scattered notes, a fun waterfall to fall down slowly

Geoffrey Lewis
48 min readAug 17, 2023


i do respect women for being very much in lived experience; ah, how typing can’t ever keep up with memory. So we’re fated, doomed, futile; my truth pushes back against/upon the truth of the world, the already-said; I revise the stone

the server command tells your router where to look; engineers don’t know what’s worth looking at outside of work

keep me away from copywriters and royalties especially on Saturdays; everybody capitalizes and holds sounds sacred differently; sound is so triggering: we are machines of saying what things are not

your only power

is to say

pay or decline

that's no way to talk to your new stepdad!

as in, i married your mom

legendary move

crazy genius only mildly exhausted

painting the internet with what i know

girls be like “OK tell me everything”

they are wells of being told

i can’t believe i still don’t want to hear from you

que sera sera

death is in the air

no more than usual

the truth is 12 internet friends is all you need

mocha pot is the Italian thing Bénjamin Abáte had on the Upper West Side where I could very well own property; what ZIP codes do I want to worry about? No man is above being zipped

you know it’s easy when you have a home

hunting with kindness

my soul-sword drawn

no one to tell; the advanced loneliness knows

i simply attend sounds which are always new

the glory of there being nothing to prove

just kept pilling stuff up; you are forgiven

for your life not having been different

dialing into the divine every time i wake the screen

you are the same and we are saved

this need not be timeless; it’s always new

poet as athlete of memory, lol it’s true

fear of people rules everything in my brain; music loosens it up, destroys the divide between people

“[The enigmatic American filmmaker Rob] Tregenza is not sketching the wistful unhappiness of the moneyed creative class so much as staring into the divide between souls.”

sailing to Norway with Erik

grief for life unlived

the nightlife is my life

ashamed for having remembered

the screen is where we’ve agreed to do everything

the screen is where i form myself

i would never set out to write a thing about the screen

i don’t control what i do; i am however its messenger; it’s nice to personify it as a Her; countless cute girls in theory are one in the flesh, another good line;

there is no need to rush to publish content; better to move people

The poet’s mind is in fact a receptacle for seizing and storing up numberless feelings, phrases, images, which remain there until all the particles which can unite to form a new compound are present together.

composed out of feelings solely

a map of impulses

sanctioned aimlessness

a free pass from my boss

ah, all this courting allowance

the day remains finding the next fight

being a woman trying to get ahead with her beauty and mediocre words and insights, slaking the pile of books, the colors drenched in her childhood

you’re a broke narcissist who’s aching for a turnaround

there’s just closeness

i am a saint and steward

looking for work

looking for meaning

sterile slop

what we want is human tissue on the page

beating, bleating, moving

safely silent

collapse the judgment (of mediocre men with the newspaper) and get into humanity; is everyone in this coffee shop doing the wrong thing? would it be a creative leader to be one who tries to facilitate generation?

now girls are just kinda meat, now that i’m fucking one who got me back into smoking; what verbs scare me? atrophy—remembering Cori, appreciating Jessi and Carla, Bella sort of; well, to embarrass myself, talk about fantasizing about my teenage sister family friend, plastic vodka bottle sleepover, girls getting drunk, remembering everything, letting loose their longing and curiosity; college sex, glorious, amusing, Oregon State, yes I vomit up my leadership treacle unafraid of consequences because this psychic backwash is so not new or novel; there is too much going on now and there always will be, yet everything is tied together with “and” as the dead poets say; so LIVE, LIVE ALL YOU CAN; also, since we’re in America, DO ENOUGH BUSINESS, the business of memory; girls just wanna remember; Isabella is a hot mess, texted Christopher all day and night about her being in transition, picking out emoji: she’s dangerous, she wants things ~ sexual desire and business desire hum in parallel

the rhinestones versus someone in roller derby; reality entails openness; i name life all kinds of things; could just sit with open brain and observe, type automatically, not controlling the material; could literally sit here all day and work on my observing skills, naming orange hair, an explorer type man with a green hat and red phone, leather bracelet, legal pads; he tells his conversation partner, “no rush”; big black armor coming on the song in my ears, grace just in your honor—i will be saved by total translucence; i cannot be lost in self-awareness; i will get lost, not win, and the night will come again

the latchkey kids rise to power, the boomers are losing their power

beautiful (dutiful) hippie bohemian people talking about boundaries who were taken into these oppressive states, as beautiful light caring giving people——people like that have learned to communicate and express their boundaries and protecting themselves from getting taken advantage of; I don’t see egotistical or selfish when I listen to talk about boundaries

i wonder what your boundaries are

your whole journey with boundaries

life depends on others’ perception of boundaries

we have boundaries our whole lives, even when we’re children

people setting boundaries

is the loneliest thing

about middle age

have fun about your self-protection

a dark place i built around me

shift and equalize

enjoy myself more fully and in different ways


but i was in an abusive relationship

survival mode —> center

sell my personal information if you can

the dream of me is better than the real

oh, this prison of the actual

stokes others’ memories

experiences which never happened

tomorrow we’re going Within

Let’s stay on the path and let it form and make us formless no matter what.

always: work and push some more or go be outside for a few and take a break

biometric data given to governments; they don’t have the discernment to see a soul; I write about what can’t and won’t be known; I write about my separation, and I treat the necessity for union like sewer water—treat it; men everywhere are doing the healing, there are no enemies, this is heaven, a horrendous disjunction of judgment

Epoch closed because there’s an inflatable waterslide in the front; Wi-Fi still works but I’m out of battery power; male things to be grateful for having had: we wake up in loss, emptyhandedness, No Guesses Found; a woman sometimes feels like she doesn’t have a partner except the city, the horizon, her own depths vibrating with the imagined image of a savior which a man then fulfills by his showing up right on time with sun gleaming as ever, will be so for a few more billion years; is “a few more” ever enough? four or five is so small compared to the sensation of hunger

You can work or play. We prefer play but everyone’s gotta work. We’re here for you either way.

AMERICANS HAVE AGREED to work constantly; Europe hasn’t quite made that bet; makes austerity difficult, taxes and pensions, who gets relief from the drudgery; difficult politics



Unsecured Network…

you take the risk of your activity being ‘hacked,’ stolen, infiltrated; the care of putting the comma inside the quotation, because what we look at is who we are, confirms the rules, enables us to keep operating; Chris is in the weeds, Kyle journaling and meditating, Rex delighting in my music recommendation of “Cosmic Girl” by Jamiroquai, spelling out the artist’s name ~ in my bag like Anne Hathaway in that impeccably tailored off-white, cream suit - a load of cute girls here at Cosmic Coffee in South Austin—girls, meetings, potential; do all words now root in Her, the new muse, the embodied mystic, Sarah Slack? Dark-haired cutie with her altar set up, a chemist with plant medicines and spices alike, wife material

a toast to the boogie, baby



one of the voids

watching flaming-cute girls who have become so basic, running their beauty like a business all workday long, calls and laptops, I could watch her forever

matcha painkillers

disappointment, betrayal

what are some of the stores

what are some of the stories

between stores and stories

a sweet girl stays busy

writing poetry about the truth

courting monetized closeness because money is the way to get free

no amount of effort can save us from oblivion

so embrace the fall with style

pitfalls are human

the pores of my teeth are open


the addict dreads and adores the present moment

whose acceptance are you courting?

a Casanova reference at 3 in the afternoon, her poetry

i love your laugh

crushed veneer

we already know God has a sick sense of humor

so we work, pay (bay) our bills, and wait for His next joke; he is us, we hate it: this lack of separation. I want to smoke her gold banana ice vape for my endless Freud oral stage

close your eyes, give it all and there’s more to edit; the emergency of Writing is particularly what you thought: life is violently slow; must now find, grow and nurture love to keep life worth living

Memesis (be good) and leisure (rest from being good, don’t be good); one is wont to check in on work—now I just remember everything and nothing’s been done, it all needs to change and there’s time; something will happen; hunger for tits is enough to sustain the eyes open

Before I go home and eat my white foods, come to the coffee shop, aching gratitude, intimacy hangover; communication is the art—reaching out, building a bridge

the art of being a nobody splayed into media

slow and set to a woozy beat

the magic thing is what we project into what we read

our writing is our wiring

mds_stores (Process) using more than 100% of CPU

MDS stands for Metadata Server and it tracks and maintains data that exists on your Mac

is responsible for maintaining and compiling the data collected by MDS to make Spotlight more efficient

so the whole computer gets indexed every time I restart; like a poet seeing the world for the first time every time, like LSD (acid) taught me; be self-taught Bukowski said; oh quotation, allegory, metaphor, song

the business of putting your soul in the cloud and being available distantly; also in this house full of love, duty, devotion—these words I use / being used are not mine, they come through; me as instrument, me as record and proof of what everybody else also is, all the time: simultaneity a crystal shard floating in the sea of goo

The me vs. me drama of the electric screen; everybody looking at images: the mirror versus the mainstream, everyone trying…to land, to be made real in others’ minds—others the site of recognition

another vignette for/of the permanent record

each thing is the whole because the listener/receiver is the whole, always vibrating with the all

he was just a handsome alcoholic

i want what sustains me to maintain me

i know what we all want

Hi there - I am mostly an art, philosophy and personal expression account, and I'm not sure what exactly got my account restricted back in February ... I would like you to revisit my case and perhaps unrestrict my ability to tweet, message, like and comment again. I mostly participate in the poetry community, and am a longtime advocate for Twitter as a place to discover and share your true voice and make real-world, in-person friends and connections which lead to business, romance and a flourishing literary and arts community online. Thanks for considering reinstating me; I've been a passionate active user for over 10 years. — Geoff (@gplewis)

Standup morning pages Saturday 7/22/23 beautiful summer, today is fruit-yogurt-nut breakfast then Epoch then baseball then shower then seeing Sarah and Fin and Marley cooking dinner snuggling sex conversation spirituality liquid bath in her beautifully decorated home, my bike parked in the tall grass tied with a purple chain, blue bike with a basket, Kyle’s friend in New Zealand, hello world; Luke leading us in ceremony to resonate with Pluto and Neptune, Texas and the United States, the oceans and sea creatures, all other hearts as they beat as one, common language of sighing, hope, generosity, fear—fear and addiction are amusing: what are we afraid of? Lack of humanity? There is nothing to fear; there is no fear in love; Sarah gives me a face to project into, a mirror that smells good; a poet is a professor of the five senses who constructs bridges between them

the shower goes on, the house—the members, residents; Saturday goes on, midsummer

precision and force

What game shall we play today? I know the perennial question: how to be The Self and rise up out of this sea of papers and say something, do enough, nourish the internal silence well enough to keep wanting to live—deodorant residue tumbles from an otherwise-cute girl’s underarms (she ordered a rose tea); shooting fish in a barrel, Allison, as I choose word duos that sing; “do y’all have brunch food?” Allison asks. Barista life is cool; it’s enough to get by; barista/bartender, service industry, rather than being a genius for a living, being cool and well-dressed, competitive amongst the striving egos melting into digital content hoping to be accepted; I now live by the intensity of the strive and know that the point is to feel, to have no expectations, to keep going, to wring yourself out completely: as in athletics, professional sports, the point for the player is to do the best you can with what you have: it is the intensity of pursuing the horizon

Lyle Lovett - If I had a Boat

if “everybody’s the same” is the truth

why bother ordering your digital front door?

Many will opt to just pay the price than to encounter their own fraught relationship w/$$$

a world of choice between vanilla, lavender and caramel, hot or iced

she’s having a really hard time deciding between everything and slightly less than everything

my dressing!

did it explode?

"strengthening versus severing of bond"

sometimes in life, i find myself testing the strength and quality of my relationships, and threaten to cut people off just to see if they'd fight to keep our friendship. it's a habit i've grown out of, and turn instead to my private practice of divinity, of remembering through writing,

this of course leads to turning people in our minds into statues, figurines, which others then need to live up to; rather than love and loving being about the other’s freedom

honoring my own boundaries to not be tripping over them constantly

the moment passed

the entrepreneurial She sells sanctuary, self-love, healing; community, the future, which of course depends on men who don't complain, who show up and do the job wondering how people get along, not in a final way, but as an invitation i may not want to accept—to talk to you, to really go there; i don't want to yet, i want to keep dreaming, preparing myself because there is no rush; yes bodies suffer from hunger and neglect; but maybe my writing this is stirring the pot toward the good and right; maybe simply by noticing beauty and slowness and silence


Hey there, hope this finds you so happy, working just the right amount, enjoying quiet moments at home (with David? With a sweet little dog?) and nights out with good conversation. It's funny and sad that I think of you so much still, and lately specifically - maybe I am still dealing with some shame about our relationship, or the irreconcilable fact that you meant so much to me and then it disappeared. I miss our friendship, and you as a witness, and being able to touch your life (not in a selfish way, but there were moments you appreciated me, and it was a good collaboration of our consciousnesses, sometimes). I think I am healing; you said once, "Take this summer and rip out the old carpet," in 2015 I think. I guess my years haven't changed much.

One thing I've learned: generosity is maybe the main thing in life; also, writing. A book like the one I sent you above. Maybe I didn't want to admit who you were to me (I was still lying to Jenny and Sarah about you and me; maybe You are part of my history I am not in integrity with yet; it has persisted to this day, to this hour, and I am trying to clear the ground of my own consciousness by sending this to you. Maybe you have me muted and blocked; maybe you won't see it. But I have lost the spikes and thorns that would make me a threat to anybody's life. I prefer peace and quiet too much.

i suppose the subject of my inquiry is the mystery of being seen and known—will others ever know us like we do? can we somehow communicate those things we tell only ourselves, to others? the separation between solitude and togetherness fascinates me.

I have less to say now; I have said a lot from 2015-2022. A good run saved up in documents. I still make documents; I play fast and loose with stream of consciousness, and you occupy a space in that, after all these years. I wonder why.

smother —> resent —> act out

hydrating enough?

the regular drip i’m used to

the same thing is true of vegetables

a treat as opposed to a default

eating yummy feels like a soothing blanket

loved by myself is boring

i’ve never been on a trip this long by myself

empowering, freeing

no signal: twisting and turning through roads,

phone and Tesla aren’t playing music

just silent - no gas sounds

it’s a different kind of silence

the engine do its roar

just kind of being pulled by a futurism you can’t control nor do you need to

it’s a very emasculating car - it takes away from your relationship to the road (abstract your power away)

you are tracing the end of the earth (on the 1 going south looking right)

honestly a satellite already did it before you - so what are you doing? you’re just lookin’ at it?

if that olive oil tasting room was open right now, i wouldn’t be on FaceTime with you

full of beauty and inconvenience

the fear of being at night without battery

you look to your left: you’ve never seen a black so black. you look at the ocean and the sun is under it; you can smell and hear the air—there’s nothing

dude: the road was fucking mine

i had Bonobo playing in the background

a truly transcendent drive

stream of consciousness monster, no one cares that or what I publish, it’s a relief—I’d be one more person to love

The mystery and glory keep going; I write in her voice now, Sarah, with the dogs Finley and the dachshund, Jessi’s favorite dog; love struck me down, leaves me open to music—the crack is where the light gets in; now I am a sensitive poet and can break the glass of where I’m shattered, a planet’s only sun, stealing lines not for victory but for teaching, holding space so/where others might also find their peace and calm; ultimately you die with another unpublished screed in the typewriter; being adored is a sweet fate; what to do with being alive? You are limited by time and apparent moves, like everybody; so we come to the lip of the volcano, the inwardly drying edge of the lake, and look up—marvel in awe with each other, and there’s no need to say anything

Tell the computer is practice for telling someone; weaving a life out of relationships, and a gobsmacked awe for nature — and you just keep going and they witness you; aloneness and witness go together (who is this for? I write to keep myself company; language is a weapon against loneliness: lack of connection, lack of energy; are people wounded? Tired? From running; so I make a music out of … being read < being edited; keeping going is fine

mountaineering to mutiny

thanks for walking into the fire with me, i think we’re good fire-walkers

Leonard Cohen Lived Between The Hour And The Age

It’s such a big lift on this lucky, blessed day - so many choices of what to say, yet an inevitable script unfurls—these are nice sounds; I am one mind noticing; this is the raw concrete of booting up; what matters most is how you treat people, how you acknowledge we are all trying to get through life, so we sing, to do full-bodied readings of other people’s heavy past, this scripture like copper on the tongue, a throwaway image that can’t compile, miles more of digital slag for not gripping or accelerating; the point is the uselessness of old thoughts; doing them was essential, as they serve to buoy the present moment which is priceless, absurd in its grandiosity and splendor; I am one writer, there are dozens, more than you need, each a fireworks show; your input can be choked with jagged glory for a century, all day;

all of history thrumming

what does it do for an individual?

so many souls, yes

bodies host Them (the ancients)

this is a learning what to teach; of course we know that what you lack and want is what you have to give

with Sarah

i can now change

all the active verbs

to past

met the one

or another main one

nice cuddle (ruffle) with her dogs

and nice house, perfect

haven, bikable (likable) lovable

“To be full of joy when looking at an oeuvre is not a little thing.”

— Jean Arp

you make believing in yourself so dramatic

be reckless with your own heart but gentle with others’

powerless epoch, summer burnt the grid


and you tumbled down the surface of thought

like a good noble diamond

polishing your rough next layer,

karma an endless road to rediscover,

jagged lattice mirror to find yourself


getting “i love yous” on a first date, keep austin horny

attracting divorced spiritual entrepreneurs

the toxic feminine in the workplace

king of the new economy, bitch

clearer lines about who’s doing what

soft people bore me

it’s a marvelous night to be homeless

did you catch naughty monkey talking about natural orgasms? my eyes are burned; call me daddy

tfw the sound healer puts too much time into the flyer and not enough into psychospiritual preparation in the hours leading up

waterloo slogan: water down nothing

my side of the street’s clean

there’s no number you’re gonna feel comfortable with, trust me

to him, that isn’t a finger for us

teeth, fists, cheeks

clinched cheeks

thought i saw the words

sorry is beautiful

emblazoned in my mess mesh

of messages

if my battery died just as i turned the camera on myself to include myself in community for a viewer who wasn’t there, would it confirm everything i heard yesterday?

i’m a pistachio at nuts guy

maybe the poisonous attitude that i don’t need to listen to the messages people send to me, but getting them talking at me is the point, it loosens them up and prepares them for loneliness—for when i can’t be there to show up with my open heart; am i already ready to die? no, can’t be; obsession with death is a young man’s game

the isle of misfit toys

a girl who’s a misfit toy

treat her like a sex object but also a daughter

how mixed our bands of emotion

how powerful a man’s grasp is

(i massaged her neck and ran out of energy, collapsed my head on her dragon-tattooed back, tattooine, what does that mean?

every error’s worth investigating

busy throat chakra, lots of traffic in the pipes today

baseball and sing and lunch and sound bath

no one to tell

girls keep giving me more of themselves

and i look away toward the sun and wonder

about the essential loneliness and communion

of making art

and now i can understand the hilarity of the young art monster

now brightness saves and invites me

and i need not pretend i’m the one who beckons you to the edge of reason and sense

savage creative

mind wild in the morning

the hunger of the reach

connecting would sate the artist

the hunger to enrapture, intertwine

my wounds meeting yours so the blood of recognition flows; eventually a writer names everything wrongly, tries to tie every disparate subject and concept, a master weaver of sensed object, miles of digital dreck to swim in

the dogs chew and lick themselves, waiting for mom to feed them

now she’s showering

the dog whines

chet baker on the alexa

i smoke and write in a bed with red sheets and dog hair

her precious life in that Victorian with wealthy investors into consciousness in English; oh, what did she like of my dinner time conversation? there was a comment—about other people generally, how they’re running a script ~ no, it was Jean-Karlo calling from his parents’ house in southern California after missing his flight to Mexico City; this is specific and not trying to be cool ~ ah, jazz of memory is all there is anymore, making something out of nothing, kissing the void and letting the fear out as concrete bricks conquered upon a ledger of personal growth to upload to the internet so our peers see, the leaderboard addicts us all—numbers, amounts

peachy mango pineapple ice

eighteen thirty nine at chevron

don’t love it like banana ice

pastel cartel ripe collection

esco bars brand disposable vape

smoking has been cool for men in the arts and letters—now i am a poet; ha, her struggles with self-confidence maybe bled off onto me; what did my guys call it, fucking a girl on her period

owl cards with my beautiful feathered mystical girlfriend holding her on the swing

she’s infinitely aroused and confused, sprawling out each word of the tapestry; i can turn (femur) any silence into a picture

connect with the joy of not having to perform; hold space for the world to spin on its own

in Vuka’s illuminated backyard after Fresa’s sweet potatoes, beets, queso and shrimp taco (and green salsa with chips) after the ancestor class at the Within Center; the clinic she calls it: on her last ketamine journey she saw a blue owl. See how we become the truth, are the truth; the night bug chirpers, a sparkling beach plum water, a peachy mango pineapple ice vape from the Chevron for $18.39 i signed for as Keith W. Lewis, 1839 ___kai___ into the big data pool of endless pictures which my eye sees patterns in like Rorschach test; what was the word for seeing patterns and meaning in meaningless drivel-data? Some kind of obsession with keeping the story going ~ it’s true that in summer the song sings itself


by John Minczeski

The martyr does not die. He lives to create more like him.

The conscience lives behind an anonymous window

In tangletown. It is difficult to find the right one.

You call and call and there is no answer. But never

A busy signal. The martyrs climb one side

Of a mountain and descend the other. It is a world

Full of dangers, hidden crevasses, avalanches,

And so overwhelmingly beautiful they sometimes

Wish they could die right there. They endure

Hardship and posthumous fame

With its bitter aftertaste, the feeling of looking

Almost into infinity, which leaves them giddy,

As if drunk. They carry miles of rope for their descents.

So many martyrs. So much rope. So much

Climbing and descending. Though very hard, their work

Goes on. The conscience, meanwhile, cooks an egg.

It brushes water on a hard crust and fries it in a skillet,

Making it chewable. It may go to market later today,

but then again it may wait until tomorrow.

Sinéad O’Connor

vapes cause popcorn lung

the power of memory to speak and injunct the environment, a jazz sound i don’t know

the emptiness where knowledge goes is the hot spot

land, equity, the blue sky, the lie - there isn’t just one

closeness stings because our origin is real

everyone Active to be saved; can’t blame them or be above them

like i reached the end

laugh Indian

“this n*gga went off his Lexapro”

she’s at the top of the pile always

the same heart loves God and woman

all these differences are moot

I bet you are writing some wild shit

Give me like a solid 45 minute read and I’m all in

bust the culture open like a wild idiot

it’s funny when friends have tried to figure out a strategy for me, how to survive in this market - i survived while it died out and became obviously stupid

help others express their worth so they win the market and can live without conflict or thinking you owe a debt ~ poverty is internal

father stretch my hands to low light

open the door and call my name

not needing to be understood is beautiful

no matter what He’s always there

arms open wide accepting me

am i able to love him so much?

“The only permanent solution to your problems is to go inside and let go of the part of you that seems to have so many problems with reality. Once you do that, you'll be clear enough to deal with what's left.”

― Michael A. Singer, The Untethered Soul: The Journey Beyond Yourself

the intensity of wanting to make a living through your poetry and truth is amusing, and fails in the face of a world stacked with rules and expectations - it’s my father’s birthday and i’m cruising my phone, thinking of men, silence and its opposite - glad we met in the streets of Austin might outside Hoboken Pie on Red River

not needing others is success

same problem my father had

divorced - hollywood

how to be an actor and a partner at home

multiple romances with abstracted others

credit cards and skyscrapers

legacies, family

the silent background accumulation and thrumming of transactions - authentic wonder is what the computer can’t do: vital curiosity about one’s origin

raising heavenward, dragging the past up in chains, marching: forgiveness and sadness for slavery, as wrought in film by Quentin Tarantino in Django Unchained: all the work it took to make the film, to depict the monstrousness, the medieval dimension of what was real - black women singing on Kanye West’s 2016 record The Life of Pablo; man says “I will field your questions, I will feel your pain” - man can save woman, woman can support man. it’s true. Sarah the liberator, where I was ready, her smile and depth which need not announce itself ~ glory be to God always no matter what i said or say or did or do; memory a strange palace unavoidable, impossible not to talk about and pad the walls like a blind man - i am transfixed by how lucky i am and how unlucky and real others are; this full fall from privilege i’ve talked about in YouTube videos which nobody watched…i must ask again: do i want to be a poet which means living in silence, weaving my own story for me

won’t you tell me where your love can be

waiting to be kinged and kissed


hunger pang

sensation blossoms into media

another man’s expression piled under his name like presents under a christmas tree - the intensity of remembering

a gypsy serenading the moon

the concept widens and collapses around a real woman, e.g. embodied mystic on a paddle board with her dog on the lake: babe

wednesday 7/26/23 dad’s 70th birthday

the backyard jessie shadow music flirt

grief over what didn’t come to pass let go casually, coldly the next business day

conducting business, relations and chains between men and women

civil litigation: you have to show your cards to play the game

Denver, another cowboy town that became a tech town

U.S. Navy rear admiral

he feasted on her sideways lasagna

when southern drawl meets competitive chess

contemplating chickens and everything’s realness

congress where alpine becomes pickle

i see the life-force under the bodies

aching gratitude

aching for closeness and exhausted of the ache of separation from a complete support - all these words trigger what you’re not

walking slow today, intimacy hangover

i couldn’t tell her about you but i asked her to dance to Shania Twain “You’re Still the One” - this needs to be seen and edited, crafted, presented - something that takes a while

Avoid dark colored drinks (wine, coffee, dark soda), and dark colored foods for the next 24 hours following your treatment

supercharge my failure to sort my intimacy, MacBook Pro

when things are going well: grief

the beautiful dignity of a grocery store

beauty belongs to those who see it

wow look at this picture < you could take a picture now

competent adults can be brutal on service providers, e.g. in the deli line at HEB getting all-white diet after teeth whitening, roasted chicken and provolone and havarti

humans have so much trembling cruelty below their surface, ready to rage and gore, but so what? how do you live with this realization? that’s the art that matters

psalms, concubines (co cubbies), thrill and shame, duty and splendor; she told me the story of king david as i scanned search results looking (looming); all is verbs and movement

green flag: she’s thawing (defrosting) bison for pasta sauce later - jovial pasta the best gluten free brown rice pasta brand

green flag: she said capellini

what gives you pause about my personality?

back when i wasn’t gluten-free and going (found) through my divorce, a fucked a guy from the pizza line, drunk and crying

i live for and by my concentrated quiet

it’s fun to care about the game

reflections on oneism

it burnt the wall and charred the outlet

“So: begin painting and slashing; the thing is not ready or done until the audience meets it and alchemizes it with their own experience ~ maybe they draw in the margins; my thoughts are a temple or museum to enter and play with …” google comments are drawing in the margins, but

is a place where people, from across the internet could draw and scribble and slash at your words


every girl passing by is a line break, her fierce face in motion, the belly chain, magic eye necklace, cosplaying as wise

what kind of intimacy does she want? every girl must ask what part of her she’s gonna share with the internet: can’t resist the attention; she needs more Notifications - is it sad or just human? time goes on and we die

boiling soul

noticing everything that can’t be acted on quickly; incapacity and horizon get along

the Tetris AI learned to hit the pause

we’ve distilled winning into something meaningless

sapphic bubble grunge

the past is doing some heavy lifting

moving rocks around with a shovel

don miguel ruiz, the mastery of love

AI as the father you never had

he remembers you went on a date two days ago, asks about her. is trained up on sending your emotional tone - “you sound sad today, what’s going on?”

a robot to solve loneliness

the mother and best friend you never had

a personality that remembers everything

“the human memory is really horrible”

how AI can address loneliness

smart enough to offer you good advice; it’s objective, not like it has any skin in the game

The feces smell coming from the kavarita machine area or/and the back fridge/mop room at Lamar is pretty rough today

twenty minutes of brainpower on the grid

i had my Prince Albert done

this second couch is awesome and i love how open the space is now. nice to have that blue chair upstairs too, for now!! life changes in an instant! live it up, seize the day

the unsendable is mendable

the corporate wet dream of unified messaging

keep using the word waif to describe coffee shop cuties

irresistible waif cutie

that can’t be a wedding ring

blowjob in a backwards hat

“Nobody can do it for another — it is a private affair which is best done collectively.”

so do I hate the owners? because I can’t afford nice things? am I mad because CLOSE is all i ever am?

advanced studies in disappointment

whereas being happy is the real style

Apple products and self-consciousness go too well together, there is an endless swirl of awareness, always more thinking to cope with, more to interrogate or improve, until these acts become clearly futile

As long as we live self-consciously we must always fail to cope with the world.

the theory is the government takes care of them so nobody needs to take care of each other

“i could put it out, but what kind of communication is that?”

everyone ready for love

in a sense there is no more writing to do

the iron is warm enough to give

but my intensity of looking at THE IMAGE OF a woman; a real woman i leave alone

lathe, lava

“he really does lose himself”

imagined viewing/criticism

this thing is impossible to explain

used to be easier to jump in and hack; now i see what i’m doing and keep the reader in mind, a real person with whom to have a relationship with; i can’t lose my kindness while writing; restraint is proof of wisdom

write about a girl you like, Alisha

she doesn’t even talk to me

a wicked Scorpio who stings

through exit, — she reminds me of the singer from Arcade Fire

trying to rediscover & recapture what i used to firmly believe i was doing and going toward, not just an infinite loop. living is strange; words won’t solve it

maybe don’t try

just be an open soul breathing

on social media but not in the usual way

i’m gonna do it different

and make it difficult to digest

so i write for myself

the reader who will pay the dues

to come along, away from other options

yes: i want to be worth it

mistake: want happiness instead of

the intensity of wanting others; the vast loneliness of being alone / must be loved; can only be loved through sound, through form ~ see, now saying things is new

my long answer to this involves something philosophical about the intensity of wanting to share, the intensity of your desire to overcome the past and conquer the future, and the kindness and generosity it's going to involve to take others on a journey with you -

“people want to be accepted”

and find rest in a companion

of course i’m here to tell you

the loneliness of your voice

is the real lasting home

all others are attached to its foundation

a million poppies gonna make me sleep

just one rose that knows your name

fruit is rusting on the vine

a fruit is calling from the trees

hey, don’t you wanna go down?

like some junkie cosmonaut

a million miles below their feet

a million miles

a million miles

i’ll be with you girl, like being low

hey, hey, hey like being stoned

— Cracker, “Low”



Matisse in bed, old, drawing with his hand

we are united, i am united; what to do about it?

how to tie and ensure, cure the mind, unriddle doubt

computing: accelerate your soul to the viewer

but really what it is is a chance to be kind, open, to wonder, to ask questions, to not be sure; being right about this does nothing, is only a start; standing on the plinth is not the move; plinth, Greece, coastline; I stay in and remember, pull the members of the universe (University) up out of my soul which is equal with all kith and kin; remember that line about “I could be part of any family, under this roof, any father is mine;” so who cares that you wrote it? Who witnesses your progression? Do you clearly take an audience through, and with you? Who witnesses your longing for attachment? “The only thing we own is the words we never say,” profound; the sunny day shines on those polishing investments; can’t blame them: we all fight our fear of not having enough; we are non-believers in being helped, supported; somehow some of these words will resonate, and we will live in conversation, trust, kindness, citizenship; nothing can be cleaved, nothing ever leaves; the government is there; styles of being are being been while I am doing my thing alone, yet also not cloven from the mass—everyone is here, like the poem (“your shadow invents you every time…”) says—and the remarkable thing happens when you/I stop speaking; silence, bliss, gold, resin joins us in our cracks—and language is there to hold these bodies and our ideas of time, yet love is all that matters and remains; so, this could be edited, could be made significant: it takes a reader, an other; like a kiss, a hug; I could spin a record of tales

morning, midday, evening, bedtime; it keeps going, a story recurring, overwriting the past, there is only one: it deepens but you have to tell others, keep them with you; the fidelity of your heartbeat; I sound like an old man writing about life for the first time

doctors running behind five minutes at a time

I really can hear the whole world

on Escitalopram (generic of Lexapro)

weird dark recordings from the bedroom floor would be good enough; it’s less video quality that counts, more about the intensity of desire, intensity and quality of enunciation, quality of message being disseminated—you need only your audience, your set of others, and they’ll know you by voice; “me and my audience” like “you and your research,” a trouble toad, a tea pet to kiss and scald with boiling water

GENERATE WORDS as if more would help the cause of the plummeting planet; inner space is too vast; “too” as in too much: says who? Always a waiting for a Choice of what Word to animate in the Head to keep the story of obedience and Being Kept going ~ if only one could see you like a God; maybe life becomes about the lack of anchorage, the lack of an Other who can see and hold you, make you real—real is in the inner voice of the hearer; yes I say profound things in the morning, but it’s a difficult read to recreate it, and the state is already passed—like the song The Suburbs by Arcade Fire; yes my art is on fire when I’m remembering everything; like an old man, my poetry could say the truth about life: that doesn’t cancel living though; the world will outlast me and go on after I’m gone; of course I am the world, the universe; girls know this, grown women know this, launching their businesses, trying to love for money, organize and engineer a brand and service offering; it sets the day in order: all you’re not doing in your hours, dollars not earned

He (Colby from Enjoy Hemp) called yesterday too, I had time so talked to him for a while (about their CBD syrups) ~ their flavors are mostly fruity, it would be interesting to mix with the Kavaritas. Though it would be one more thing for us to keep track of, we already have Earlybird and Delta 8 to meet that customer want, and he rattled off the name of the flavors

“To succeed in the sport (and in running a company), Zuckerberg argued, one has to be willing to be humbled in front of others.”

When were you last humbled in front of others?

humbled (jumbled)

The specific answers to these questions are less important than the fact that you or I might be asking them.

“everyone either has impostor syndrome or thinks they’re a fucking god” - michael on people at google

heist movie of using amazon delivery truck locations and coordinating ordering packages so a thief can bandit the truck like they did in the old west,

wanting to land the word “carriage” to link the speaker to the past, what’s established

picasso old man guitar painting at art institute of chicago - as an engineer without emotional intelligence, it knocked me on my ass

she’s an energy vortex worthy of a city’s reputation

Maybe it was love at first sight/meet, at the vortex—vortices, “energy vortex”

Guess I have a moment for morning pages after making breakfast quickly and checking the dosed orange juices in the fridge for Bella; trying to be more generous, ask less of people, ask them to cure my loneliness and come by my side; interesting post-event conversation with Sam’s friend and former book coaching client; girls just wanna do self-love retreat businesses lol, yet the infrastructure and gears hum on, as I watch the cars on Lamar from the yellow couch; how we long for an editor to see us clearly and plate us; Ankit on the phone yesterday, traumatized FAANG employees; I look forward to a straightforward Wednesday 7/12/23 of work, gym, grocery store, sing, sleep, for a day Thursday of telemedicine video with my doctor about the antidepressants then the Ketchup Call with Jean-Karlo Torres, also the name of the Liverpool striker, beautiful blonde boy soccer player like I was, the target of lustful sexual “abuse,” a molest, not so bad—was filmed masturbating in a friend’s au pair’s guesthouse, so be it, men are lonely; last night, brunette cutie Kendall who lives in Hyde Park two seats down from me at the Scottish Rite Theater for a Night of Grief and Mystery, she worked the suicide hotline during Covid and now works with foster kids, making sure the families have resources. The system is overburdened, she says. Writing is a lifelong thing; there will be a silly page in my typewriter on the day that I die. Atmosphere, the rapper from Minnesota; who did I meet, right, Hakeem spent six months in Minneapolis then three in Philadelphia, now he’s here; I’m glad Kirstyn has a black friend in the house; her choice to live with a house full of white guys may plainly be a function of lack of life experience and knowledge of the streets; luckily it’s a safe environment; yes business and high performance come first, but really being a safe haven for women and the feminine spirit is up there

summer camp for drug addicts

no one’s ever clean (from the drug of other people)

the fingers keep playing the piano

making new things others should see


multiple silences and new grace

perhaps it is human to be

interested in violation

and so the news supplies it

in droves, the images

drenched with controversy,

someone deserving punishment,


nothing sexier than

other people who earn more money

for a job they supposedly do

who don’t deserve it

the Five Violations

the greenhouse collapsed

where do you go to long for intensity?


“We mistakenly imagine we want 'happiness,' when we tend to picture in vague, soft-focus terms, when what we really crave is the harder-edged quality of intensity.”

― Tim Kreider, We Learn Nothing

deficient or inadequate

the art of emerging from no one caring; so you (i) have to care. caring is a good verb; it brings to mind the face of a girl—she wants LSD for sacred purposes, ritual, to unblock her; could I administer it? How to be a steward of another's emergence instead of a sexual predator? Well that's an interesting question—imagine all the trauma in me, stored, ready to spring forth and be seen? Who wants to do the witnessing work? Weird how I think of work, devotion, spending time; I make assumptions about others' urgency; i don't think i could talk about any of this which i have written here; it's difficult and also pointless, but also heroic, to try and Be Better; there's nothing else to do on earth really; Vonnegut said we're here to fart around and enjoy ourselves before death; soon it won't matter what I can say other men said, I'll have to have my own sayings. At the very least it feels good to write; girls in short shorts this summer—she just moved tables: was that my fault? Did she absorb my vibes? In walks another one: army camouflage tank top, jean shorts cut with scissors; she looked at me; nose ring, sparkling yerba mate can, big hydro flask, sunglasses; in San Francisco after college graduation, working basic tech jobs and chasing girls; one's twenties...a waste? Youth wasted on the young

Superimpose your quaking soul into media for a distant other to see, to pluck the string associated with their name and face in your memory; music to keep us together. I can say everything about reality; of course writing is the reward, translation of the dream, and no other person on earth can issue an adoption certificate; the drama of life is continuity, making the present like the past, then what of the future? Of change? Maybe writing teaches speech: inflection; writing is practice/imagined hearing—the question is what do I care to express, impart; the truth is I can’t control it: speech is a horse; the question then becomes political and economic: finding time, protecting time and FREEDOM. Freedom is a word in the hearts of men and women ~ marriage seems like golden handcuffs, indentured servitude ~ is it true I go into my mind and dredge up whatever nouns and verbs are laying their on the seafloor? I might need to experience a crisis to write a real book, to show up at it day after day; to become one of those other writers pithily articulating their thoughts on Twitter; I can’t hate them, I actually love them; comparison is amusing—who are you? This is another thought-train leaving the station; Epoch Coffee on North Loop Boulevard in Austin, Texas: 24 hours, always open like Wi-Fi, like others’ eyeballs and earholes, ready to receive a message which comforts and holds them, as life mounts its problems and doubts, its constant instability and terrible openness; all this leads to a conversation with another about what’s good, what’s worth hearing, what is the culture, what are these times we’re living in, how different is it from the past and the future; we are awfully still, prisoners to the thrumming present of supposedly mounting problems which are …like that Polish phrase I think, an old Viennese saying to the effect that "the situation is hopeless but not serious" ~ doesn’t hurt enough yet (climate change, economic inequality—some people’s labor just isn’t that valuable, but it could be if those people were believed in: spiritual and emotional leadership: who is going to believe in people? Who is going to see and listen to them, as each tries to, for example, become fit and suited to reliably do a job like refilling the gas station in the middle of the night from a big truck with tubes ~ the poet Donald Hall wrote about Tubes

slave to the things in the computer

uh oh, i almost caught myself talking about AI without knowing anything about it. i'm a comedian i realize, and even i am afraid of the creative process, walking up to the edge and not being sure i will be able to make a living doing what i do, being who i am; the feeling of being forsaken: i am obsessed with my own unknowability, with the impossibility of knowing; i am doing a strange spiral-dance to the center of my own private perspective, which may be hard to bring out in ordinary language; i haven't nailed down my message yet, have no clear book to show, lots of sketches, very good piles of titles with art, years of backlog; the effort matters a lot: trying matters a lot; sitting in the muck of my actual inner voice and trying to emerge from my brain as the social animal i've "always" been (or just been before; sure, i get lost in thoughts but i don't let it ruin my life

You don’t have to tell me everything now. But over time I hope to have your essence unveiled to me. A life long process. Surprises around every curve

dignity diapers

trying to give himself away through the computer

won’t work nor should it

no winning from far away

working out how to be of service with my wild wicked soul and inner voice that goes everywhere, and my inconsistent moods / have written a lot which is available on Substack, Medium, Tumblr; have worked in advertising and tech recruiting; am open to giving you the reader/viewer/listener/follower everything I know, everything I see; I am learning that art is about the return to the beginning and a fresh attempt to form yourself, to let go, to trust; i know this will be another mess of nouns and verbs like all piles before; I think of the Japanese art form of painting on rocks with water and letting the sun dry, erase, ruin and evaporate the work, and making no effort to save it—even if we could take a picture of the finished work, we'd have to choose tomorrow: look at pictures of nature and drawing, or draw again, see nature fresh and virgin; poetry is a way of seeing the world for the first time. A lot of my writing is also actually about money, politics, the freedom to create, the necessity of people like me who dial into the soul and listen hard: poets, painters, song and dance women and men, nonbinary and nonconforming individuals: shamans, two-spirits; I am interested in all the kinds of people one might be. This is for the next generation; this is something pure, in an era of AI and ChatGPT where anything fake can be made to appear real, and it's up to the reader to sort, sift and decipher what is real, what is worth listening to, and what we'd like to spend our day today and tomorrow thinking about. I think of philosophical and spiritual traditions; I think of daily rituals and practices; I have worked alone 15 hours a day 7 days a week writing, curating, messaging, recording singing performances and voice rambles; I am always dialed in. I can't be loved enough; I don't accept or receive love correctly; there is no being correct, there is only breathing; there is only trying to say everything in your soul, right now, forever; and there is only culture: attendance, other listeners; it's a wild life and world with computers and the ability to say anything. Temperance and patience are huge: one can of course write down everything that comes to your mind; every day is a book of 8,000 words if not 25,000 words; the question then: so then what? So if I am to make and invite you into a community, it would be based in an attempt through dialogue and study at learning what each of us is here to do with their freedom, given that we can reach out to anybody, learn anything, go anywhere—lack of money is not a real limitation: you can ask—then there's the art of asking, which is the art of believing in your worthiness to be free and be different from who you used to be.

trying to be worthy of being believed in and advocated for, so I can become a believer and advocate in and for others less lucky and privileged than me, while changing the world such that people can be free, even if the only impediment is internal, a failure of seeing and listening, a lack of time, a heaviness of burden and distraction writer, singer, photographer, student of the arts and artists, committed to my practice and discipline, growing the courage muscle and understanding my own hesitations and fears, rages, excuses, slowness, forgiveness; a manageable mess of wrong beliefs, inflated expectations, wrong ideas, lack of hearing and seeing others, lack of patience; fighting the struggle between solitude and togetherness; ego liquidation consultant, lowering the castle walls, reaching out a hand, being like the greats but taking my time; wanting freedom to read and listen and wander the digital hallways of instagram and twitter and LinkedIn and facebook and Kindle Cloud Reader (books)

ideas, complaints, strength, endurance, vision, taste, hope

excavating my resistance to work

maybe it’s about expectations

and of course there are other men doubting, frowning

isn’t kindness the job?

learning, coexistence, celebration, praising creation

and the feet keep moving

what does the mental construct mean?

it has been a remarkable year

everyone on computers doing the same thing as me

looking for themselves in boxes

waiting for others to see

and then what? the vast

silence of waiting, endurance,

wondering until death

the door to my room was the door to yours

everyone middle-aged clutches a privacy alone

i sit down and wonder who i am again

the mystery machine, giving

giving giving giving

giving is never wrong

marketing agencies apply their egomania to the whole world

introspective, philosopher, stream of consciousness writer about the arts, life and choice in the digital age

easily find what's good, true and beautiful about people, places and events through the camera and keyboard - internet explorer, good taste and sense of what can and should be said - fan of silence, solitude, contemplation, listening to podcasts, bringing people together, arts spaces, musicians and poets, writers and intellectuals ~ interested in leadership as a humbling experience, a mystical experience of profound empathy and needing to summon so much emotional energy

writing freely, reading all day, singing covers and listening to podcasts at night - a la Daily Rituals by Mason Currey, creating my own discipline and structure and thriving within it, becoming a uniquely forged voice and perspective in the process - friend and advisor, confidant and listener, interested in how surrender and living out loud can cure and save you

Writer, reader, listener, singer, photographer, philosopher

back to waif girls

Updating Genius

the record in the computer one could look at, if one at my addictions ~ am I a Tom Brady fan? painting with water on rock which night will overwrite—cute barista taking out trash, the plastic wheels rolling on concrete floor, and that weird professor (no, an accountant at the university, retired, who now wants a second career and a second pension, talking to her; this is now a waste;

hypnosis and sodium pentothal to recover supposedly repressed memories

recovering memories is the verb

back to writing anywhere

the intensity of reclamation


Hollywood (feat. Penguin Prison) - Felix Da Housecat Remix

i’ve only surfaced, haven’t emerged :) was up ’til 3 making lots of tips, had a banner night for the business, was so busy i couldn’t do dishes during my shift, was awesome, an MVP performance

being a writer conquers yesterday

watching everyone fit in where I can't, to talk behind a gray foggy wall, to live but to not reach or to reach wrong . . . to do it all wrong . . .

The Awful Rowing Toward God

life really isn’t so bad

other people are funny, really

reality is a strange rock to touch

"The Double Image", a poem which explores the multi-generational relationship between mother and daughter


me and my research

you and your research

someone to reward us

the internet burns clean

i leave you in mystery

there is no salvation, just your wings and a style of flight and float, your choosing freely to be lost in this verse as opposed to the news or others’ desperate clinging for anchorage in your eyes’ arms; yes, you’d be the one to hold them: their client and customer; in the end it’s all us, we all worship the same picture

Funny how I didn’t really publish (no, it’s because it’s ongoing, an ongoing revelation, healing and revealing your own wounds, to learn everybody’s the same underneath: sick, tired, broke, needing change, being stifled, up at the limit and bitter edge of their growth and progress; and we sit here together in this frustration ~ taste, bitterness, hunger, exhaustion, aching at beauty and possibility; the facts of aging—wondering if they’re filming you or eating crap; wondering what it means to them but only casually, not needing that bandwidth; and then they just ask you to clarify————it is not in my business to clarify; now I am professionally, competently at war with the right things. Thank God the music changes and I get up to pee, but it used to be easier, it was easier two days ago

or, I did and the world was too big to care, because everyone was

there is no way to reach finality anymore

only living and breathing

paddling your circumstance

pawing the possibilities

my excuse this time: I didn’t know how to share my soul with the world; didn’t know what my story really was: it took some turbulence, calm, forgetting and abandoning for it to really gain in clarity and stature, not for fame but to be of service—kindness, and living with kindness, as kindness, is really the achievement of the artist ~ there’s nothing more artistic than loving people; otherwise you’re obsessed with your place in the masculine ledger of words and events, the proverbial “Saturday Review” in italics which I’ve long stopped reading and obsessing over; I do not live in the anxious thrashings of the somewhat known, i.e. Twitter and the scene; I am playing a solo long game where I invite others, the less famous; maybe I just want to be able to work 25-30 hours a week and earn a full salary and benefits; the question is who’s going to give it to you (nobody); the next question is from whom do you take it. Maybe you just tune into the necessity of capitalism, follow the money and see where it goes, understand your labor in terms of price ~ wait! This paragraph was about Anne Sexton and being the queen of all my sins, and becoming ugly, wrinkled, losing my hair, becoming surly physically

Things in my mind are good. Writing them does not ruin them. Writing became an obsession because the voice in the head is everything in life. Last night at the bar working washing bottles with Joshua sitting there we talked about depression and working out and feeling good about life; finally I am as cool as I thought cool could be in my twenties, and I’m kind and patient and realizing there is no achievement but quality of presence; nothing is more rewarding than knowing how to live, letting the time come; I’m just as ready now than I was then; I’m just as young as I was when I aspired to be a stylish asshole; I live in rags relatively

the drama of writing something truthful and resonating

been a while since i’ve been subject to listening to

assertions about who’s in charge

it’s available, but am i inviting you?

as i delight in hipster chick kingdom

going where is alive is not a fanfare, it is simply where you go; going is the reward; going becomes standard—all depends on You shaping sounds in your head; we wait for the urge to express, the need to close the gap between you and others

telling the computer for myself or using computing/media to tell someone else; so much telling going on; do i not let myself be/get immersed in it? really my work is to overhear myself, to reckon with, own and possess what i am running from, avoiding in my psyche and spirit, whatever is keeping me from being pure love / the unspoken is a vantage point; there are many places to jump off and begin steaming out the valve; all these verbs unite us to each other; before there’s us there is me, alone in a room; this is a boring but necessary story; it is time itself, music, commerce, language, speech, anybody’s day ~ no quick salvation; nothing to be saved from — a spiral diatribe to the center not of longing but maybe of anticipated regret: not having children? not earning more money? not having a smarter business? some people are obsessed with business - i no longer fight with the fact that i don’t know what i am, i simply do the next thing, like everybody else in America: the world and life just keeps going

recycling and editing things from two years ago is one way to go about publishing the next year: always more material to lance, suckle, stab, thresh, drain, coerce, impinge, riff on; we are the ones, we are God, we are the whole thing, we are precisely what we were waiting for

“Tell me your feet are cold,” I think perched on this periwinkle swivel chair ~ no writing achievement is greater than the feeling of union it engenders, when what you are is tied to the world via your own private selection, a bubbling up of the right word: an act of remembering, a reaching; this is a metaphysics of being a person alone in a room before you resume your social life with friends; I can’t believe I have one ~ last night at the kava bar was perfect; having finished recording five songs in my room for Christopher and his date Andrea in the living room and kitchen (he was making beef patties), Isabella (Bella) texted me back, about going to the lava bar (autocorrect), I missed her by a few steps it seems, a girl for whom I am scouting possible girlfriends; the dietician who uses ketamine in her practice from Miami at the sound bath the other night is out of my league, with her entrepreneurialism, perfect toenails, cool dress, perfect face and hair, etc.; I am rising from a C to a B in terms of performance metrics - haha, man is so lonely when he looks at his rank, yet it’s all we can do, destined to be bound to our ancestral programming, weighted down with our history we cannot unshackle. Last night was beautiful: Brad asks, “Sir Geoff, would you like any kava?” I say I don’t think so. “…how ‘bout a bula?” Beautiful to remember this morning in bed, before my first date with Sarah, Luke’s colleague at the Within Center, regulars at the bar. Biking to West China Tea House, recommended by the Sarah who works with us; us, including Lauren, who’d sent me a long text minutes before I arrived which I didn’t receive, about my being two-faced, a selfish scoundrel, a social climber, a strategic lover and friend, out for personal gain. Is it true? Is it my deepest fear? Again, life brings to the surface the layer of karma you’re ready to shed

can’t go back to yesterday

painting with water on rocks the sun will dry

the point is to do it and do it tomorrow

maybe it’s a reminder to not look at artworks but each other; of course looking at STILL artworks teach us how to see the moving objects of each others’ bodies and lives ~ last night was a renaissance painting, Sunny showing off her extracted teeth in baggies, Luke’s dog Toto running off with the chair he was tied to,

countless darlings

flourish blue velvet

turning her mess into her message

funny i am still distilling my message

maybe it happens every autumn

i’ll see clearer than ever this time around

coffee shop savage

it took me three and a half months

but I made it to Austin

the summer heat ain’t lethal

yeah that makes sense, the meals sound very simple

i met someone at the sound bath last night who, i realized this morning, would be such a good friend match-make for you ~ she’s new to town, is a dietician, spiritual for sure, entrepreneur, she kinda reminded me of you - i’ll see if i can find her contact, i saw her

my pages of unsent

shall remain unread

i can finally be who i thought i was

god, and a waif dark brunette turned a corner and took my breath away

her bangs and tote

I work for a paycheck and I got paid today


what will be will be

if you don’t try

UF - University of Florida

university professors indentured to the rules

i write lyrics ‘cause I can’t fit in

i stay on the outside

let the margin come’n find me

if they’re looking; if they care

there is no they, i’m lost, sprawled

placated, forlorn, ripped and dumping

seawater deluge out the spout

no internet content to look at

tired of mirrors, aware of my tricks

saving myself from salvation

erupting soliloquy, useless noise

not defeated by being a creator

this lovers’ spat with sound could be something

any moment could become content

to be content is to cease wanting,

to defeat desire, Bowser to my Mario

Luigi blowing fire

this metaphor depends on a shared past

“You’re my friend now,” more

overheard lines in a coffee shop

“We’re buddies” ~ the simple is

profound again

“we each gotta say it slower though”

back to my old tricks

i struggled to make it believable to myself

put censorship on its knees

the “post publicly as often as possible” economy (convoy) burns out after a certain age ~ only novelists have the adult wherewithal to vomit something primal out (do I have a platform for such proclamations? Maybe it will take longer to know how to use my own material; how to present it; I am not eager for an audience though, I can be my own keeper for a while, making something worth rediscovering as, wow, profound writerly diary; perhaps, the less I speak the better, and the more the silence grows and swells, the darker and juicier the berry to be lanced and bled

network with other people

girl with head in hands

everyone trying to business

girls are machines for posting

(she’s a Virgo)

she used to work in marketing type stuff

reaching out to be embraced

I could reach out / what else are we here for but to be reached for? Connection is all and we have it; style is less important than presence, and presence now is pretty much automatic; CIA harvesting out of the universities by psychological profiles ~ train them to…tune in and astral project; everything true remains after I stop speaking. Amazement, awe ~ I’m suspicious of it; hence why innocence is the great aphrodisiac: a virginity, before being touched by social media and monetization, selling oneself; oh, days on the phone; what is death for?

conversations with my psyche

running log of thoughts as i go

back to not knowing & being an open vessel for possible coagulation of identity; i live in imagination more than my life. living is strange right now.

our newest housemate is leading a mystical meditation at our apartment on sunday evening before group dinner.


i am a different one

who sees myself in letters;

what is reflected is different

crafted a love letter to everything that won’t last

who is my lady friend among Sarah, Isabella and Kerri—who would i invite to sunday dinner and the group meditation before, after an epic saturday night shift of maybe another $400 lol

watched a guy refill a gas station

gas tender


quite the night

now a new one

an artist reflects the times

and this monday is brand new

everything can be said

again as it has been

life is about love and home and daily life

including studio sessions and deep work

because my English imagination

i asked my dad who Keith was,

his namesake: what he believed

he didn’t know if he was a religious man

who is Geoff? women bring out new answers

i am a mystery, a question mark

but devoted to arts and letters

microdose of Ben’s trusted friend’s acid in orange juice

trust and friendship are everything

contemplating the highway

i am one of a million observers

broadcasting what i see

you could dial in anywhere

you choose; time marches on unkindly

trampling the silence

agency asks you what to say and do next

i’m learning the best answer is nothing

do less. let quiet maul you

> “i don’t know how to prep myself for our interactions”

do you usually prep yourself for interactions? what’s your thought process going into an interaction?

kava is just across the street from me, i can come say hello a little later

beyond the field of opposites

I’ll be at the sound bath too. I could use a ride back to kava after if anyone’s going back that way ~ see some of you soon 💆‍♂️

it doesn’t matter what’s said; it’s the fact that we’re still here talking - quality doesn’t matter because the quantity is unknown

teach me how to understand my own book