I'm So Tired (Think I'll Have Another Cigarette)

Before I started taking my writing seriously, and submitting it (around November 2009), I'd read a Spring & Summer's worth of books telling over and over again: IT IS NOT EASY. IT IS DIFFICULT. Hell, when writing a barely-readable, hardly-comprehensive, absolutely amateurish (but free as all Hades) love vignette in the form of 50,000 words for '08 NanoWrimo, one of the quotes I dug myself into a wealth of pride was an author, somewhere, I forgot who, saying that "Writing takes more mental energy than being a construction worker."

ISN'T THAT QUITE A HIPTIDE HAPPYDOOPY PICK-ME UP NOW? N'AW! :D

I'm sooooo tired, I don't know what to do.
I'm sooooo tired, my mind is stuck on you.

Ex

peri

mental!

I understand a need to be tired. When all you have riding on your shoulders is a 18+ hour timeframe to match the droning hourframes of college students and regular averagetodo 9-5 middle-lower class workers (if they're so, AHEM, lucky, as to have a job. OH WAIT THEY ARE), several jugs of coffee, and enough water to piss fallswater to help chase away the hunger for life, hunger for experience, hunger for being a famous genius that everybody in the whole wide ENTIRE world will know thy name in worship, and just plain general "Feed me, Buddhammit, I NEED A POUTINE. FEED ME."..

Well, you can't do much else aside from sit on the PC most of the day, exhausting your mental highway, can you? In the name of the future. Towards building a foundation. Grieving through mental collapse and a mind's universal hurricane bludgeoning your sense of self, values, meaning, and the despair of a strength in suicide seems nearly appealing. Nearly.

There's more than for myself to rise towards, more than the welfare of other's and their psyche to rise above. More than getting those bastard politicians that screw us over out of the White House and Parliament and DEFINITELY out of the National Federal Reserve.. No.. There's something here, but you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?

I know submitting isn't easy. Again and again. Allah knows there are people who have submitted to more magazines in a shorter time frame on their OFF time than I have in a six hour timeframe period. But it's just so tired. And I feel a Brian Jonesian complex coming on. Have for several weeks. It seems like the people I used to depend on, and thrash, trash, and sensually flirt with, have turned away during the past couple weeks. So I subsequently push away, and they push away, then we tuck in, roll over, kiss ourselves goodnight, and greet each other in the morning with blank stares, like any grand ol' marriage should! Yippee.

Something, this is all for something. The something that resides in listening to Last Exit perform "Red Light" on their s/t album. That something is what this is for. Audial Ulysses.

These Are Not My People

by Johnny Rivers.

I don't think I need to say anything else.

Blow this cool, Johnny. Baauumshoobydoowah, ohh yeah.

Freedom Of

Freedom of speech isn't a problem.

Freedom of spines is at war.

Needing a freedom to display balls is at war.

Freedom is thought.

Freedom of life.

Freedom of individuality.

Freedom of expression.

And freedom to fuck anybody over who tries shutting off the microphone.

Freedom of Speech?

Rewrite the constitution (OH WAIT) and change it to "Freedom of Creativity"

Freedom of Unconventionality.

Freedom of the times changing.

There are outcasts within a group of outcasts and outsiders.

What the hell.

Message Of The Day

"If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change." -Wayne Dyer

She out things he to time every say .self runs of says want I kill to my All asylum tries night he finding an, .womb little her beknown'st it's inside waywards, little for crooning abstinence.

Scattoprogical abstractual martogryfic reasoning scamper triddle yayayayayayyeee, chil'd happens if. Just to see. Sea too Dust.

Jittery stutters try terrible sluts more, sisters testify Mercury she don't talk HURT DON'T HURT!

Or what? Or I'll rip apart your novel-in-progress. Sleep gale: She, says high thought-dream seasaw forth-back-froth-frack.

Ventural others out - go ganggroing then gone than nuttery salvation no use more any than none. Ventual, most as moist sofens, as gentle. Sacred gions he, bookscather bleeding for, knows trails the of year-sold he secrets her; won't price a for soul tell right the.

Can trust him. Can't trust THEY. Useless to. Useless as Ulysses standingunder, inless martyred Asian. THEY all day & wonder she why zealand's anew, like lyDan said in 6519.

Gain won't naignagger wagering Germans too manly in girth, too wail in for sheetbegs corban cpoy poyc cpoy ypocalyptic transfruguralinguizzapparticles standunder can she: If too shall ventual need vininitation.

If only he. One day be may shall one see. Time always another.

Repeat.

Kitchen Blues

A midnight inside to chime for, a valiant hallway outdoors to bore, one last opportunity kissed and made real upon the reels of a cinematic eyelid yet touched, fraught with smoggy alleyways. Blacktop circus squares, half-out minds paying the price of a cornfield spared, with a Religion proclaiming: "It's only twice you fell--one more time, & you'll never see her."

So I forced my hands in my pockets, scrummage around for an inky tophat, and headed West towards Chicago pizzerias. Forging the shadow's name on the bill, denying great thrills to sit in fear while shanty dears sway and laugh, having a gas imitating Asians. As crooning silhouettes meet with Jezebel stars; wholesome aeroplanes of profuse wisdom dominate charismatic mattresses drunk & sighing. I wait for them to invite my patience to turn upside-down, screaming around anybody too proud to fall in love with her.

Now the chaff gets its final ceremony, bowing to the cusped rivers of cupped peaks, they try swallowing my feet and think about it. Of a way-young time chirping each week, flying-by before I could grab a chance to deny its doubts. Two first opportunities sweat in coined smiles, ticketing the wages of When they'll return, straddled in the backseats of an August evening, beginning everywhere that learns to swim, drawing blanks upon the faces trying to discover its meaning.

Move Over, Old Folks

Move over, old folks, you had your war; you rebelled with the best of 'em, you stuck to your guns and your opinions, your songs of freedom and realizing how Tricky Dick was screwing everyone over far too late. You signed your contracts, you fulfilled your obligations, you sat in the middle of streets facing American tanks and died. Your rallies caused international attention to the world's infections. You stood up, declared yourself a person, and flung your opinions at the other side of opposition, the wrong ones, the right ones; and deemed the ones who said "it doesn't matter" as foolish. Move over, old folks, 'cause us youngin's who don't know a dang thing about life are in its own warfield of rallying, protestin', defyin', and where are our Bob Dylans? He might have not liked being pegged for telling the truth about what was happening, but when so many people try prettying-up the truth about today, who are the ones that die to unmask everyone by exposing them to What Really Is?

I'll always stand by the fact that in order to not be assassinated, or heralded by any 'side', you MUST be a comedian. Only in comedy can you get away for telling the truth. Up to a point. RIP Bill Hicks. RIP Lenny Bruce. RIP Smother's Brothers. Hey Mr. Tambourine Man, play a truth for me. My generation makes me sick, and there's an Afghanistan war I'm heading to. Like all the ones of old paths had lent their hand to humanity's stance, so shall we, the voices oncee ignored and slighted; ignited and meant to be chained, NO LONGER! NO LONGER. NO. LONGER.

Every generation has had its cause for rising above the masses. Every. Single. Generation. Whether it be musically, socially, in literature, or individually, politically or even mentally; spiritually. Look over the catastraphic events that have happened since the beginning of the year. A 7 month time frame period. In five months, this world will be one step closer to a new year done. Five months. LOOK at what has HAPPENED TO YOU and ALL AROUND YOU during the past 7 months.

Old folks tell me my generation don't know nothin' about nothin'. If that's true, then why am I not alone in believing that a change is coming? Yes, our friends, another change is coming. I'm not talking about a revolution. It's already been happening, and some people still refuse to believe anything significant is happening behind the lines we can't see. I'm not talking about the Government. I'm not talking about any destruction, except the destruction of tradition. The destruction of silence. The destruction of fear, the destruction of alienating your person. The destruction of misunderstanding amongst social races, cultures, sexes, and mental places. Within all of us is a Berlin wall, ready to be knocked down.

Longest War in U.S History.. and what has my generation done to show their outrage for the past 9 years? An entire decade, and what have I done to show my FUCKING PISSED-OFF SELF AT THIS FUCKING SOCIETY!?

To think I tried killing myself so many times before. To think we try killing ourselves when it becomes unbearable, when there's so much more to do. Take care, people over 30. You've lived your life and can now bear your scars. It's time for us youngins to gaze upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Freewheelin' Spontaneity

Touch me. I can't feel a thing right now, 'cause I'm not all here. When I say here, I don't mean mentally. Mentally I'm the igloo that you can't see, don't shower inside in forwards with a worth you could handle--more aligned than rightful's opportunity anyday of the winking barbell symphony you can stand inside, with a record, uh, player. Recorder round, get it? Touch me so I can get you. Have you, want you, won
t by the time this notebook is through, mail this sent letter clear across borderline statelines mental minds got themselves shackled, all stuckled up inside the same humdrum jailroner rinner thin-struck candle-streaking cellophane plastic-wrappers I'll Say Goodnight Ev'ry Morning After song that comes, yes, ain't it real fun sayin' damn dame, goodnight to y-o-o-o--u-u-u-u?

Say goodnight more times to being touched, see, when I can't find my way around the gypsy curls of old memory, odes memory come tribute for the wainright right-wing leftist zealot pophetic prophetic malcalyptic majestic cryptic wings don't DIGEST these overflamed nonsencial derivative adjectives! Don't harken the hampered synanyms! Don't mistake the misunderstood sins o' this generation falls inside of & wonders why ev'ry grinnin' ijit comes round, says Why I wanna Die When I Haven't Lived?

Nao, don't ask me why I ramble like a drunk, & don't ask me why I'm sober 27 hours of the day, 9 days a week, 12 weeks a month, 32 years a decade, now gimme my lucky cigarette 'cause I've got a beat in my mind, I've got a time in my righteyelid, s'coming round close & you know I know you think this time's all wasted, can't find a story to tell less it sells itself to me, y'know out on the corner of 7th & 32nd avenue, over by the Sailor's department where all the drunk bards hang out, call themselves poets & thinkers & philosophers, say they got a good thing going, talking existential matters of matterless formations of pseudo-fauxity, what's a foe to me that can't be a friend inside a hankerdown-thin dream? Don't wkae up in an hour see another mind, kiss me good, see, & touch me fine--heed fine the song inside, beats low, thums harder, breath stippens, lust want love carnivore symphony sylabble creates wishes aligned, no matter the instance divide, & sees they themselves t'wards the coffeecups overjoyous to be drunk dreaming up: "Yes yes yes swirl me 'round your mouth, you want good time all night ALL NIGHT WE SAY ALL NIGHT why drink my streams create real good time, all night I SAY."

& y'know I know we know nobody can disagree after seven cups & can't even keep still through foggy mess-ruins the mind inside alive I'll how ever be, won't say a goddamn thing this yet for the life I know exists beyond their bordered windowsills thick & foggy, ruined by Christmas & repentin' by that Spring, that memory, new memory on the road to create, more careless hearts to break, more virginity's to take & recreational mornings to bake, more evenings to wake & take away the toilet from that gat damn telephone, boy, them's coffeehouse philosophers coming 'round here sometime soon, & gee baby, ain't I rambled on enough time for you?

Until next night when I think of a story to think, & see-through this untamed beast keeps me right the mind for writin' all-night 'till my life's end comes true. Cheers.

The Who?

Hi! Born in Cornwall, Canada, Jake moved to Savannah, Georgia for several years. There, he met a construction worker who helped him start his path as a writer. Afterwards, he traveled with some friends to Dayton, Ohio, where he learned the dizzying craftwork of the Beat Generation, particularly taking a liking to William S. Burroughs. While in Dayton, his ear's streets experienced his version of being home, once the sultry mind-distorting rhythms of John Zorn, Frank Zappa, and Tom Waits hit his ears.

But he couldn't live within the (expensive) art districts of Dayton any longer. Not knowing anybody else whom he could live with (not even an internet buddy, shucks), he decided to head back to Cornwall. But Canada tired him, so he made his way into Massena, N.Y. Roughly 10 minutes away, this provided him a place on the border, free to confuse the hell out of anybody who asks where he's from. Stalkers.

In his time, his infidelity to Bob Dylan, Richie Havens, Jack Kerouac, James Joyce, & Brian Wilson has caused his heart broken many times by women who couldn't understand his love for Ani Smith, Tori Amos, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Hunter S. Thompson's wife, Lori Kadriu, Shaye Bettine, Sam Peczek, and Julie Carr.

When not writing, Jake consumes the amount of coffee that, were he an alcoholic, he'd already be in his 7th year of AA with no end in sight. He argues that it helps with creativity, and challenges anybody that disagrees to a Chandelier Match, with Leonard Cohen and Jennifer Gentle playing in the background. 

Primarily an experimental prose-writer, he steadily practices traditional fiction & (the current definition of) poetry. Though not yet a formally (traditional) published author, his work can be seen at Writers' Bloc, The-Beat, Soundless (August '10), Sillymess, Heavy Hands Ink, Daily Love, ditch,, Asphodel Madness, Otoliths, amphibi.us, Seahorse Rodeo Review (Sep. '10), Ink, Sweat, & Tears, and he is highly esteemed to be included in the pages of Counterexample Poetics.

While proudly rejected thrice consecutive times by Word Riot, and ravishingly supported (but unacceptable) two times by Mobius, Jake would like to break third person and thank everybody that's accepted me into the world of their e-mags. It's a cold world outside, and sure to be, as Christmas comes 'round. Damn October. And I'm grateful to have been alive long enough to see such creative-orientated, freedom-minded presses rise up in the midst of a spiraling literature downfall. Chimes of Artists flashing, man.

The Rules of Anti Creative:

I don't advocate breaking the law by declaring Free Thought, nor do I support treason by invoking your right to Individualism. I do not condone the use of Creativity unless prescribed by a doctor. Nor do I encourage anybody to do Art & drive. I, also, do not advocate Insanity, Weirdness, Rebellion, or Going Against The Grain. I also hereby state that I have no ties to the Terrorist organization known as "Artists Who Make You Think Differently", & anybody that accuses me of such, with an unsubstantiated claim, is liable to be one of the first of those who will be gunned down during the artistic revolution. Finally, I also do not accept Knowledge, Curiosity, or Difference-Of-Achievement.

"What is clear and concise can't deal with reality, for to be real is to be surrounded by mystery." -- James Joyce


An Anti-Creative Rule of Life Means:
#. Opinions aren't worth having unless you get paid for them.
1. Don't listen to anybody that doesn't listen to The Smiths.
2. Keep a good head, & always carry a lightbulb.
3. Don't trust anybody who doesn't dig Bob Dylan.
4. Everything is funny.
%. The secret to writing: a fifth of scotch & pack of Camels.
5. Miserable people are even more funny.
6. It's fun making happy people miserable.
7. Think like the wing-span of a bird.
8. Contradict yourself: Contain multitudes.
9. Simplicity is over-rated.
10. Wanting to be understood is over-rated.
11. Be thankful you aren't a bird living in the Gulf of Mexico.
12. There are some arts that are not meant to be comprehensible.
1M. Assume everyone is putting you on.
14. Everyone is guilty until proven innocent.
pM. ALWAYS TIP THE WAITER/WAITRESS.
PM2. I'd rather be considered insane entertainer than be a boring simpleton.
19. Thinking about your conscience helps no one.
1F. Just because people like your stories, doesn't make you a good writer.
32. Things are symbols of themselves.
38. Economy of Words
49. Only emotion objectified endures.
54. What’s the face you had before you were born?
76. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
1. First Thought, Best Thought
25. You ever gonna stop being a statue?
1R. A million people can agree about something & still be wrong.
13. It's against the law to be creative.
14. It's cliche to advocate difference amongst individuality.
15. Anything black is over-rated & just, liek, SO uncool.
16. Being uncool isn't the new cool, & never will be.
1Z. Frank Zappa is your new religion.
23.
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
19. Accept loss forever
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
17. I'm not grumpy, you're just on my nerves.
18. Create rules of life at any given moment.
18. Beautiful people are the ugliest creatures on a giant zit.
19. Rambling is the essence of mutilating self-censorship.
20. Many people self-censor themselves.
21. Keep a good lightbulb & always carry a head.
22. What they taught you in English/writing classes is futile.
23. DO NOT WRITE FOR THE SAKE OF SOCIAL ACCEPTANCE.
25. I'd rather have my entrails burned than be accepted by people I do not respect.
26. I'd rather eat a pound of hamburgers before having my entrails burned than dying on an empty stomach.
27. Social-need for acceptance is over-rated.
29. Comprehension, Sensibility, Responsibility, & Entertainment are forms of breaking your spine.
65. Send anybody that doesn't like the Beach Boys to jail.

The Snake [Conversation]

friend: dude, wanna hear a story that my teacher told us in psychology today? it's so crazy
me: does a bird sing?
friend: so, she had a patient who was a complete meth addict. had all sorts of scars all over her and stuff. and one day, my teacher got a call from a doctor who said she wouldn't believe what happened... her patient was on their mom's driveway with a knife and a cut across her stomach. this patient thought there was a snake inside of her and she was pulling her intestines out. soooo creepy.
me: well it's good to know that even half-crazed, delusional, & completely high, she had the right frame of mind to save herself from the venemous creature.

Mother Alleyway

Mother Alleyway, can you hear me? The midnight guzzlers
are sleeping off work,
trying to survive eight kilometers of an oil spill.

I hope the ocean's versions of humans
enjoy fluids. "Desk-shovelers do." Newspapers say.

As tonight, am I abled by curiosity for the
older walkers groaning for a sleep of silence?

The testifying orchids apologize on their knees,
& a wind in the door breathes imaginary guilt:
"Yes," they howl, "I believe in Egypt."

You wouldn't think to check the license plates
of passing strangers, but rest-assured it's your identity.
As the oxycotin semaritans pass through Mother
Alleyway, unnoticed.

It's only a crime if you respect morality,
& there is no totality inside Mother Alleyway.

Everybody is either accepting opportunity
or drinking away the person they've come to be.

"Why'd you disrupt my slumber?" Old fossils recently discovered
uncover the wonders of new species of pre-breeding
humans scream. "I'm trying to forget how you've forgotten
me."

Maybe I'm one for patience, but I've a reservation-date
with the full moon. Maybe she'll help me
be as naked & as proud as her. Smiling for the fighting
ramblers pissing on her efforts to keep them awake.

Painters boast inside one of Bill Gate's mansions:
"Last call for hand-made Georgian businesses!"

As memory serves repetition,
any peasant with a smile is criminally insane.
Though we don't mind,
not when we're inside Mother Alleyway.