Call It What You Want...but please read...something...or write something.

I can hear a train blowing it’s smokestack off in the distance reminding me that there is always an option to be free among the rails and the brotherhood of the hobos and freight train riders, the old west kill or be killed pride and mentality, surely no place for the metrosexual or flamboyant.
Whenever I think of my favorite authors it’s as if they never had a dull moment in their life, as if everything they did had a purpose. When Jack Kerouac took a shit it was inspiration for a poem that Ferlinghetti would publish and Kerouac could get some free pussy on that ticket. I wonder how much dick Ginsberg got off his poetry. Why aren’t there any homosexual men that are poets that aren’t afraid to write about sucking cock and just fucking to fuck for fucks sake. Genet seems to be the exception but I’m sure society isn’t ready for homosexuality in literature, atleast the sexuality aspect of it.
I’m not homosexual but my brain is open to be washed free of it’s heterosexuality. I can’t talk to women, girls, bitches that I don’t know with the same comfort as I talk with guys or family. In a nut, I’m a good person, then again I’m sure the zodiac killer was a good person at some point in his life which isn’t to say that I’m headed in that direction but sometimes I get so damn lonely it only makes sense to go mad. There is a draw to being in prison when you truly have nothing to lose and a lot of people have been there and are now in prison. Our country needs some heart. Horatio Alger ruined it for everyone and so did the free market--what does America need so bad that we can’t get on our own?
Politics only fuck with my head but they really fuck the unfortunate over and not only for fear or the imposition of fear but death looms imminent or is always calling for the less fortunate that don’t have the true grit to become a machine and crunch numbers or make fucking widgets. Centuries and still not another Renaissance? There’s no shortage of war. What the fuck happened to produce a Renaissance? If anyone has any knowledge on that feel free to chime in but no one reads this blog because it doesn’t have any demographic that shows interest in admitting to struggling or admitting that struggle exists towards becoming creative or working with the minds imagination, a lot of people want to go on believing there shit don’t stink and there stories are neat and well-crafted but there’s still no Sound or Fury coming from the modern day bookstore. Nobodies.
Who can afford to go to graduate school to be a writer? I always think of John Updike when I think of rich people but that might not be the case for him but ivy league education couldn’t have hurt his writing and still Kerouac writing on the road without revision...bullshit...Kerouac busted his ass to write like he did...but what about us, the people that don’t move their asses. We have big asses and we have a faint notion in the back of our minds that if we don’t pull our shit together then we’re going to die but we continue...living in excess is success or is it?
Anger is a key motivator. A lot of shitty emotions are the driving forces behind writing. If you want to get a hard-on you don’t read Jane Austen unless that’s doable and you my perverted friend have a brilliant mind...I want to use the ellipsis to carry on the tradition of chronicling that Louis-Ferdinand Celine used in all of his books but to want and to do are to separate things, one being push and the other pull but truly the grist is in the mill...trust me I shit everyday several times and still my nerves feel plasticized. I have to wipe my ass with paper towels...our countries nutrition is toxic. I can remember as a kid waking up and eating a bowl full of frosted corn flakes with marshmallows and the corn flakes were chocolate flavored even the corn was in on the diabetes ticket. My dad had no idea what nutrition was or had he even heard of it I don’t think he would have cared too much he was more interested in other things than weighing chicken breasts after a day at the office crunching numbers in a world that is much like Tron where you are up against numbers...accounting is similar to writing in that one field uses numbers and the other letters but they both take imagination and...I couldn’t think there for a second, sometimes that happens, I tripped off into that world right off the computer screen.
So to follow in the foot steps of LFC...He is the only author in which I have read almost everything he’s written. Given the time I’d like to read some more Roth--someone with a good sense of humor, that’s hard to find in literature now and back to Paleolithic times. I wonder if cavemen laughed? Sorry, I don’t have any World Wars to take part in or...Celine could have made it all up. That would have been true genius. To create a self completely separated from oneself like a pseudonym that is alive but only through the media not a persona that one takes on in real life, this could only be done by an author albeit there are plenty of premadonnas that would love to walk that red carpet for the sake of literature...if they ever wanted to turn something I wrote into a movie I would say “fuck off”...and then moments later I would say sorry and would assume the position of a sniveling scribe who only has his intellect and his library to keep him company...”Money, goddamnit! Lot’s of fucking money. I want money in fileboxes stacked to the ceilings of my big ceilinged house”...Ah, ho, ho, what would I do with all that confetti? I would live out Satyricon sans the homosexuality but when in Greece...orifices, dumb dumb orifices. Life is fuck. Quote me on that one, it’s no original but it’s cut back to the bones if you can accept it and not be prudish about vocabulary or verb choice...so, eight thousand pages to make a thousand page book. How about one hundred pages to make a ten paged shitpile of rucus and confusion...ah, yes! Rucus, disorganization, confusion is my style don’t you see or wait and see atleast...there is clarity in confusion...text that hits you between the eyes and demands your attention but not in a whiny or some fucking bitch way but a puzzled confusion where there’s most certainly a means to an end that is clear. Burroughs. He did it...his way...the confusion, the killing, the candirus, the sailors and suck offs and skin popping Mexican boys. Where is the meaning? The words are poetic.
I’m waiting...waiting to score...death.
Please, that’s all shit. I never want to be accused of being a Nancy or pouring out the sentimentality or asking my reader to question if what they are doing in life is really there purpose in life...my job is not to depress but to impress...to make people want to read and enjoy themselves and their minds but sometimes...really, that was Celine’s gift--to make the shit smell like roses. I aspire towards that because I have no choice but to live...suicide is not an option for me, I can’t do it. Why? As bad as things get, I never know. Whose to say that the next day or the one after that that I won’t get my dick sucked or have a good shit or a good meal or spark some synapse that’s recessive towards the frontal lobe and...Kaplooey!...the mind sublime, gardens of delight, girls and women, men and boys, living together in harmony high on the impossibility of it all. Personally, I’d rather hug a tree than a sour faced stranger but still the dirt...I can’t say that, I am more amazed by dirt than people but just as amazed by the human infrastructure or physiology.
There is a fear in writing...a sense of loss. I start out writing and end up dazed...a bit like coming out of the movie theatre into the sunlight but it’s this way for the mind rather than the eyes. Yes, writing is like meditation for those who can’t sit still. I tried meditating and the mind is always there for me which is what meditation tries to release but I fear losing my thoughts because they are truly all I have in this world that comfort me and keep me alive for good or ill...another type of people, the Tibetans and other Buddhist countries. Religion. The only people my age that practice Buddhism either speak a different language or are the last people on earth that I could relate to in terms of lifestyle or...they seem too happy, a bit catatonic. I’m afraid of that stability--that stasis or flow or inertia. I’m predisposed to confusion and contradictions and bad habits that make life more like a story than a poem. I never really understood poets. I don’t get it. I tried it and it’s fun but I didn’t see how so many “poets” did anything better than me other than knowing words like tentrameter and prosidy and other garble. Poems are like crossword puzzles for the man or woman of letters--it’s their own niche though and they don’t take kindly to outsiders to people that haven’t had extraordinary lives or some unique character trait...I don’t know, poets all seem a bit weird to me. Elitists. They are the artists of the written word and world according to them. Balls and double balls to that! They won’t accept rap as poetry. That takes the cake...it’s like writers saying paperback fiction isn’t writing but it’s all and the same...poetry is just bad writing, a lot of work to make something mean nothing to mean everything or something else...heads or tails, I don’t care...

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