i'm losing my edge. satisfied to go for months on end trying only to speak the bare minimum number of words required to rent a video or buy cloves, and just watch the clouds and the stars and the grass growing and the occasional flashing siren. how awesome would it feel to reach your hand out and touch the side of a speeding train as it passes by, or to cut your fingers smashing a rocks glass across a particularly loathsome forehead? and baseball catchers' uniforms. i've given up drinking. for all intents & purposes i have. it's unhealthy. i'd prolly start again if the right reason came up. except i want the green and the solitude. one night it's burning hot and the air is still, the next night the wind is cold as ice and blows the garden table all over the yard. this is what makes me happy. eyelids are the curtains of the soul, when i draw them i see calming textures that remind me of david cronenberg and h.r. giger. that, and a chessboard. ugh-uh. most of the sentences & paragraphs rattling around in my head lately are a mercurial stew of pootie tang-esque ebonic gibberish, static age walk among us lyrics, and a boatload of invective. if you're gonna take sides, by all means take the other side. gossips make baby jesus angry, anyway. along with paris & nicky, and trista & ryan. there's a whole thing in the new testament where baby jesus condemns untalented publicity-whores and threatens them with a plague of hornets that go ballistic when they hear the ringing of pink cellphones, i swear.

it's too bad that mel from mel's diner (most people call it "alice," but then most people are retarded) is dead, 'cause i just got an awesome idea for a sequel to the mel gibson movie "payback." see, mel's diner dude's real name was vic tayback, but you know, he's sorta mel... so mel and mel would team up and the sequel would be called "payback 2: payback with tayback." and then like, it's a basic rehash of the first one, they shoot some guidos and chinamen or brits, blow shit up, at some point they shoot a burger chef who's wearing a sailor hat and t-shirt with a giant grease stain down the front, throw in a highly inappropriate cameo by a latino tv comedian and joe pantoliano in his nth role as the same little weasel that he always plays, then they blow up maybe wilford brimley or hoyt axton's shit, the end. yeah. too bad tayback is dead though, 'cause it would've ruled like 15 times harder than your imaginary shoot-some-dudes-and-blow-their-shit-up movie.

OH. and i've taken up poetry-writing, in its most gothest of forms: vampire haiku.

depressing boulder!
i am the sisyphus of
sensitivity

ho ho merry fuckin' ho lotta you!