This is a symbolic infection, trust me.
Your systems are fine, the mind is the rotting corpse of your initial fears and assumptions.
Fantasy is not delusional, it is this mad clinging and clawing at reality that is the sickness.
You do not exist except in the fallacy of culture, capital C.
A body is done, not had. A fire can spark good but burn bad.
We accuse each other of not doing enough, but can anybody ever do enough for anyone or anything?
It is the resistance to arbitrary closures that has our minds in the bear trap of bare life.
We all stand in the foyers of death, ready to check in at any time,
So why slash each other’s throats for one more drop of delicious plasma when there are pools of it in heaven?
Fact or fiction is not the question here, for both are imaginary.
It is these titles that require close reading and deconstruction.

Wildly uninspired, tired, but not exhausted.
Had something once, but lost it.
Tossed it in the trash, unwanted.
Not sure what it was but its spirit stays, now I’m haunted.
Lately, precipitating meaning
Is like rubbing lamps and waiting for the genie.
Constantly qualifying concepts
Makes me feel like I’m doing drugs I’m not even on yet.
Any feeling of the concrete
Slips through my fingers like water, to hold it is beyond me.
These provisional existences dovetail like carpentry,
Maybe if a few more do that, then I’ll start to see
A pattern making actual sense
Instead of phantasms I consistently invent.
Life as ‘life’ does not exist, there is no single human,
Only organisms constantly producing and consuming
The waste of the other, of the other.
If we decide there is any single way to be human then
We unconsciously decide there are many ways to be inhuman,
And that just does not sit for some.
Sat in my office, this sarcophagal space, this coffin of time and place,
And furiously worked in a fervor to replace
The dead inside me.
Their desires are heavily in contempt of my own,
But the dead are also my own,
So who gets to call this new body their home?
This fabric has a complicated texture,
Wrapping all around a madness full of ill conjecture.
It is not we who are uncertain, it is the uncertainty of language built directly into our deepest methods of
Expressing desire.
Grab these instances and energize them, open them to critique, and explode with counterattack.

A camera fixates on your soul and catches machinations it did not predict.
You should have stopped the director before he started selling tix
But now those frames of indignation are an Oscar-winning flick
And all you had to do was dodge the frame, avoid the pic, but you slipped,
Now you’re grounded in a cage and wings are clipped.
No shit.

How many people stream in the streets screaming, “there’s a first time for everything!”
Yet they never trip lysergic, never lay with those equal parts man and and woman,
Never crack knowledge over radiant losses in entropy? Swine! Unkempt beasts unfit for literary representation, Let alone a spot in top honours of rock-solid idols halting mountaintops from massacring the falling refractions of a blue sky!
What version of authenticity slips by their censors? What odors and visions slip by their sensors?
What wretched plights on humanity’s backside walk crestfallen in their gluteal shadow?
It is they who cause diamond degradation into granite,
And leave a hollow mass in the center of the planet.

Untangle my sentences before they carry us down fleshy rabbit holes,
For their teaching power is beyond reproach if only for a moment we arrest
This dystopian synergy of sense and nonsense and rectify ourselves before the altar of the madman.
Let us proceed with a noncriminal putting-to-death before the lawyers get involved
And pure human exegesis is corrupted with the festering foul stench emanating from cavities in the mouth of
Lady Justice.
Her scales are full of shit and spilling over with fecal ineptitude.

My drop-in hours are from birth to death, or by special appointment.

HGD352: Yesterday

Nothing will happen yesterday.
Nothing happened tomorrow.
Ask a question and realize
The answer was already there,
Then realize there was no question, no answer,
There just was.
Then, realize there was not,
just there.
Then, realize there was not just there,
but .

Organic compounds break down, new horrorganics rise
In a wasteland of inorgasmic excess.
We grow, burger becomes baby,
Carrot becomes creature,
Anger begets angels.
We bring out our dead and bury them in toxic muds
Where even the worms writhe in agony.
Upside-down we stagger on stairs of misery,
Wondering which end is up.
The joke is on us; there is no up,
There is no down,
There is only flesh of the foulest construct
And the weeds fomented in its fundament.

HGD351: Old Innovation

Already-lived futures of the past are hard to reanimate in the present.
This is the quest of the greatest ringleaders.
Not to imagine a new future,
But to imagine an old future that was buried in time or disinterest
Simply because the world was not yet ready.
Recycling histories, not recycling in the name of ecology but morphology.
It has been, and so it shall be.

Very tired. Not exhausted, tired. Class was hilarious because everyone seemed to have their wits about them, simultaneously having no mental strength to maintain composure for more than a few seconds. I don’t think the Mad King and I have laughed more in one day than we did Wednesday, there was simply too much comedy on the cusp of realization. Ninder, Kendra, and the two of us (tweedle-Jesus and tweedle-Fuck) propelled that sleepy energy downtown, into the bowels of Hamilton, where Ajio kept us burning the afternoon oil. Can Goong Gi had me in stitches. Very good night, indeed.

Just because we seem less violent
Does not mean violent pasts
Are not awake in the present.
Keep an eye on the key, for the criminal is never too far away from the lock.
Erotic escape.
The cockroach who disgusts itself as it scuttles across its own kitchen counter
Knows loathing all too well, and it too is searching for the answers
Amidst crumbs and foul dishes.

A phone is lynched on the receiver.
Nobody roars before they whisper.
Don’t make it a wrong number, now,
You only get one shot.
Let your ideas pool like blood at an accident;
The red river of waste runs thicker than the
Watery thoughts of single-celled disappointments.
Do not let your hopes drip through the cracks,
make them congeal to seal the gap.

Does a remnant know from whence it came,
Or is there an origin from which to originate?
Think not; it becomes the new, the old, the once-was and the will-be.
To achieve this, it does not depend on the ignorance
Of sociality beyond the embodied.

Ignorance of a sociality beyond the whole, even beyond the social,
Means existence is only made real in the material.
Electrical and chemical disorder are only ideas
Towards a step in the direction of wishing for thinking about the intangible.

Day 350.
Dragged my dead horse to campus and beat it.
Got nothing.
Dipped out of hammerhead hall halfway past to blast back to the flats and nap harder than Rip Van on Nyquil.
Glorious, enchanting dreams of not being in school.
The end of a vision has never been so bitter.
Back to the crypt, a coffin which transformed thanks to the two hilarious classes we had.
My students are good peoples.
One last trip back to the nap shack, goodnight moon.
(Had a longer draft but computer crashed so I lashed out, now I’m toast).

Humanities Graduate Day 349

Getting so close to September, I can taste it.
What does September taste like?
Dew drops on the grass of an autumn garden.
Those campfires in the wilderness.
New beginnings, cut short for the first time.
Festering beasts released just moments before the host is deceased.
Intercourse between magics.
Sundogs avoid the curse of reality.
It’s just random ramblings trampling the English language.
Don’t worry.
Scurry to the next cheese, the rat race is coming to a close.

And September sits on the tongue like lysergic acid diethylamide.
Mackintosh apples in the gum.
Soda in the cavities.
Broken bottles mark the face of a madman.

HGD347: Cackling with Hackles Raised

Flat acrid ideas lack passion and enactment.
Detractors aim to maim but can you blame them?
They fan the flames of burning apathy,
Unless they just stop caring.

My memory of Saturday is a battered Ford E-150. No windows. The panel van of obscurity. A throwaway day.  Except for the fact that I made it to Peter’s and we proceeded to wreak a terrible havoc on the weaker.

A man wearing a viking helmet was arrested by police for carrying a real sword.  Only in Hamilton.

HGD346: Hard Labour

You carry a confirmation bias on your cap.
What are you looking for?
Are you ready for results that do not fit
Your tailored suit?
Those fake pockets won’t hold many secrets,
No matter how hard you shove.
All the while your pick ax swings.

Federico won’t stop knocking on my door, I don’t know what he wants. Last time it was coke, I said I don’t have coke. This time it was lettuce. What the fuck, is this the nineteenth century? I thought the “cup of sugar” neighbor thing was over, not to mention the granulated powder your neighbor wanted was actually sugar. And, what the hell, go buy your own lettuce, what am I, No Frills?

Shlaughter the shyshtem from the inshide.
Don’t be afraid to shave a few shurvivorsh.
Only the herbivoresh.
The carnivoresh can be left behind in their own homichidal chircush.

So many friends, so many balls. I meant Pokemon, get your head out of the gutter. My pokedex is rampant.

Weekend soon.
Only problem is,
The weeks don’t end.
There are no weeks.
Jesus was not the messiah, he was just the first wireless service provider.
He would tell you the same.

I have spoken far, far too much.
I kept my mouth shut and conversed with the dead.
They are always as alive as the living, if not more so.
These conversations are not grand schemes of total existence.
These conversations are situated.
Beware the unsituated idolatries of Mr. Cornel West.

I sat in an office beyond reach or reason.
Some managed to meditate and penetrate but only for a spell.
Creatures of the institution, they know the ways into my cell.
They chose the park, they bought the tickets,
So it only makes sense to go on with the show and tell.
If truth really is the ability to allow suffering to speak
Then I am lie, I am false, I am irremediable.

The accuracy of Orson Wells is uncanny. The Land Ironclads, indeed.
But we are past that.
Modern warfare is not on the ground, not in the real.
Modern warfare is not, so how is it every day?

I noticed a shooting star and realized the only reason we love them is because we know they are falling.

Caregivers fold sheets like people into their lives.
The mutation of performance happens at that threshold between the clean and the pestilent,
The old and the new,
The known and the unknown,
The promise that one of them will die first.
I am positive you cannot cross that border.
That action will not be spoken.

History repeats but it is not the capital H History we imagine as a single tsunami wave.
Histories, infinite histories, recycle and fold in on each other.
Some cycle intentionally, others accidentally.
Some cycle known, others unknown.
Tradition and technique vie for position against innovation and entropy.
If all of History folded back daily we would see a holocaust every day;
Maybe we do and we just do not, do not want, to see it.
Instead, histories sit like gears in a car, idle but always ready to shift with
The clutch of rotation.

Visibly upset as many people as possible, by accident of course but it could not be helped.
Apologies are due to some; to others, they get nothing.
The ones wearing masks hiding secrets get facaded.
The cuts in a film are castrated ideas.
The title of your life deserves a deconstruction.
What would it be called if you left today?
How many times would the cassette on your gravestone rewind before we all stopped watching?
How many of your genes have seen the washing machine?

Be sure to read as much as possible because every page left unturned is an idea left to be expunged.
This is the last time a page will go unflipped.
This is the last time the word ‘unaccountable’ may be screeched.
This is the last time the body will be radically mute.
The words hang and chew from the base of thoughts, ready to eat themselves into death’s drop.

This life has one narrator but many voices.