Marijuana

It is after four on a January Sunday afternoon. The sun of the new year is fading fast in the southwest. I am a doll stuffed in a tiny apartment on Hillcrest to everyone but myself and her. To her I am me. To me though I am a universe.

I’ve worked up into a fine reverie of gluttony. In the freezer, behind the frozen berries and the pizzas and the gardenburgers is a vodka bottle with about an eighth of an ounce of green sitting in the bottom. I’ve had the bottle for nearly two years now and there’s still a few fingerfuls left. All my stoner friends make fun of me. Unintentionally I’m the most judicious user of marijuana in western civilization, that is amongst those of us who greatly enjoy the sideways vision into parallel verses which good fine grain buds djinns up. Thing is, I’m not a tightwad about it either – I just rarely think of lighting up or taking a shot.

Since I am such a judicious user of the bud I tend to get a tremendous gonzo blast off of the slightest amount, which also contributes to my record-setting conservation – “You save more green than Greenpeace.”. This morning I had a shot and a half and am now officially cockeyed. Off my rocker. It’s been a fine afternoon and I’m just now getting hungry.

What a hunger for the basal indulgences that you develop when you eat bud! We eat a tremendous meal consisting entirely of condiments. Olives and pickles. Croutons dipped in olive oil. Little French pickles. Slices of French cheese, cow and sheep. All washed down with little slugs of Kiwi Sauv Blanc and then an Aussie red blend…

Conciousness – the Apple

Everyone’s trying to merge their conscious and subconsciousness. It’s the great inward quest to unite the clans of your innerspace. To hell with it! I’d rather let my subconsciousness wander. If I have to be chained to a desk 40 hours per, let my doppelganger playmate range the world known and unknown, on about a quest for god knows what, scatterbrain narrative, surrealist scenes, fuckabrain colorladen daydreams or just a good feline snooze in a convenient sunbeam. Whatever it likes, that subterranean…

Spring

The first time you notice the days getting longer. The lengthening days of faintest earliest spring when you’re sure for sure that sol and light and warmth are coming back. One of our earliest empirical miracles, though certainly much later than the daily return of the sun which is recognized as holy by all birds and mammals and probably reptiles as well. Those first days when shaman tried to lay down with limited tools – prelingual grunts, drawings in the sand, etchings on granite – this idea he had about the cyclical nature of seasonality, and what better metaphor than an all-powerful godhead dynamo to simultaneously make them believe and scare the piss out of them so they behave and build you that temple you’ve been wanting?

Poetry Scrap

In math and code
we make models which
allow us to deal with certain discrete
chunks of dimensionalities –
Constrain your world into variables and
plug; in fiction we build
similar models, like your life
is an onion, consecutive layers constructed
from memories – ours though are unbounded,
our curves push into eight
hundred seventy two or four dimensions;
we should not get discouraged
when our curves are ugly
when our functions are chicken scrawl
when our graphs are Pollock’s murals.

Poetry Scrap

Machine Heroics –

yeah like when you’re flirting with a cork,
bottle of Epernay and you work it out most of the way
but it just hangs there, last nub, defying
laws of physics – this explains my
love affairs with junker cars
whose rusted riddled pistons keep firing,
old computers held together with toothpicks
(did it once in 1989 – toothpicks holding in DIMMS),
old steampunk espresso machinese which phiss
only for that certain barista who
treats her right – roughly, bangpop –
Mechanical implements which should not work
physically but persist due to what can be ascribed
illogically enough but joyously
by funnily romantic human eyes
As heart.

Dawn

Finally, I sleep past dawn! Or at least the dawn of dawn as I was up at 7. This is the first day of the 2006 that I’ve missed first-light – each of the other 18 mornings I’ve been wide awake at least an hour prior.

Poetry Scrap

how those springtime buds will wither and fall
how friends and lovers will look in tweny years
how the food you eat will be waste, waist –
all the to be which will be but won’t be
is or are today, this hour, this minute, second –
tick – blink – pow!