Overseas and far away from the rooted Cult of Los Angeles, but her attractive power is strong and has such a strong hold on my guts, thoughts and the like. We are in Juliaca, Peru and it is a dynamic place, but entirely foreign to the Cult of Los Angeles... I hear her moan for me, my warmth, my love for her sand and palms- those palms that stroke and choke the sensitive and soft places. That salt water that cools her coasts, where life crawled from the depths of the sea... And now, that is where I crawl back in hopes of finding god, me and the answers now frozen in secrecy. I will seduce the code from the void or I will crush it...

Alas, the devil's revenge is hence...

...End of the American Rainbow

California, end of the American rainbow and where the Cult hunts for treasure. That treasure can be measured in hot flesh, dollars, carats, power, adventure. These are the orbits most of us are pulled, willingly through, spun and bludgeoned by the by. It's ok because Mom and Dad prepared me, history and human psychology has prepared me. Thirty-five plus years of running and falling and lifting and pushing has build a ferocious entitlement. The Universe abides in the Cult of Los Angeles as do I. And together, we sing her song, sad like Coltrane, Chan Marshall, Mazzy Star...sad like the atom bomb and parents of hurt children and broken hearts. But, there is a joy and it is powerful, the counterpoint to our collective suffering. And it has enough heat and cheer to bring the World to boil.

I'll follow the way of the songbirds, the love birds, birds of prey and birds of paradise. Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad. I am Immortal, Full of Joy, and Wield an All Holy Fervor... in the Cult of Los Angeles!

I Am Immortal

Far away from Los Angeles, but the Cult still abides and crackles with the hot sparks and stars it produces and consumes... Far away from the lights and action, the delicious sensations and numbnesses alike... I sit in a hotel room in Peru doing my damndest to sublimate time to wealth. I'll be sure to let you know if that happens and how. For now, I will creep, belly low and inching along the bottomed plane, toward the light, toward the shade- the Western night with ornate glades.

Thank-you Mom. Thank-you Dad. I am immortal! I am immortal!

Valkyries and Violins

I come on the backs of Valkyries and Violins- fierce beasts of flight and wrath- superstrings of yesterday and tomorrow, of a love that shall not ever cease... Thank-you Mom!

The test of life is everyday. I test this feature of context and of my words and writings... Work, work, work...

the calm of fuckery...

drunk off of pressure and stress until the calm of fuckery sweats through an emotional pituitary...

i'm growing fatigued with this road and the buzz of nervous anxiety constantly pressing the flesh, this flesh of the World of mine- this brown organ, porous and vascular,

i love thee... protect me from the outside, it's chill and chaos. my mom and dad wove this skin of reality of the World and mine- this crowned lord, for us, for ever more...

"Can you shove a button, just one?"

What's really going on? There are so many arguments, so many answer-less questions and problems without solutions. These are also the fundamental results of a mystery that is integral to the fabric of culture, reality, life and living and Los Angeles and her cult... We are the chaos that must wind some dynamic menagerie from the richness inherent in our hearts.

We riot when we celebrate life, death and victory in World Championships... oh yeah, the occasional injustice. Because of this, suckers watch their asses, pigs watch their ass, but the Cult must also cover six of the clock while shoving the button in Los Angeles.

her party architecture...

She is the sweetest mother, not necessarily soft, but tender and rich and electric- yes a nourishing motherly, nevertheless reluctant mistress. This was in her nature, her party architecture and therefor rang innocent and unflinchingly justified.

She is the constant source and center of down and dope, her betwixt a beckon that guides me straight and true back to her moisture and bite…

She is the Cult of Los Angeles… my sword, steez and salvation is readied hence…

I was born with a silver clock in my mouth; it was lemony with a metallic after taste and after thirty-five years being parenthesized in this brain and body I still cherish its languid tick and tock, the calm onomatopoeia of its measure. That clock still beats inside of middle-aged flesh. As a youth my appreciation for "the taking of one's own time" became a part of my identity and it also fetched me a despised nickname- an aspersion if you would have asked me then or now. One particular day care provider, Mama Two (my mother named her that so that I would "see" and "respect" her as if she were my mother also or mother number two) would get frustrated and seemingly overwhelmed at my leisurely pace and would show her impatience with me by yelling at me to hurry and calling me "slowpoke". That designation was (and still would be) anathema to me. During those early, formative years I first remember experiencing intense dislike when I heard her exclaim those words at me, trying to motivate my pace with names and such...Slowpoke! would make a four year old's skin crawl...But deep down, it was a treasure of time and I felt as though, from even that early age, that I was a millionaire of time. I measure it now as currency, illusory, but substantial- dust mixed with a heightened perception by a population gives that currency gravitas...

Testing. Testes. Tustin, MD

Tanesha Buttercup

She looks like brand new money today and makes me feel the way new hundreds do in my hand, when the fresh currency cuts while it's meter is molested and kneaded by hungry, but knowledgeable hands...her skin seems sewn of children's smiles for miles and miles...When the sun hits her flesh with a maestro's touch, a lover can hear child's laughter such, her moan increase to reddened skin and i am crushed between "win win".

sweet water, flower child

her sad face reflects the pull of gravity,
approximately 9.8 meters per second per second...

at first sight, a slight rapture, those definition of sad eyes and circumstance
seduced the inchoate youth and inculcated a love of the dark, exotic, damaged...

i still, after these man years of awkward introduction, bow the flesh and head to the dirt in and of delight for the memory of her war burdened moisture and vim and vigor. all the weight of my bleeding and breathing sadness will be a sacrifice to you... sweet water, flower child...

teeth lengthen...

a mercenary before he cuts his mask and is humbled by civility and survival for awhile... a rare look just before the sabertooth is devolved into it's more city suited pussycat, a prince of cats nevertheless minus the whiskers, but the image remains frozen in digital honey...like his skin underneath the ink and north of cell and sanguine border...

the mercenary can hold his breath for months, up to a year or more! if need be. he kneads the void and breathed a mission...just some small realities need be machined to fit.

he's on his way...a title fight in the jungle. teeth lengthen...

a thousand miles sharp eyes to see,
your smiling eyes/infinity-
the only mission and sole currency-

life is that cocained electric and that Superbeast is Me.

Octopus of the Burning Bush

I think about you everyday, squared.
as a matter of fact, I'm settling inside a thousand, round and robust lust, a myriadelight of recollections of you right now as I write these very words, a code of that code writ love- ya, settling inside like soot inside the calm rapture you sublimate from my desperation...

I wanna come
I wanna comme inside
I wanna commme inside again and aagain aand aaagain...

You, like some unnecessary chatter,
go on and on and then some...

Octopus of the Burning Bush.

Again in the innocent grope

As winter shears it's glacial grip from the emotions, fashion and general "esprit de esprit" (I just made this phrase up. It is supposed to mean the essence of something or something's general demeanor) of the Cult of Los Angeles begins to melt and flex and hum...Again, I find myself in the innocent grope of the fresh and fond. And she is such a package of sweet salt and bathwater...

It's funny when you find yourself in an awkward situation that you know you must navigate through at some point. And that point is now. It's not really funny either, it's just that I laugh because I feel compelled to for the sake of some catharsis.I guess I'll just put my head down and weather the blows, hopefully all kinds will be dealt my way. I'll take the bad with the wet for sure...

Still pushing and still being punished in the city. Angels are not always sweethearts. Sometimes their role is to be "jacker". ...

Los Angeles music. Ya, it's a venue on Hollywood and Cherokee. Mixing with the cult...like mayonnaise...

Life is that cocained electric and that Superbeast is me.

Its a sickness this obsession.

"They don't need that shit as much as I want it." Cult of Los Angeles

Test. Test. Test.

joy among the creep...

Ya, pretty much doing the same thing at the same time...i'm like an addict of experience. there is so much joy in this story, joy among the take and creep...joy and love in the lurk and attention and agelessness. my tastes ferment as i grow deeper through the never, and i put my own self on high.

the older i get the faster i get old, relishing every long second, myriad untold...

Los Angeles is a stomach.

Everyday the curse of everyday and the blessings thereof...Los Angeles is like a stomach turned inside out with some parts of the lining polished and some awash in digestive fluids. Life is collected and created here. This is a place of conception, corruption, creation and production. This is the city wherein I live and love.

I should maximize every moment I have in this city, this living mass of women, men, buildings and history, past and future, the textured alive and the vast and sheer. There is enough palpable and dynamic energetic to continue the bloated collection forward through the illusion. I hope so. I continue to love it so. But a wanderlust remains with the cult of L.A. home.

Everyday in this city I waste and I use completely, I live a little, die a little= integrate with the cult until disintegration into it.

"We'll all be bagmen and messiahs before the dots connect the swarm."

strangely satisfying bedfellow...

I've had an enduring and long-term relationship with failure, a mostly loyal, but strangely satisfying bedfellow. This is not a sad thing or even a self-deprecating thing, but, alas (I can justify a little melancholy), a truism that I can easily identify and analyze an overt arch of it at different points in my life. This recent discovery is so interesting to me as I guess any spark of self-knowledge previously unknown would be. Who would've thought failure would be a good thing? a cool thing even? As I even now tread water in an ever widening ocean of failure: first I'm bouyed by the few and far between victories that do happen and second I'd better be developing an ever toughening, ever-adapting constitution which is pretty important for survival and mastery. So I guess it is essential, failure that is, well at least for me. If I've mastered anything then I've mastered failure and if I've mastered it then there are no limits...

one long dread

Yeah, well, 2011, the lady that she is, is, at best, teasing the last amount of 'I'm not even sure what yet' out of my system. These days are becoming one long dread of constant waiting, readying- as if I'm on the brink of something next, but won't fall. It's going to take a push, the expenditure of a shock of energy...

a rounding pucker

Coaxing 2011 to open her legs... I've spied a light in her eyes and a rounding pucker developing on her lips.

plantation of the page...

I've recently learned that "waiting by the phone for it to ring", for whatever result, goal, or prize expected, is a futile and folly filled endeavor. First, if the bloody thing is going to ring, then it is going to ring regardless of the intensity of desire or discipline of patience by the anxious consciousness involved; mine in this case. Me waiting on this other side of the equation is both the least powerful and admittedly important variable acting on the whole of the action. There are a great number of interconnected values over vast distances and in this case, time, that comprise an unknowable machination of chaos and gravity and information. Which, to say, means that the awaiting consciousness is, quite literally, the last to know. It's only job is to realize and then be happy or otherwise.

I do want to know if I'm heading into the mouth of adventure and shortly if possible. If not, fine, I'll fill the arbitrary metric of time with myriadelights!, writing and bobbing for chunks of pure creation, white hot and molten from the pregnant World and onto the "plantation of the page and ink".

onomatopeia...prostitution...(and) More on this later...

I don't know if I've ever disliked a job more than I do the one I just quit a couple of weeks ago. What brings the bile to the back of my throat about this job today, at the Hotel Shmotel Shangri-La in lovely Santa Monica, California, is that as much as I disdain working there, tonight will be the second time I've worked there since quitting and I will be working an event tomorrow night (Saturday). Now why in the world did I agree to work there this second and third time if I hate the spot so much? Alas, poverty and near desperation can make a man do things he would not normally do in his right mind. So, I guess I am operating out of a wrong mind or maybe a "wronged" mind. Which one do I think? Like most things, it is probably a little mixture of both of those conditions. Regardless, the dull pain begins to creep up and down the complex lattice-work of emotions that I now begin to mine in hopes of controlling the fear and discomfort that assaults my vulnerabilities. Uggghhh. Yes, onomatopoeia is necessary to adequately describe what that sour in my belly feels like...nasty, but I have to be thankful for the chance to churn hours to duckets- the metaphysics of temporal prostitution... More on this later...

a glimmering, shabby past

“I’ll whistle when I get my motorcycle. Do you know how to whistle? So, just take your lips from the sweet of the thistle and blow.” She liked that. Her joy, as it is derived from me especially, is my junk, my hyberbolic fix, perhaps. She wrote back, “Sing for me baby.” So I got my little fix, for the day at least, my few and far between fix, like starlight, that upon experiencing it’s light oceans of time have elapsed. True sacrifice. I take my breaths, truly, between those fixes and that is my sacrifice to how deeply enraptured I was, with the World when I looked into her eyes, when I kissed deeply her breath and lips, when we sank in deep congress. I’m still building that custom motorcycle, one dream, one dollar, one bolt, every moment at it’s own time…Maybe that’s the lesson in all of this. Maybe I’m a sucker for a passionate pocket of the past and never recovered from impressions made. Whatever. She still makes my heart beat fast…and like that on and on of my lasting pump, I, the host must move and negotiate and engage the obstruction, the monstrous unknown, the dark beyond in those eyes… Whatever curb or lovely bump, whatever the tender risk produces, I’m down…

crazy mother fucker/ me

Before my sister went to bed earlier, I told her that I'm worried about the constant quantity of anger that has been settled in my heart for what seems like a long time. I told her that oftentimes I feel the urge to "smash motherfuckers' skulls and shit". It didn't sound funny nor was I attempting to inject any humor in the sentiment. I was serious and not sensitive about these strange feelings. Usually when I am feeling extremely vulnerable, be it angry or otherwise, I have the urge to weep. During the conversation's elapse I never once felt the urge for catharsis, I never felt anything but straight forward violence, carefully explaining itself to a particularly beloved and trusted kin. My careful sort of madness got it's message out as clearly as it could have. I do not, of course, think I am crazy, but honestly, what authority does anyone have to really mean that. I will continue to function and write because that is what writers do. Holding on to fresh and cool with this digital function and phalanx, even if I swallow my tongue, the words, rainbows of cum and kisses, will still come. A thousand thousand kisses before that day for sure...too many things to do with my tongue before it's sacrifice. It should be sparred for the sake of...a thousand sighs.

on and on...

The hardest thing in the world is trying to force an idea- to force anything for that matter. The Easy Breezy is the creation conjugal bed...I'd invite a couple of lightning quick wisps/nymphs into that gravity down, soft thrust, breakneck...I'm beginning to fall in love again with myself, language, words, their "glue". It reminds me of girlfriends and the beginning of togetherness and summer, warm bellies and wet kisses before pressure, coolness, agenda. She wants me to kiss her. I feel it in my heart. I take the story by the hips, open hands that press, her head swoons about and down...

And even though we always want everything to be perfect with her that is not reality nor could it be. There must be a balance with the force of that passion and energetic. Well, back to the creation machine, these funny television shows of mine, these short stories and on and on...

like Christ's first week...

this one is turning out to be a productive one for everyone, especially the future.And like Christ, I, to am proud of my pure creation. Yes, the future is going to be in love with what is begun this week. So the writer marches on and a brutal march it is. The mission is product and continuance, word count, world and universe and situation construction and destruction. That is the name of the writer's game- consumption then creation within a context structured of that reconstituted goo's stuff. So let's just say pretty much infinite within parenthesis. There is a lot of the DNA of the writer in his writing. This is more obvious than it is, necessarily. I am now at a place in my life where I have the ability to change those traits/behaviors about myself that I may find undesirable. And if I do not make this effort and succeed, then I am a failure again and again until I settle and suffer shall the World. As is the life of the writer. I take my burden very seriously to uplift the World by the force of my language equations and the dynamics and situations they involve. Here, we won again!

the sake of tomorrow...

And three days, das, das-like meaning German-like like German engineering, quality and built to last. So I continue the links, everyday in this chain. Gaining and building upon an anxious momentum as we turn some scheduled corners while preparing for the Haiti mission. Counting down the days to the role of dice, the role of a lifetime and the risk of a lightning strike, roulette and revolvers...I am the most keenly aware of the inherent tenuous nature of these contracts, explosive and blade riven. But this one...and let's pray for war are our mantras. But if this voodoo doesn't present itself, then I will hurl myself headlong into the television production and fiction writing mode. A mercenary or a writer/t.v. wannabee. So funny the seemingly random directions our lives go in. Remember Plinko on "The Price Is Right"? Now matter where you placed the disk on top of the platform, some flailing gravity would drag it down a new circuitous route, unknowable by human or machine calculation. Each second, each moment new is a miracle of chaos and energetic dynamism. And the wonderful audacity of the human consciousness to consume and organise and divert oceans of information into normal reality , albeit dazzling, but minus the good drugs, frighteningly normal...On this third day of the new year (such another wonderful arbitrary point of concern) I forge onward into the crispy void and wade toward my destiny. I'm praying for war and writing for the sake of tomorrow...

02 Jan 2011 Part 2

Yeah, I guess if I open the page on one day, but do not post it until the next, then the date displayed on the post will be the day it is opened. Not too interesting, but noted and proof of continuity is revealed. At the Lounge, the LBC on La Brea, with my friends and alone...I come here for myriad reasons...a bunch of them have to do with things I've resolved to correct about the self, that abstract, strange thing. Anyway, here is the opportunity for passion and exactness in the changing horizon.

Yes, the Wild.

02 Jan 2011

The second is the real first of the new year mythology because it is the first real day of work. For the hopeful souls that resolve and will to make the new year their bitch, the second of january starts the long honeymoon of heavy lifting associated with changing some precarious behavior about oneself or improving some lagging aspect of one's life. Be it going on a diet or more generally living healthier, reading and writing more (my personal one), or being less apologetic and more focused on the moment or whatever else the ego can come up with to slake it's fantastic thirst for more, for the vanity fair ongoing- today is the day where one actually feels the pull of resolve. If it's cigarettes, then you want them really, really badly today and if you're going to fail like a champion, then you're already lighting up (or already have). And if your vice is drinking, then prepare for a hanging over sometime by the time you wake up tomorrow. For me, I'm trying to keep up with my web log this year, so here is my attempt, my second one at continuity. Yes, it was the beginning of the heavy lifting for me, but I'm enjoying the gravity, the weight and the expenditure...

01 January 2011

Let's start the new year off with a start! a small, but symbolic movement. Everyday a start to revel in the passion of creation and language and their betwixt!