to perfectly capture the environment i tread upon, i cannot find a single word. at the work, on a chair, pre-programmed songs play forth continuously; i suppose it's good writing music. oh how my veins will really be flowing! but to hear Vivaldi's; "le quattre staggione," that is truly a writing piece. hell, i could masturbate to that song, or else, fondle a sweet girl under a large cypress tree...
i will sit for more, three hours, until i am permitted to exit and retire to my home, my automobile needs gas. i must go to the station and fill her up, that sweet little vixen. i have a name for her, my car, she is Julia; her entire body is blue and she always runs, her cunt is mixed of bolts, wires, and oil semen. i owe alot to her, i've had alot of revelations inside of dear Julia, and i always steer her in the right directions.
the afternoon of yesterday, to the house of my grandmother, to watch my sister play in the swimming pool with our cousin. my uncle, presenting me with a series of questions; "do you go to church with your parents, what are you studying?" i gave him the answers, yet he tells me, he hopes i can find some ground, some basis for growing, and hopes that i can find the lord. because, as he says, "life is hard enough without him." but i do not think so. my life is fine, is peaceful, is easy. i am not religious, and i choose not to be. but it's for alot the populace that they need something they can hope for. i am at peace just simply sitting on Julia's lap and driving her past the river. oh Julia, do i love you! so what has just passed, a coworker, a woman, her name is Roma, always bitch fitting about her work, those dumbass managers, the fucked up store we occupy. i cannot hear what she says, because everytime that i see her, i always think of Roma, that city i once saw, that city park, blocks away was the colosseum, and i remember as i sat next to Darrah at the Rome park, trees abound, shade abound, and how i miss that Rome park, yet some aspects of that city can be shit, can reek of vermin, yet how i miss waiting for the bus, being allowed only two inches of space, and seeing the graffitti for lesbian liberation. and how i miss Firenze, the coffee shop, the girl who worked there, her beautiful black hair and how her eyes pierced me so. i miss you Florence, i miss you Rome. i will go back someday. i will see you someday again. now, nothing more to say, nothing more to think. i will again listen to the repetitive whispers of tired songs on the company speakers.
goodbye my home......

a celebratory dinner for a birthday, night out at a somewhat debenoir restaurant, one large table, twenty odd, people sitting with each other. formally dressed, i, with a shirt on that muttered the phrase; "have you ever felt so goddamned alive?" before that, arriving to my friend's, to pick him up, so he could accompany me to this dinner. but let me backtrack to when i was at his house...he, working on a certain computer programming for his summer class, the lights in his room were off, the rain outside was pouring down, the thunder was beating down, and the humidity shone through his windows. i fell asleep while he sat there as programmer, i drifted for twenty minutes, into what seemed like hours upon hours of quiet, still rest. i cannot remember the dreams i had or the visions i saw, but when i awoke, i felt somewhat renewed, as if it was morning and that my day was just beginning....it had rained all day, it would continue for the remainder...
quesadilla at debenoir restaurant, a little overpriced, and left me feeling still on an empty stomach, i would want my arteries clogged, i would want myself to experience again, the ultimate shit, a feeling of rebirth after i had just finished mealtime, but nothing...only eight glasses of caffeine, and a two minute long piss...
stares at beautiful girls at the table, opening to conversation from one lass that was sitting across from me...indian or something, i remember her name, Sydra. well, i had nothing to say, just what i like to do, at the moment, she could have added to my interests of what i WOULD LIKE to do, my still awkwardness pumping away in my pale chest with nothing to think to say...Sydra, it was my pleasure to see you that night at the after party, and to see your eyes watching me at times, resting on the dark couch, it was my pleasure to see you there watching me, and i could have made the choice to befriend you, but it was a chance that i had come upon you in debenoir restaurant and nothing more...
i was supposed to write a poem for the young lady i was there to celebrate with, her eighteenth year of living, of not dying. i wanted to make something with a tree, about how large their branches grow as the years pass, and how bountiful they become with leaves, how ripe their bosoms are, being able to survive for hundreds of years alone in empty forests, yet ending their legacy after being cut down by the smallest blade....you are a tree, the darkest, and most beautiful in the forest, your forest stands empty with the greenest grasses, and the yellowest of sunflowers, your branches continue, ever growing, your leaves give the imprint of life as you age and age and age. yet, you could not be cut down, for you always remain as that innocence of youth that will remain with you and become as part of the atmosphere that sustains breathing and loving. there is your poem, you are a tree, and i adore you..."have you ever felt so goddamned alive," i felt at a loss of words, driving home from it all, the night sky, the passing by of city, the passing by of cars, of empty buildings, the stereo in my car, the ambient music pouring forth from all creation, from my speakers, the stars shone brightly to me, and maybe there were not any stars shining yesternight, but i felt as so, for my star is always shining, winking to me, looking to me from the darkness of horizon and swimming with the gold texture of white tinted moon. but i can not find it yet, it has found me, but i have yet to seek it, and to grab it with my hands. i have yet to reach for it, to squeeze my star, and to fuck it....
i hope this is the longest post yet, back from party, dropping off my friend back to his home, another lonely drive, yet hopeful, for i had always my star that i am ever searching for, i am wanderer, thinker, reveler, and i am human...i fuck up and i shout obscenities, and i am shy, and i make overanalyzations, and i am always full of hope, but i cannot understand why? because i always have that hope, that red heart shaped hope that i will look my star in the eyes one day, and grab it with my two hands, and take my mouth and breathe on my star, i hope it to be the coldest of nights, one where when i respirate, i can see the outline of my breathing exit from my mouth, and i will take my star and kiss it, and wrap my saliva around my star, and i may feel the wet saliva of star in my mouth....
back to my home at late hours to start a movie, and with hopes to write something, but i had not the balls to write until this hour, and now that i have writ, it seems as mumbled garbage......

I AM LOST OH STAR! YOU SOUGHT ME AND HAVE CAME FOR ME, I HAVE NOT YET COME FOR YOU, BUT ONE DAY, WHEN I AM MIDDLE AGED, OR STILL YOUNG, OR EVEN VERY OLD, I WILL FIND YOU OH STAR, AND WE WILL FUCK, AND I WILL FEEL YOUR STARLIGHT AND YOUR RAYS LIGHT MY BODY, AND YOU WILL BIRTH INSIDE ME AND WE WILL BOTH LIGHT THE SKIES....

situated in front of a theatre; my ass, struggling on a bench, feeling the awkward movements for i cannot sit still. thanks that this pen should work, should function as a correct wrting utensil. cars pass by to see the showtimes at the cinema, and i suppose, they look to the movie billboard with a certain hope as to see a way as to pass the day. i concur that i could be anywhere; in a park, at a zoo, in my own home, and i would still be unaware, as the others, as how to pass my time. some girls have passed by; wet cunts and plastic tans, oiled as the model dolls that they are. my bilingual brain splatters thoughts that allow me to have scripted mindfucks that i have played in my head before, one thousand times previously. behind me are two delicate cunts, fragile if you will...
now, my unvirginized eyes, my unvirginized mind, gives me a fictionalized and soothing lapdance, that i become erect to and cannot control, that will end only when i have received a laying or a good body massage. my words are prostitutes, are whores, for they move their wettened mouths and splatter on this paper as a lake of orgasms. my whorey words, they suck and blow, and speak to me in obscenities, gracing their tongues inside of my ears, and i cannot find myself to sleep, i a situated in the comfort of erect metaphors lying next to me at my bedside. an instructor read over my lines once and muttered potential, but saying i lacked depth or something. but i enjoy to write in metaphor, because i cannot give you the complete picture, for my thoughts twist and turn; wild vines decorate them and rain sprinkles down from the Amazon. it is my mind that has always a rainy season to it...
from the speakers of a car, pours out rap, and/or hip hop, i am unaware of the difference. i would rather hear reggae. i stare at car man as i sit, fat cheeks, yellow collar, gold watch. he pulls back in reverse as if parked in front of a brothel, waiting to find himself seduced. how long his car will sit there, i do not know; i suppose he finds himself amusing sitting there...he had just left. now, there is stillness...and wait, he returns, with a different, still shitty song pouring out from his shit speakers, pouring out from his shit automobile....a couple walks by with plans of eating a pepperoni pizza for dinner. i become tired of waiting here, i cause myself to look like a bum that has perched himself on a bench like a bird; pecking away in a notebook his thoughts to himself, because he has no one but his diary to befriend him and to tuck him in at night. i will sit a few minutes more, and if my friends do not arrive, i will leave to a house of my other friend. if ths could be a book, let this be chapter one, and let it be entitled; "cinema bench, claustrophobic ass." i had paid twelve dollars for this moleskin notebook, a bum would never do this, nor an anarchist, nor anyone of sanity. a bum would steal, an anarchist would steal, and a sane person would see this book as a waste. therefore, i conclude myself to be an insane capitalist that enjoys spending twelve dollars on moleskin journals, and rambling confused, perversed thoughts to find some sense in himself. prognosis, negative. i have finished, i have birthed chapter one. my ass has become chapped. now, i will leave...

my leg writhes, struggles, aches in pain. for i cannot tell who i am or what i have become. a pulled muscle hinders me from moving at a rapid pace. and now these words squirm out of me, as i am seated at the work this hour. i may choose to do nothing, or perhaps i could put away clothes and accessories. i am unsure of the events that will follow, but my leg screams and gnaws at me with each ferverish step; not a subtle meow as from a kitten, but a roar, a gasping cry from a dying whale. my aching muscle is a sign of my soul that longs to free itself from repetition of body, and yearns to open its gills in a clear ocean; circling the depths, but being free to surround itself, to immerse itself in liberated waters. as i struggle to clarify this meaning, grease appears on my hands, for i have taken an order for a water softener, and situated it into the work bin. i will wash my hands, but only when my mind has finished jissing this lost thought onto paper. i conversed with a dame today, a girl that i once knew, that i once fucked multiple times. but her soul was dead; only money she says can free her from depression, can buy her complete happiness; which left me scarred, and i suppose somewhat melancholy for the remainder of my day. that i had realized what a fool she was, and what kind of artificial cage she had found herself in. her soul, trapped in an artificial zoo, while mine being plagued by an existential crisis, as if i have just reached middle age and do not know whether to live or lose oxygen. my humour is dark i suppose, but i try to write honestly, for verbal languages cannot express what tears my mind or builds my thought process into gigantic towers only waiting to be crushed by the slightest blow. my hands will reek of grease vermin, i must wash them, and i suppose my tumorous leg will heal, and i suppose my thoughts. the day, full of sun, full of air, yet for me, a lurid piece of shit. i cannot express more......

often times i do sit down, and i do think. that i am alone, that i have family, that i am loved, that i have friends, and that i am aware of my alienation. sitting in a restaurant, small town, population 600, surrounded by one side of my family, celebrating birthday...i felt depressed, felt completely blank, yet so aware, and alive at the same time, that those who were surrounding me were my relations, yet at the same time, an innumerable dread fell over me....like i was surrounded by some mist, my vision was blind for a time, and i felt almost like crying, like letting my face get wettened...i went to the bathroom in the restaurant, and pissed, i wanted myself to feel something, but all i could feel was the sprinkler system of piss pouring out of me...i had a hunger, as i had not eaten almost the whole day, when i got my food, i suppose i felt a little better, yet again, some time from now, i will feel as i did...
maybe someone will travel to meet me and we will be best friends...i sat in the car and stared out the window into cloudy skies, lightning appearing, electricity of atmosphere, i breathed in and out, and in and out...
i found myself at home, to my friends for conversation, only an hour this time, back home, a shit in the toilet...
i have alot of things i could say at this point, well not say, but to merely express on electronic paper what is running through my head as of yet, but i feel like i can type no more, and i should perhaps save this for tomorrow...
ahhhhhhhhhh and 91 years is a lifetime....

da una parte e dall'altra

i must talk about this walk i went on in the afternoon. with a friend, by the riverfront, a few bums were out, old men, no one else. one interesting thing to note was the factory and situated right next to it, a volleyball court, i can't fathom why it had to be placed by such a shit stain of a factory...the trees stirred, the birds chirped, and the swaying cotton balls filled our lungs as we walked slowly beside the river and on the trails of city park. approximately an hour before that, i was seated in a Greek restaurant, my mouth wetting to the textures of pita, the spice of two dressings, with the complements of quality chicken, tomatoes, lettuce, and cheese. i feel so bad for not having a camera, or else i would have captured what i was eating with a foto. it was complete, my stomach felt whole after that meal, and for a time, i was confident that i would not use the bathroom, but not even 40 minutes later, i found myself in a bathroom in a work out center by riverfront...the mother of all shits found my ass situated on a milk coloured toilet seat...ahhhhh how i wished i could have been in a bathroom with a fireplace, dim lights, and Vivaldi playing or something. that is the shit of dreams...after, continue to walk on riverfront, already mentioning the whore of a factory, and the decrepid volleyball station...fast forward to work at later hours, coming home to a nice taco salad..end of day, one shit, two meals, 4 hours of droning work, and 9 hours of sleep....
thanks to myself for a riveting day...
it was much appreciated.....

i will repeat exactly as the last day that i wrote about repetition. myself again at the pc, sitting and hearing music. there is a window right next to where i am sitting, so i can, i must look out to see the outside world of other houses and neighbours. i can also see the mailman as he drives past the box and clutters, stuffs mail into....its funny that when you are up high, you can see things from below, and everything looks so small, like insects, or something smaller that only a microscope could trace as existing. at precisely 5pm, i will be situated at the work, maybe steadily conversing, maybe doing absolutely nothing, until then, i am in this chair, sitting on my ass, maybe i would pick up a book and read it for the second time again; is milan kundera's "the unbearable lightness of being," a good read, a must have. how one can find the psychological effects of love and fate being wrapped in a good 300 pages, is a work of a czechian genius. i sit here, with the television going in the background, so i can have noise, clogging my lobes, as i listen to dead words from dead people that are alive only on a screen...eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek.
i had a stirring talk with an austrian girl yesternight, she was drunk, and i was sober. it was on the computer camera, telling me 30 times to move in with her and her friend. my mind being perverse, well, i am a man you see, so...my mind being perverse, thinking about fucking, sucking, and touching. the idea sounded genuine, sounded nice....it's certainly something to consider.
moreso, when i am not horny, hungry, or asleep, how is my personality? i am a food person, that likes to try different culinary food, combinations of succulent meats, cheeses, vegetables, and pastries. i like to have that passion. more so, i seem to find passion in sexual thinking, but i am still a virgin, although at the same time not, because my mind does not think as so. and when i am sleeping i am certainly not a virgin, for i have fucked many dames. funny how i can still feel orgasm in my dreams. funny how i can feel a real body in my head..
woooooo, it must be something to do in reality.....
something i'm still waiting to feel..
curiosity had killed the cat...
something had made its way through the pussy...

as of now, i have gotten out of bed, arriving off of my matress, i'd say 10 am or something. the majority of the day was spent sitting at the pc and listening to music. it did not agree for me to step outside, as the temperature approached 90 degrees, hotter than the ass of hell. open the windows, let the sun inside, but it's difficult when there is no wind. i would prefer not to get sunburnt on a day hot as a flame. eating fast food is always nice, but a feeling of being a fat bastard always haunts me afterwards that i have finished consuming...but i cannot blame myself, because i admit that i am a capitalist, and i cannot change anything about that. that is a problem among people, the ones that are radical, they think they can change something, but they could not live without money. it's very hypocritical, but do i know anything? no! maybe someone i know read these posts and accused me of plagiarizing, but i have not copied a single word. because it appears to him that he is smart, but the logical words for him here, is that he is a SMART ASS. i'd rather be a capitalist, then being some fucking bum, without college experience and a shitty job, making under the minimum wage. being radical is only half the fun, not the WHOLE of the experience. i have angered feelings. i have really happy feelings. and they are different every day....i worked this evening, there wasn't anything to do, but it did thunder outside, it did rain, something greater than a howl, something explosive, a thunderstorm as the tumor of the sky...but was nice to watch, and i went for a swim outside, as i had to go out and gather shopping carts, i went, i dove, and i came out of the waters with 100 pounds of sky spit on my clothes. people asked why i had been so wet, i replied simply saying that i had went scuba diving outside into a waterfall. oh great.
now, i am back in the confines of home, listening, talking, soon i will sleep, and i suppose the same repetition will occur for me that has happened today..