp.
Eat and ate, the raw meat took that dip.
As I went
I stopped at a local convenience market to make my dues apparent.
Stopped only to be passed up.
and dropped off at the nearest blind spot.
I can't stink this bad.
I hope
But maybe if I breathe in hard
enough
the water won't rush in too quickly.