The moratorium on ice

The lack of a contingency for ice in the jack and coke is getting diabolical. The fireworks continue and have been going off this side of Compton and South of Vernon, the township and the street, since last month, which was way in advance of the rockets red glare and our hearts bursting mid-air. They flew through the night and the flag was still there. The flying monkeys flew, that is, but luckily, the nightmare ended and all was well because those returning from battle could see the flag that was raised above the shelter and whoever won and has won, historically, tends to be the benevolent dictator for a while, til the fall of the empire comes from cult crop circles of burning rain man florists down by the way station, between Gage and Florence and somewhere near Slauson which was where I worked a commercial that was never really that much fun.

The inability to go in and out for ice is the only issue at the Foxy Motor Inn.

By the hour 

It’s Mickey D below Washington which is below Jefferson which is where it tends to become lawless or more so and as such what the white folk call the ghetto it’s comprised of various goods and hoods and hopes and dreams and has people just like any other except the Wi-Fi down below Adams is burger king and McDonald’s whereas once you get above the courts on hill street, it’s Starbucks every block. In #DTLA my previous abode of 7 years or so it doesn’t scare me anymore not fresh of any boat no more 
Than any other traveler of the stratosphere burning prayer candles in the crown royal motor Inn circa now one for time capsule 

#massextinction number 6

Coming soon 

What gets through

is a near rhyme, mound, for found, or sound, or whoever plays with words gets burned by words or maybe just thoughts, hard to tell anymore, so little goes as hoped, planned or intended these days, it makes me wonder if it ever really did in the first place, and then I realize I am hungry, too late at night again, who decided we can’t eat Brazilian food or a good italian dinner any time day or night? I suppose those of us who wander the land, looking for something, running from something, in limbo or completely numb nuts, no in between, except all the grey areas.

This is not even how I think or what I care about, really, but I am too overwhelmed by the reality of the situation to have much perspective on the matter. So I must go back into raw gush memoir mode try to catch the crazy while you can because you won’t want to remember it much less relive it so the only hope is to hawk one’s wares, as words, the minions of speech, the inglorious bastards of ruining our every hope, of misunderstandings that lead to much worse things – and then again, I can’t see straight, I am so back and forth, from rock steady to on the buoy, hoping I survive the night, and a rescue raft floats by, only to see the sunrise and realize I can swim ashore–but there’s nothing there?

Sweet bliss and joyous cavernous lush leaves of hubris, where those went I don’t know but they are part of memory, and I want to say that’s okay, because I don’t want you to worry about me because you do, I know you do, because I don’t live like you. But I worry myself, too. Or I used to. I mean, it’s new this living in the inside of my brain not transmuted, not interpreted thru the veil of survival which is too much to explain but it’s all here in some form or another, just needs a massive re-write I am not up to and g-damnit I never say that, but I am so pissed off at the fact that it doesn’t fucking matter if you’re good at what you do, work harder than anyone else and consistently deliver the highest quality product. Crazy, right? Sounds like a joke? Or sour graps? Nah. True story. Confederacy of Dunces, the trilogy. Idiots Rule, forever. Whatever Voltaire said about how stupid we are. Not even Plato can compare. When it comes to putting us down.

But I live, I think so anyway, if this thing I am doing is called living, I would like to consider other verbs for when you pass into another dimension of carefree existence but aren’t dead yet–the petit morte or orgasm as the French call them and why it suddenly switched to italics is beyond me except I typed some key too fast but I am refusing to backspace as I am trying to come to some conclusion here and it is that I have a heavy dose of dread mixed with existential angst because my current situation is anything but what I want or wanted it to be (in terms of Tony Robbins’ goal structure).

and yet here i am

and there went the italics

woah

12:39 pm I meant to only look for sublets but instead i spent 3 hours researching mobile broadband options and RVs.

Not as planned. Exactly. However, today, progress was made. And then a few setbacks, and the usual, okay then, I am going to take a nap. This time though–heat stroke. Too old for that. Feeling vulnerable. Lost my doctor and my father in the same person.

Wish me luck.

I love you all.

You’d be surprised how forgiving I can be and how much I believe in compassion.

Installation: The constant refining 

without thinking too much

But it is about pollack or Rothko or Rauschenberg coz when I see their paintings I feel something visceral am distinct not cerebral like Picasso or self🌺conscious like Warhol. It’s like having to eat your vegetables at the table with Joyce Carol Oates when you really want to go off and get drunk with Beaudelaire then maybe Rimbaud, although I always see him sad on a ship dying young, staying pretty somehow. And so it goes, slaying the detractors, swaying through life, she has her heroes, just because she doesn’t talk about it much doesn’t mean no body was ever there, that no body she knows even cares, that’s just the way it had to become, it’s eat them or be done, gone, their dinner in their pocket instead.
Installation addresses all this the best k-can the Katherine can can auto erotic auto correct fest as I step into the shower maybe I’ll have a shower in the corner installed and give free showers to people on skid row during the art opening invite chase mural eyes everywhere and juxtapoz hazed big brave long haired overshadowed shepherd fairy show but more flawed, if you sought such things. Me, I’ve always had a double repartee, indmnifiable indemity, strong arm the heart TIL her legs quiver then catch fireflies and zebras and fairy tales are all she ever thinks about…

So here goes 101: IN RETROSPECT

THE YEARS 

YOU WALK IN I KNOW THE FLOW THE GENERAL FORMULA AND CERTAINLY THE MATERIALS IT’s WATER wood and brick 
For definitive reasons 
There will be guest artist sections 

Invite scarlet and chase and cyrcle and Venice street artist drum circle 

We warehouse it near that area that’s tumbleweed land shirt liquor store vile

Soon be laying down a mortgage there

You don’t become beat 

You just are beat

You got it in you

Your hear it 

All around you
Installation 102: the inductions into the dream academy

Through your various memories of sleep
 
Installation 103 Vicki’s psycho son Muir cat and friends 

The heavy metapocalypse hip hop Tupac Jesus Rodrigues

Coz I got a feeling

That there’s something to Carlos Casteneda and this story.