i just wrote to stacey about how i'm like that guy from the movie, american beauty. i'm the slightly stiff, mildly autistic yet good-looking stoner with the fat sack of moist and sticky gov-ment issue fer sale.
i could be traumatized
i could be crazy
yep. i'm just like that dude, except i'm too lazy and self-conscious to take a camera outside and get all zen about an airborne plastic bag. por favor. nope, i'd much rather experience the sweet torture of walking down the street, seeing shit, and having to tell myself--over and over in that scolding, interior monologue voice of mine-"i should be filming this, goddammit, what the fuck is wrong with me i should be filming this".
(you see i get kicks from scolding myself)
(i even feel bad when i use parenthesis, like whatever i have to put in them isn't really worth it)
(hence i use parenthesis every chance i can get)
gorgeous, unbelievable things happen all the time in this city. each second contains millions of beginnings, middles and ends.
actually, an event doesn't happen as much as it revolves, slowly, like a piece of plastic floating in space
it reveals itself through an infinity of angles.
truth, after all, is a mirror ball.
and i'm doubled over on the dance floor.
split in half and disintegrated
calling forth the derivative personalities that colonize my life
with a teeming industriousness that's ENCODED.
they are like worker ants,
or show horses
each one overcome by a sense of cursed exhuberance
that is pre-installed at the factory.
route one auto mall