Thursday, May 28, 2015

allen ginsberg gets personal.

just remember: when your dogs stare at you like you are crazy, it's because you are crazy- that is, only if our perceptions equate reality. look at yourself like you are crazy, everything ever looks at you like you are crazy, and also like you are below them.
i look at myself like i am crazy because there is a hole in my heart. i dig through the hole in my heart
to america.
america holds me tight in its arms. it fondles me which i guess is okay. but america's hug is a bear hug and i don't really want it anymore. i'm squished is why.
i dig a hole under the fence of america's arms. i dig the hole

to get to the other side. there are fireworks blowing up everywhere
in the sky

so high and mighty about me. this is called "moxie". some fucking nerve.
i am afraid because since i can hear only the fireworks
and see only the sky

i can't figure out anything else and i'm overheating, so
some secret person will come and get me and have their way with me and then throw me in jail for bitches and people america feels betrayed by (this is called the "benedict arnold museum"). this overactive imagination of mine.

america holds me tight and speaks with the voice of allen ginsberg's. he recites the poem "america". it's the only ginsberg poem on my side. i love it. i sneak back and ask for forgiveness. almost immediately, i regret my decision.
america tells me he/she/other is going to make me a star. a star in the sky or a famous person with the power of plastic? stars like that wind up crazy like how i perceive crazy before they wind up shrivelled up. although i am already extremely famous to myself, i am afraid to be famous to anyone else because i wind up seeming completely different to myself around different people no matter what. i dislike it. sometimes, i really like people, but because i dislike how my persona presents itself around people, i can't spend time with them.

it's the unspoken equation with the vowels of the fireworks. it also has the bear hug of america.

i become famous to the world back and forth all the time. sometimes i feel so comfortable with myself i list adjectives i consider positive traits about myself and i can do it all day. at some point i will reiterate "whoa, am i crazy," but in a funny way. sometimes i will spend all day listing adjectives that i consider negative (i.e: they take away from my "potential") traits about myself and they become very complex. i feel very paralyzed but i do what i can to convince myself i am not paralyzed or a cripple or any of that anyway. i do stuff like this:

make a healthy and beautiful salad, paint, shower, read, write, take care of my pet dogs that look at me like i am crazy considering i consider myself crazy which is a vague word with seemingly infinite subjective interpretations, take care of people, garden, do yoga, call out to friends or mom who is also a friend for help or just to talk, take a one miligram tablet of my prescribed benzodiazapene PRN.

that was a list of some stuff i do. i have resorted to a lot of drastic measures that turned out to be teachers, but not the type of teacher i want to fuck. they are messengers of the hindu god ganesha, who i see in my paintings and sometimes other things all the time. they are comforting guardian angels.

so i dig under the fence under america's arms really quickly, because if they spread open the arms might turn out to be the arms of the statue of liberty so i might just drop and die. i am now in the arms of the other side of the fence, but i still don't see the tao or the zen- just pure fortune cookie- in the following joke:

"why did the chicken cross the road? to get to the other side."

i think people came up with that joke because they felt awkward with one another and needed to say something to break the ice. the faux-zen caught on. it's actually grown into a major industry in the west. i buy most of my clothes from this major industry because it knows exactly what i want.

what i want is loose fitting, black and comfortable clothing that fits but does not draw attention to my body which is attractive but that is not the point. i don't know why i don't want to draw attention to my body. the reason for this is

that i view myself at all times. so when i think about my body showing i just want a sweater so i can hide under it, and preoccupy my attention with other things that i want to retain information from.

this is probably another reason why i didn't want to be famous, but it just came to me.

dear america.

dear america, i am older than i look. i am older than you.
dear america, i weigh more than i say i weigh. i don't even know how much i weigh or what i'm supposed to weigh.. scales scare the shit out of me.
dear america, i use spotify.
dear america, i shave sometimes.
dear america, i feel a little better the past couple of days now that i have the internet again.
dear america, i freak out as inwardly as possible when i'm disappointed that i can't get something.
dear america, "dog eat dog" is disturbing.
dear america, kiss my tiny little dick, ayn rand.
dear america, if i was a dog i'd be an afghan.
dear america, i catch up on what the hell is going on with the kardashians today every time i go to the grocery store or to the druggists.
dear america, i feel guilty that my attention span isn't strong enough for very dense things but i can pay attention to crappy shit my mother watches on tv in the other room. does this mean i'm passionate about crappy shit? is there an objective "crappy"? even mushroom clouds are beautiful.
dear america, i don't suck at sports but i'm too anxious to perform well.
dear america, i have health care.
dear america, you have to be really rich for really good shit such as health care.
dear america, censorship is stupid.
dear america, political correctness does not correct racism or prejudices.
dear america, figure out the judicial system.
dear america, stop giving people power. they don't know what to do with it except act stupidly.
dear america, i've never had an iq test. considering several papers of mine were either rejected or given failing grades throughout school for being "too creative" or whatever, i think it seems formulatory to give me an iq test, though i would seriously suck at it because i'm secretly anxious that i'm not a pleasing person.
dear america, whatever an "old soul" is supposed to be.
dear america, i was raised in front of the television.
dear america, this substitute teacher brushed his dick area across my hand in second grade. in front of everyone. dumbass.
dear america, i'm drinking soda to get off of other caffeines.
dear america, opinions and facts might as well be the same thing at this rate, since people don't seem to know the difference- and when they do, they fuse the essence of their opinions into facts.
dear america, if i don't make sure i mean something as a productive member of society, then i'm so miserable that i blur my eyes out in hopes of going somewhere else.
dear america, i think it makes an interesting story to tell about how we were raised without air conditioning.
dear america, i clearly love you.
dear america. friend me back sometime.