acquired a new journal and two books:

The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac,

and The Ethical Slut by  Dossie Easton and Catherine A. Liszt.

*~*~i predict a rise in the continuity of meditation, writing, reading, and sex in my immediate future.~*~*

sneaking on high rise downtown rooftops with a young Bodhisattva, speaking quietly about numerology, translating his spanish poems of a hometown in mexico,  while legs swing softly over the ledge. listening to the silence, breathing freely.

life is beautiful.

now my life is sweet like cinnamon

like a fuckin dream i’m livin in

pick me up and take me like a vitamin

cos my body’s sweet like sugar venom

all i wanna do is keep climbing, and keep working.

climbing will keep me sane and working will buy me expensive lingerie and new climbing gear.

i think i’ve got it figured out.

I SING the Body electric; 
The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them; 
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, 
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the Soul.

nothing left to offer you. unlike other players in the game, with their late night accusations and thousand page tomes of indignities forged in alcohol flavored tears and pathetic self-indulgence. it can’t be a contest of form or function, not at this age. it can’t be anything more that what it already is. and that’s something i’m woefully incapable of defining.

i waited in the snow for four hours as if only a few moments had passed. i heard the laughter of twenty people i’d never meet. i caught the faintest breeze of your scent. i saw a million stars raining on my parade, quiet and in lockstep with an impending doom i know so well. i whispered syllables unabashedly and with passion. my eyes infernos of nothing in particular, only moments i’d soon lose my grasp on.

don’t blame me for remembering, hate me for forgetting.

(Source: killmorecopsnow.blogspot.com)

revise a storytelling wrought in a thousand broken firing synapses.
imperatively you’ll write things down that haven’t seen the light of day since weeping was in fashion.
don’t cry the story, it leaks out. open the faucet.
simply think: “goodnight.”