4am, one of my poor, un-motivated nights

I've been up since 3am and just took in the humor of this repeated ritual I have around this time about 4-5 times a week and thought I would share.--- I wake around 3am, usually because I'm stressing out about bills, the dirty apartment, getting a job,school, or if James' is getting enough protein. Or I wake up feeling sick from stressing out about the same stuff the night before or I had a dream about how I should rearrange my furniture. I lay in bed for a while thinking I need more shelves... get out of bed at about 4am, sit on the toilet for a while, reading or just thinkin', until one of my cats brings me another mouse, and I wish it wasnt dead because its kinda cute and I want to keep it as a pet. I come out into the kitchen/dining room/living room that I cleaned the day before but somehow is trashed again (my apartment looks like a crack head is living in it). I'm stepping past pans on the floor I have yet to wash(they're on my floor because I have approximately 1 square foot of counter space), to get to my fridge, I look over the contents, all condiments, a block of cheese, an onion, and alot of juice, and decide I'm not hungry anyway. I'll just smoke a smoke and warm up some coffee. I check my email, all junk mail but I read it anyway, play some solitaire then cut out some coupons in the 'ShopWise' I got in the mail, I unconsciously check the mail 3 times a day, even on Sundays... I like mail. I get on ebay or overstock and look at all the things I want to buy but dont have the money or room for... write some bad poety, by this time its light outside, so i take a nap, have myself another day, then repeat. I feel like one of those middle aged bald, fat guys with bi-focals who works as a temp and wears bad shirts and rides his bycicle to work, complete with lime green helmet and goggles. But honestly I love it, its an experience and at least I have something to frickin' write about...

To some unmentionable people I know:

SECLUDED VEINS- Like the thousands of times I convinced myself I was nothing, and you are less than nothing. Shadows of my own wandering clear away as soon as I turn my head. It was to quick to remember anyway. I'm walking away thinking I'm still to scared to move. and everything you left me... your so dead to me. I've cried myself sober to many times, had myself convinced of some majestic tragedy, while you were still breathing in the next room. Maybe all i was is to escape. with a reason to escape, and maybe there is no reason but your reason, and all the reasons you've proved me wrong. tearing away all my excuses... my hate. fuck the reason. I've got all the contentment I can handle. and still I find myself hands down, empty to my throat, like all the ways *sin* was,- with dope under his nails and through his spine. He told me it was different then, and it just got to damn hard, that was a year ago... he's so weak now. and when I saw him last October, eyes glazed, pockets empty,- he wanted me to know everything was alright. and he wasnt in love with you anymore. He lit my ciggerette and told me to steer clear of the lifestyle. explaining in detail all the ways it wasnt worth his time. I never told him I was already caught up in it. I knew I wanted the same thing he did, but with my own perspective. I had my own damn reasons. I loved him with everything I had. You told me he was more vain then I could ever be, I didnt know what the fuck you were talking about.

Z-words, like zen, jazz, makes hip with a hip language.She says she can't even remember her own face... and not until then will she let it get to her, because she's damn happy with it.

reading entertainment for hours 

to a girl:

How is it you balance your life out so perfectly? I see you stand on one heel, holding your lungs tightly. Your thumb holds your lip and your so fragil there, captured by the forms that facinate you. The paintings hold you in, and keep you for a moment all in one place, where your sadness doesnt have to hold you down. And thinkings just not thinking when its all imagined.

We sing 'its alright'. With our pressing ideals,- Telling: this... is art. If only in our minds. And what is it that makes the definition. but from one beginning thought, from everyone at once, as we snap into creation, with something you dont even really understand. "but if we read it just right..." So in turn you create a comeback, one that I could call opressive, to whom ever it is that your trying to fool. With such a good use of the word. When your art is built for the sake of something to show. But you cant fool me love, you see, because I've got that realist spek of an eye, and enough of an abstract visionary vibe.- I've eloped mismatched colors- beyond all form- or even recognition.- But what's to be recognized. If it only matters that its important to me... JUSTIFICATION: One.) It took no real learning. Two.) At least I dont care to show it off. Three.) In conclusion, I'd like to slap on you the 'Only To Impress' label. So sit down love. Shut your mouth and open your logic. Let me show you some real inovation. Let me show you how it starts.----------

Short: from a while back, post Shawn era I think

So I was ignorant. Because sometimes its to much to handle, and sometimes it better to cry a million times for less reason then cry for something I should have stayed away from. I gave up horrible habits and peeked out of my hole, for something that might satisfy me. Something I wanted more than a hit, something where I wouldnt have to listen to anyone. And it was okay to tell everyone this secret, because I was happy in it, thats all they wanted. and I never said I wasnt excited about life, I was just impatient for death.

I want to live in Canada

Lately its wrong. Our generations lameness, our nameless generation, with our misused, mis-interperated habits. and more tits than faces. No name faces anyways. because no one really gives a fuck anymore. That we're trashy, and so damn prowd of our military men, even boys... Fighting another war we're not going to learn a damn thing from. We're losers. Lesbians and homophobs, we can never make up our minds. The times that've wasted, and the thoughts that were never bothered to interperate. Shit for brains. raising our kids on television and every type of porn for our bi-mind's eye. Damn.

going home:

It's strange to grab the air. highway going about seventy. listening to music I could write a screen play to. or maybe if I already had a movie I'd add that to it. A western maybe, or something about the downsides of meth.

dreamin'

I Dreamt I was in a box and Amber need help. Because the waves were coming in- and I dont even miss him, but those days are still obviously so vivid in my mind. Hell, I'm remembering dreams. Im happy now I sapose. dreaming again dreams I still dont understand, but i know what I'm thinking.

another note

"Can we talk?" she said, Knowing I'm always ready to be a sincere listener and give bad advice she wouldn't have to listen to. "I have something to say about everything." So I listened for a while. and processed her exaduarations the way i saw fit- tried to convince myself it was as true as she believed in her mind.

Dreamt about neil last night...

Cole's thoughts, and strange poem thoughts ...to know all the foul language and exadurate each syllable like a mad rapper thinking slowly about politics, to a beat, to be fed up with politics. to know everything about Buddhism and lithium fields and not care to much for it. As fucked up as this world gets outside the deep leafed jungles... Between us and Mexico City... There's still beautiful burnt eyed gypsy child. There's still shoe gazers to be reminded of us when they finally look up. There's still cool red clayed villas waiting for us at the end of this chipped road. Clean clothes, rollies, and new culture are waiting. its what we headed out for. but to appreciate the trip there... down to the sweat and mosquitoes. makes you the poet and I'm stuck gazing at this culture's new birkenstocks.