Unfunny Island

Late last night... possibily early this morning...

DMsqdMn17: I am an unfunny island.

YourSeaDreams: sad times
DMsqdMn17: Sad times indeed

YourSeaDreams: my soon to-be ex-boyfriend tells bad jokes
DMsqdMn17: Telling bad jokes is like being the Maytag repairman

YourSeaDreams: The phone just won't ring?
DMsqdMn17: No. You can't get laid.

Bad jokes are dated jokes. Maytag repairman? What was I thinking? That's like making a Nancy Pelosi joke to be 'topical and relevant'.

DMsqdMn17: You should make your boyfriend stay with. Use a combination of sweet talk and forceful threats and maybe a leash.
YourSeaDreams: ha i tried sweet talk. i tried threats. and ultimatums. so i guess i will need a leash
DMsqdMn17: Also, telling him you talked to me might help. Personally, speaking as a guy, I only seem to be able to articulate how much I want to be with people once they're no longer available
YourSeaDreams: i have many other secret boyfriends though. not just you

Hint. It's not her. Massive Narrative collusion just there though.
Why exactly am I talking to this girl?

DMsqdMn17: like 5? 7? How many guys are we talking about here?
YourSeaDreams: 13. but it's never enough.
YourSeaDreams: i have a problem. i like the chase too much
YourSeaDreams: it's sad.
DMsqdMn17: Sad times indeed
YourSeaDreams: the chase is sweeter than the actual fruit in your hands.
DMsqdMn17: The grass is always greener on the other side
YourSeaDreams: i guess. i'd like not to think so.

And now for something completely different...

DMsqdMn17: Hey, speaking of, um, things, did you know that it's been exactly 4 years since this day last year?
YourSeaDreams: wow that's deep
DMsqdMn17: Try not to think too much about it, it's late.
DMsqdMn17: Woah. It's not Wednesday anymore.
YourSeaDreams: its not even thurs anymore
DMsqdMn17: Shit. Well since I missed it, let's play a game. I just thought of a Game!
YourSeaDreams: late game day?
DMsqdMn17: OyayesK: Here are the rules:
DMsqdMn17: 1st: you say something you did today that was bad
DMsqdMn17: 2nd: you say something you did today that was good
DMsqdMn17: 3rd: winners are announced!
DMsqdMn17: Sound good?

HOKGOH!

YourSeaDreams: 1. i flirted with you
YourSeaDreams: 2. i gave my brother 50 bucks to buy headphones
YourSeaDreams: 3. you go.
DMsqdMn17: 1. I like a girl who is not available, and I've been trying to steal her away for myself
DMsqdMn17: 2. I wrote a sonnet!
DMsqdMn17: 3. You win. Well done. $50 grand prize. yay.
YourSeaDreams: wait. how did i win?
DMsqdMn17: I asked the judges: Dennis Mastman, David M. Wearsamask, and Donald Masqdmannerson. They agreed unanimously in your innate superiority. Congrats.
YourSeaDreams: wow. really? thanks
DMsqdMn17: Plus, it's kind of ironic that you were out fifty bucks and now you've won it back
YourSeaDreams: i enjoy irony.
YourSeaDreams: and you.
DMsqdMn17: *teehee* *blush*
YourSeaDreams: you're funny like a 13 year old prostitute
DMsqdMn17: um. Ouch. That's painful.
DMsqdMn17: the analogy. not the prostitute
YourSeaDreams: hey i know a lot of funny 13 years old prostitutes....
DMsqdMn17: like 5? or 7? 13? Do you know thirteen 13yr olds?
YourSeaDreams: yes. they're nearly of age
DMsqdMn17: I feel sick, a little bit, in my conscience.
YourSeaDreams: DON'T!
DMsqdMn17: Ha. You should be a doctor
DMsqdMn17: "Fuck medicine," she'll say, "I prevent maladies by just telling my patients not to get sick."
YourSeaDreams: ha ha ha

And you thought weekly game days weren't coming back to save me from the depths of my own dementia... yay!

YourSeaDreams: can i send you a poem about calligraphy?
DMsqdMn17: Oooh! wait wait, I just wrote about calligraphy today in my sonnet!
YourSeaDreams: weird
YourSeaDreams: last time i talked to you i mentioned a llama and you had written about a llama in a poem
DMsqdMn17: I write lots of poems, maybe
YourSeaDreams: weird.
DMsqdMn17: more poems than one should, about odd topics
DMsqdMn17: Oh, speaking of letters, here's some letters that (make me sad because) I wrote while I was gone, to fictionalized versions of real people, who I knew would never see them.
DMsqdMn17: http://damasquedman.livejournal.com/2007/10/25/
YourSeaDreams: wow. fictionalized versions of real people....also oddly deep (or it maybe because it's 230 in the morning)
DMsqdMn17: It's only 1:30 here. Is Shallow the appropriate opposite to Deep?
YourSeaDreams: yes depending on the context
DMsqdMn17: The Dry MaskedMan 2AM rhetorical martini context
YourSeaDreams: ha ha. then of course it does. you are a gem!

Later, but still early this morning…

YourSeaDreams: i think you should write me a jealousy-provoking letter, too
DMsqdMn17: I think, maybe I should go now
DMsqdMn17: neurons are startin' to misfire
YourSeaDreams: oh ok....sad!
DMsqdMn17: Sad times indeed

Unfunny Island-2

YourSeaDreams: i took a nap earlier today.
DMsqdMn17: Or, as they say down here: "La Siesta"
YourSeaDreams: i'm not mexican
DMsqdMn17: con linda sueños mexicanos, then
YourSeaDreams: I didn't know you spoke Spanish. Do you know anything else?
DMsqdMn17: Numbers. Foods. Some adjectives and basic nouns.
YourSeaDreams: I meant in Spanish.

Unfunny Island-3

YourSeaDreams: congratulations on surpassing 10,000 blog hits
DMsqdMn17: Thanks Margaret Atwood.
YourSeaDreams: you do know that my page has over 35k views?
DMsqdMn17: Shut up. You're a girl. With breasts.
DMsqdMn17: I'm an crudely drawn male cartoon character who writes- Often in words with more than 4 syllables. This is a big deal for me.
YourSeaDreams: i guess you're right.

YourSeaDreams: Thanks for noticing i have breasts
DMsqdMn17: I've been to your page like 34,999 times. It's hard not to notice.

Striplizard

"Return then to your stead.

with your heart in your hand and your gun rather loose in its holster"

          -A. G. Fathom

Soon it will be time to shed the bitter and jaded skin that I've adopted these last few months.
Soon it will be time to go get her.  I need her more than I want her.  Want is sempiternal.  Need is now.

Soon it will be time for more than just the same old case-ups in different towns on different days.
Soon I'll be wishing you were here, (though I would never ask you to come here). The weight of you on my mind will push me forward.  I'll go.

Soon I'll go.

The suntides and turpitudes and
For'convenience'Sake laidback luxury
merely serve for each man to seek his own elevation.
Each dodging the bullet of their own emptiness.

The world has ostracized me.  I'm from back east, born and bred, but its not home.  No one there, temerariously talking to myself.  And the low-rent palmtree'd west is fine, but it's not mine. 

My home is not where I live, and I don't live in my home. 

Lost between two shores.

Consumed by fire. I can't even tell why I'm lost, but it may be because I can hardly remember your face.

Put on your healing clothes and let me press up to your neck.
Wrap myself in your sensations.
The smell of your cheek, taste of your tightmossy kisses,
wavy brush of hair, the taut skin across your torso.
Man is a lecherous animal.

Without you I am empty.  Soon I'll go.

Hate marginalized people.

If you don't have anything nice to say don't say nuthin' at all. Right?

Well I'm too vain and distracted for silence.  I get really lonely and the distance nourishes silence where I imagine you smiling with desire in your eyes. 

Soon it will be time to actualize all these fantasies, I sigh.

Are you really sure that you'd be ok with me?
I lie.  Behind my masks you might despise my predictabilities.
Toothpaste tubes left open on the counter.  Snores and smells.
I wonder how long it would take before I fail to satisfy you.
Before I shed this moping façade of Can't'have'You
and discover behind it more quivering sentimental sap.
Like earthquakes our continental problems put on a shelf
until they create mountains and rupture, escalating into inevitable division.

Soon it will be time to admit there's someone better for you.  Soon I may really try— and really fail. 
Soon I'll ask you to choose me (though I would never ask you to choose me).  Everything to gain, and everything to lose.  Stop crisscrossing the country and settle in for a nice long haul.
 
Soon the waiting will be too much and I'll do it.  I'll do it.  Arrest this wanderlust and admit where she is I want to be.  Freedom is a prison, and I'm suspended between countless neon roadside bars, drinking away the months, dreaming of coming to rest, to a home, to her.

Off the Deep End

3
Here I am epical, thinking again about things.
I'm sick of playing games. The skyline is dotted with magpies; When will it rain? Doug wrote me a letter and Julie's mom got her a job as a waitress.

Rambunctious Juvenescence:
Sometimes I think the only fragment of my carefree youth that will remain is my frazzle just-out-of bed hair subtly taunting me in the morning mirror. I used to fucking jostle all the pretty girls passing by in the stiff erection sidewalks of this town, and these days I see their long legs and plastic parts jingle off into the same screw-it-up patterned horizons that I fall burning into time-and-timeagain.
Not even worth opening my mouth.

"Hey baby! You wanna come back to my sexpad and play some strip twister?"
It was pretty romantic. Not like that time I screwed the Bernstein girl in the back of my dad's pickup, or like the orgy scene from Big Knockers 3, but still, it was rather moving. In my mind.
I don't even laugh at the jokes I made a year ago.
Who was that Masked Man?

4
rufescence
A kind of scorched earth vision unfolds through the streets, sewer wash, and local haunts.
The magpie is an inveterate collector, hoarding bits of harsh juxtapositions that are both exquisite & bizarre. Everyone else talks the talk and I only write it all down. Naked truths roaming the dreamy high school hallways. Where your bitch treats you like shit but your boys never fail.

Read me like a book. Unfaithful as you like, the author must never, ever let down his audience. Expectant eyes. Or unexpectant:
Letter from Doug the scientist, empirical in the estaminet. His fiancé left him. Raffish, resigned, rueful, and sad. I remember his face untouched by characteristics, utterly bland and unready for anything.

5
Unrepentant. "All the women let us down" he writes "in the end, the Old Boys Network rises intact once again, as I write to you […] When will you be back in town? So much had changed, was about to change, and then, nothing changes." Nothing Changes. Why learn anything? He doesn't even know who he is any more.

I know who I am.
Do you know who you are?

8
lolred
DMM, his identity a sublime weave of apothegms. Smoking too many cigarettes, drinking too much, the gang in me all drowning unaware in pool water and polo. Why play games? Why collect new experiences when the past fills out all the fittings?
The walls fire portrait rounds, havoc dances its fluty aspects all over my conscience, eyes splash into me from the high dive, love snaps my synapses and I laugh until I cry.

Empti nest

dreamed my mother called me 'dissipating'

"as in, disappearing?" asked my dad over oat bran and bananas.

as in exist on the margins. the subject of their admiration but not their friendship. unknown and adored

"i adore you" says my mom to my dad

"i endure you too."

"how endearing" i mutter and shuffle back to bed. lovebirds sharing jokes and breakfast at the dinner table. am i only a remnant of something that's passed?

dreamed my face was old and wrinkled. little children squeezing past me in a church pew and oh how the winds did blow

Malaise can, Still Matter

I woke up in your basement still wearing my clothes. All those conventional delusions of the romantic blitz immediately sunk-nailed & grounded by the disappointment of hearing your mother's loud footfalls on the kitchen floor above my head. Immediately, the disturbing dimensions of your life, the speed of our constantly overpassed and passing burdens, looms inescapable. 9 AM. Dreams of the college sweetheart, the flirtatious man-eating friend, and I all parsimoniously concealing strength in layers I never knew I had. How many pockets are in this hoodie?
The past has died. The future has yet to arrive. Until you come down the stairs to say good morning. We are in limbo.

Zogma: Repeating an idea using different words.
Fractals: if you take out any little portion of the whole, you would see the whole pattern repeating itself again and again, and again.

All these little micro-text blurbs in my blog are connected, I assure you. Writing about lumberjacks, sex and text messages… I may seem crazy. It's just the polarity shift of my priorities to mostly emotional concerns. Every love song on the radio seems to apply directly to me. I see objects, dislodged from their contexts, like the heart in an Aztec sacrifice, or the slow distillation of elements in a superfluid matter-of-vat...

The Greeks Explain it Better

At the beginning of time, human beings were spherical balls of contented delight,
rolling around in ecstatic harmony, a potent ball pit of life.
Then the gods cut them into two- into males & females.
Now we are condemned to spend our lives seeking our other half.

For those of you who don't know, I've been on the road for a month now. From the handsome charisma of slushy trammeled Boston, to the logorrheic settlements of New Jersey elite bars. The mad road of promise westward. Across lolling moral bluegrass Appalachia, the factory salt night of the dinsome Cuyahoga river valley, car rides with Midwest girls obsessed with Regina Spektor, ignoble Greyhound grit and time warp Amtrak train conductors striding down the aisles of dim-light station-stop America. All gas guzzling and conveniences. Fields screaming to grow the new cash crop, condominiums, rising out in vine like tar twists of road. Can't wait to spring, every cable and conformed corner holding another McShopping Mall. Highway homogeneity seeming to squash me the huddled and invisible insect in the car, through the plane window, trying to find something. Grasping and yearning my way to the end of the angled earth pacific, or the girl.

"We are all pawns in a game whose forces we largely fail to comprehend"
- Dan Ariely

I woke up in grungy Arizona this morning. Wearing your hair from Sunday on my sweater and staring up at the raw desert sky blowing inconsistent messages around that made me feel like a total disgrace.
Last night I avoided writing any of this, or any of the other little stories I accumulated this weekend, but I was able to chat with the old online crowd and it somehow turned into one of those long winded high school phone conversations about the acuity of feelings and the general malaise of bearing the brunt of your baggage while starting in with someone new.

Someone knew.

Zogma: Repeating an idea using different words.

I should have said the right words the first time and avoided all this aftermath.

Stepping into that cavernous setup, one falls further into the vicissitudes of its frail pillared foundation, and the coursing intaglio repercussions that result from such a risky endeavor.

But it would have been worth it.

There's a lyric that I hate,
but I could never put my finger on WHY:

"Fear is the heart of love…"

- Death Cab

Fear isn't the heart of love.

At the heart of love is a desire for oneness. Maybe if we'd talked about it. "We have so much in common," I would have said, and she'd agree.
"Yes, yes, we are like mirrors coaxing out the best possible reflections from each other," she would say. (You're always spouting out such adroit little poetries.) "Let's buy a house. Let's buy a kid. Let's buy our dreams and by our love buy ourselves a life..."
But we couldn't buy the time, and by the time I figure it all out I see that we could have made it work if we'd simply put our heads together where our hearts had laid the way.
It's not about fear. The elusive otherness of fear may play a twin role to the totemic core of two lovers' shared outlook and unification. But it's not about fear.

The voice low and keening, land lying lower beneath the black infinity of night.
This is a story about things that don't turn out just right.

It is a dance of self-restraint, a stoic twist of desire and self-mastery. That's the toll love demands. It's tolerance, and patience and pain, and when you face up to these hurdles you Rise equal to the pleasure that intimacy affords.

I woke up this morning and it seemed, again I'd dreamed of you but you were gone, and going. We both kept going.

I woke up this morning and packed my things and decided to keep going.

White Matter Text Messages

Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep
-Stephen Crane

Now comes the insight. The bitter mordant truth gaining purchase against the vague threats and treats we keep zipped in our pants.

Or should. So I'm--- and going ---- and she has------ and then, uh--- yeah but it's like--- you know? Oh,

Every word I have to say comes out in a kiss or a whisper

WE USE WORDS AT THIS TABLE, SON

Now I'm wide awake. A mosaic of characters and motives. Warm wet temperatures. Smoke musky smells. The colours of the forest. The many and the damned. A boy for a hero, his discordant song falling like brittle leaves on unsuspecting ---autumn headscarves. Um... The wind and the rain. The sounds in the interim.

"I've already heard of that band."

Ambiguity for breakfast. Soft cotton grinding, an illicit pink-lettered and edible passion, for dinner. Cut it down.

Now comes the---time to cut it down.
Don't be dumb. Don't use the word 'things' when you mean 'qualities about her you love'. Recall the album covers, through a forested landscape of sentimental tectonics and memory tree demographics.

I won't be much when you get through with me.

Now comes the night. Filling up your head with dreamdrops in a sea of torment. Repitition is not torture, but torture is repitition. Disparate units of belief in the somber stretches till dawn, burning blood and "avarice"

I dont know what ur talking about she texts at 4am, and you dont understand what im saying neither.

Censorship doesn't colour my mind like it does these signature melancholy blasts. Brimming with spunk and irresolution. Here's a poem:

Listen to the pretty song beneath the
good job sun,
all the twisted sister trees
disapearing into naked reaching skyward ambition
elm dreams unrealized
Cut Down
need from desire
and you're left with truth
simple, unbending
like the light of the lost latent star
beneath the beat of the one or the
other pretty great song

Now there is a fight, and now another. The silence of candescence, a girl who speaks in a system of such silences and is free of needing any other systems. "You bring it all back down to noise, or the stillness of the abyss" she whispers striding past your ear, a slipstream.

And also-- not.

You've got trouble, is your curse. The trouble consists of pounding around the heavy punches. Those uppercut bombs that start with the letter--- L. A phalanx of fierce ugly squat-faced fat men from backwoods heritages holding strong to the ax-wielding tradition.

That wet sea between your thighs and the things you do. Gibberishes "that don't translate". Anything from your mind and also --- not. Cut down.

Now is when you ask the question and I tell you.

Kocham cie

Fracture the time
One breath at a time
and plenty of unbelievable little kisses

Frozen noses, frozen fingers, frozen landscape, neutral as snow, just outside the window. At the end of an endless blue night, there is hot air coming from the vent directly above this computer station desk and I’m feeling the heat.
High school physics: The correlation of pressure and heat.

So I know who that boy is now.

Cynicism is dead. I just want to lie with my family.

HER SCREEN NAME: Is that like how you dont want to kiss me?

Horizontal fallacies. Like fallen leaves, lives, the graveyard shifts of eternity staring up at the corrugated ceiling thinking intrusive, obsessive thoughts augmented by whatever. Or Ephemeral Oblivion.

Get out of my dream.
Wounded animal. Just let me die.

The architecture of our snowy past, built like an avalanche.
When I’m with her, time fractures. The days linger into nights and the nights all look like midday and our fingers touch. Retract. Edit. Explain: Can you steal something that’s already been taken?
A warning in whispers,
I’m really. Afraid. Of. Winning this one.

“Our team can deal with loss,” said the coach from the front seat of the bus as the team slumped defeated at the rear, “but what do we do if we win?”

That’s how I feel.

And plus, remember the Unlikelihood of Relationships in the First Place.
If They can find a piece of Gods peace, who am I to ruin that? What do I have that’s better? What can I offer? You suck.

You might not know this, but
Tears stain the mask.
Feelings.
Fell the façade.

Look in my eyes. That black cloudy sky, surfeit with hailstorms groaning for you.
I can't love way off the deep end by rote. Its cold and the effort of walking into rows of empty photo albums that I want to fill with our life, is trying.
It’s trying.

Maybe it’s just about trying

Maybe it’s trying.
Maybe, it’s trying...

Shakespeare's Bitch

...
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her...

All This Light Blues

While we're on the subject of 'Talk about our Feelings'... wait, what?

Poets have many mothers
Birds calling nestled tongues to fly
By Clicks and Degrees

The elements and the listless wind hovers
my glass rises involuntarily
To Things in the Dark Seas

But Euphonious songs awaken Aretas
from his sacrosanct noon nap, wildly
heaping urgent contempt to "Catch Me"

The old acid call intravenus
here grief translates assertively
Defiance reflecting the Kingly face Annihilation sees

Enter the fray dripping ardor
See how good men at a fearful call turn evil
Our fathers, all, move in to End Scene

Humanists debate the innate
goodness of man. I want to talk
about how normal
people in a corner rip
up Cartesian dualism and Fight
for Life
unto Death.

Boy, why are you crying

she asked and I watched my shadow fly out the open window.
Fry, out the open window, eggs, bacon, gradual obscurity securing me a place, out there, second star to the right and straight on till mourning. Cards of sympathy, long ago prepared.  Peter Pan's obituary, just waiting in a Newspaperman's bureau until the day he grows up and croaks instead of crows.

We Lost Boys, a generation of hucksters and hookers of the Gaming Night,
Generation WhoCares, raffish imprecators, frisky ambiance and masks
standing in a line, an inchoate mass of beer bellies and Wii masters,
"The only person around here who's
never seen their shadow step forward," announces Pan.
Only the sun and I remain motionless
Numb in solitude, unpublished, unread.

Gone, gone, snow drifts on a praire pond
Little bursts of pleasure and I don't want to go back there. 
Wrapped in a mantle of disconnect and discontent. 
I mark the monument to my own magnificent malaise. MMmm.

So much of life in the world is waiting,
the ghosts of lost energies haunt me into smoldering bonfires of lethargy and I dream loudly,
with so much noise and smoke and rising calamity that it clouds [our] sleepy vision.

Bonfire of the Manatees.

"i need to invest in some sleeping pills. or learn how to shut my brain off. or hear from you."

-[sh]e

The Devil in the hills.  Profligacy and dissafecction playing Card
invites & symphonies.  Conductor flailing, failing ego, shadow dancers of the No Can Do selfsame night.

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.  Only what's left.  That's right.

Jesus came over and we went to the store to buy stuff for dinner. 
"These apples are delicious..."he said.

And now the world is gone and my soul with it.  You're gone, too.  The suspended, meditative moments of excess captured and slipped away.
Artifice restored with boozy virtuosity.  My words do little justice to true emotion.

Algebra is a noun that means "the reunion of broken parts".
That X is now deceiving Y with Z

- Howard Nemerov
sort of. except for. never mind. circles circles circles, and circles.