Alpha Beta Questions

Extroverted pick-up artists: have you found a lasting satisfaction? 
Introverted closet-freaks: does self-imposed monogamy have you wondering “what if?” 
Alpha-humans: are there enough notches on your bedpost? have you found a peak that is high enough? Do you cherish the memories of past triumph and mourn their passing? Are you living a legacy or leaving it?
Beta-humans: Do you accept your current conditions? Do you feel that quality overrides quantity? Do you find yourself settling for any vista the mountain has to offer while others climb to the peak? Does competition leave you feeling defeated? How do you compensate?
Free-thinkers: do you feel that these concepts undermine your innate liberated state? Recognizing that something small can only exist beside something tall & someone loses only when another wins, how do you maintain your detached balance?

(Warning: mundane philosophical observations ahead)
There is no virtue in demonstrating competition. 

Practice is akin to a sharpening stone.

True competition is born from necessity. 

Only the resilient & adaptable will endure true competition.
Whether you fuck for sport or fondle for love, fight for glory or kill to survive, we all experience victory and defeat. 
In this way, our experiences are uniquely bonded: the predator and the victim are one as “all life feeds on life to live.” 
As physical beings, we fuck & fight our way through time ’til death while a weird starry-eyed serpent chokes down its own tail.

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In Memoriam of 2016

In memoriam of 2016.


You were a year. From start to finish, your sum is the increment of time occupying a calculable distance across space. You gave me the feeling of certainty. You convinced me that time is tangible.

Between you and me, you weren’t a bad year.

It helps me convert this collective mass of moments into a solid human aggregate. Put simply: I like to anthropomorphize the years.

Your name was Joey. You had a mole on your left cheek & a pencil-thin mustache. Your hair was parted in the middle where you’re been examining your hair loss every morning. You liked honey mustard on your hotdogs & you’d only masturbate on Sundays, for discipline. You had two pet mole rats & you’d feed them Ritz crackers and ice cream sometimes. You had a nervous habit of itching your belly button and smelling the lint. It smelled like crab cakes made with fake crab. You weren’t a bad man, but you had some ill-intentions that were well-disguised beneath a propensity for tipping 25% gratuity on lunch & dinner. You’d take food off your neighbors plate when he wasn’t looking. You were perpetually 10 minutes late for work and you lied to your dentist about flossing.


You spent your last day waiting quietly in the rain at a bus stop. You were wearing a wool blazer that had gradually been soaked through a leak in the skylight. The bus schedule had been changed without notice. You waited until hypothermia killed you blue.

Now that you’re over, I’m not so sure what I’ll do with this old calendar.

Even worse, now that you’re gone I’m not so sure about time.

Where does time live when there is no calendar to keep tabs on it?

I can’t get another 2016, Joey. I just can’t.
I spent a lot of time in 2016 forgetting about time.

You know what I accomplished? The cells in my body continued to grow & decay in strict relation to my surrounding environment. I observed these processes in unison. It sounded often like music, which I enjoyed halfway despite my immense boredom at classical arrangements.
There’s a lot I want to say to you now that you’re gone, Joey.
I wrote this poem for you:

They say that every rose has it’s thorn,
And every shape has its form.

Just like every clock has its hand
And every native lives on land.

Every candle has a wick
And every prostitute charges, even for a lick.

Every square has four corners, every circle has none
Each day lives through darkness, just like space holds every sun.

As a relative concept, time is pretty cool. It makes sense.

It’s something I can read. It lives in shadows and it’s written mostly on the wall.
2016’s abrupt end left a lot of questions lingering.

In an expanding universe, does time expand?

If so, do our clocks compensate for that expansion or does the watch shop sell expansion packs?

These things, I fear, we’ll never know by thinking.

So long & thanks for all the dust, 2016.

I’ll think of you during my next few bowel movements as the meat of the year filters out my intestines & swirls gradually down the porcelain highway to Shittsville.

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Working Title… Will Work For Clarity


I $ave the monie$ doing $hit I don’t really wanna do so I can do cool-a$$ $hit tomorrow. I spend working hours maintaining the distribution of awarene$$e$~

The hourglass in my wallet collects racks that are tracked by no watches, the moments are scoped without relativity, like grains of moments falling down a warped bottleneck of attentive grasping.

The passing time carries my cares under the bridge of regret and onward to lap the shores of silty revelation. These eyes watch the hills change during daylight, reminding that we live in a slowly melting painting.

Time is called money. I may not be clock wise, but I am subject to the same cycles as the everything.
Gravity and distance meet to dissolve all form, sleeping & creeping beautifully like a bloody red sun rolling behind deep ocean blues, there is no way to contain the need to feel, think, & do.

Conceptual hot air takes the winds from corporeal sails and leaves nothing more behind than a snails pace and trails of slime.
Are we living legacies or leaving them?

Destroying preconceptions is tough work, like sawing through sun-hardened driftwood roots to build a fire to cook on. I keep sawing and sawing ’til the sun goes down, the teeth on this small folding blade are becoming dull, my arms burn as I huff and puff, I wonder: is the effort I exert greater than the fuel I harvest?

Time is never wasted, but it can be utilized instead of fantasized.
For a perpetual daydreamer, this is a cornerstone to balance.

“Clarity is power.”

Rambly laymanphiloreligoslaughterosophy musing complete.


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Am I real yet?

In response to a post:

“There are many ways to fake authenticity but vibes don’t lie, habibi !!”
Sometimes, I say “have a nice day” but I don’t mean it. Sometimes I smile on the outside but I’m scowling inside. Why do I do this? Who does it help? 
When I act the way I feel, if it is coarse & negative, I find it to be passively injurious to others. So I mask my malaise & conceal my contempt in a vein effort to appeal to the senses & appear as though nothing is wrong. 
Sometimes I want to scream honesty in the face of lies but all I find is myself alone in the grocery store bathroom. Sometimes I think writing a shitty comment poem will resolve my dilemmas and make my strife appear to have purpose. 
Am I real yet?

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Long-Winded Midnight Rant #36: Intrepid Emissions of Insanity

am I the only one
who feels justifiably insane
around the clock?

Hand me a language built on opposites
point and name the objects before me
explain how to explain explanations with more words
one word implies another, generally in terms of polarity
good references bad
we call this “rational”, “logical”, and “acceptable” on a relative level
as opposed to “irrational”, “illogical” and “unacceptable” on an ultimate level

this form of communication
doesn’t hold a greasy candle
to a hard look in the eyes
keep your eyes on the prize
(the prize is you)
and you are fucking gorgeous

But still, we don’t see it;
don’t breast feed the babies,
give ‘em the bottle.
Is there not a whining child beneath all these layers
just begging for Mother’s Milk?

I can’t even ask such things because
some sexually repressed cocaine addict
named Freud
made a whole bunch of assumptions
weighing massive burdens down on upon all.

no, I don’t want to fuck my mother,
I just want some goddamn milk!

for once in this whole wretched wheel of life
I want to feel
that I actually belong in this skin
to feel
that someone understands
loves without expectations

But no, fuck no, we can’t go there
it’s too much emotion, that boy needs therapy
it must be chemical imbalance, yeah that’s the one

Oh, thinks he’s talking with God?
He says he sometimes reads the thoughts of others?
He believes he can conceive past lives and future events?
We’ll just file those altered perceptions under the heading:
schizophrenia… yes, the old shizotypal personality disorder
unveiled by psychedelic drug use
and exacerbated  by preexisting mental illness;
fractured ego, that one
he won’t accept the name we gave him
he keeps saying he’s eternal
and laughs when we ask him to name it
Let’s twist his words and style him a self-declared messiah

Send me your finest shrink
I’ll box his head right in with mine
blow for blow,
they’re boxers, I’m wildstyle
I’ve been there before
I’m here again
and it reminds me of a joke:
a psych ward patient claims to be Christ in form
and the psychiatrist claims to be a doctor
and they each think the other is crazy

Onto the next one
she can’t hold tight,
hanging loose all over the place
feeling strong tides of emotion
screaming, laughing, crying
perhaps she is bi-polar?
Those pendulum swings are awfully extreme.
We live in the land of polar opposites
she’s acting out the madness
while polar bears drown in salty water
and Americans drown
in salty French fries and salty margaritas

Does anyone else feel this way or am I alone here?
anyone? how about this,

what the fuck
is in this so-called food
they serve in these institutions?
You know, hospitals, jails, state schools…

You ever work in a corporate restaurant, deli, grocery store and see how much good food gets tossed?

Does anyone feel the rumbling of  stomachs ‘round the world?
does anybody hear the rumbling of the tectonic plates beneath their feet?
do you feel the sun dancing down on your shoulders?
the rain singing misty songs of ebb & flow?
the songs of birds in the morning air, leading a magnificent example for us all?

And now I am expected to do something about this perfect mess.
ALL ON ME, right Dad???
Old Uncle Sam, chewin skoal and drinkin Budweiser,
you fat bastard.
Hey Lady Liberty,
you dusty old pregnant bitch,
have you got something up that dress we can use for this?

(On the real, no disrespect meant to the *real* lady liberty,
Cleopatra / Mary Magdelene
The real lady liberty is not a statue.
Check the history.
Cleopatra and Caesar, sitting in a tree
making a secret baby named
Gnosic Gospels have been discredited
because knowledge has been discredited
the word Gnostic
is derived from Gnosis
meaning, “to know”
as in “Gnothi Seauton”
“Know Thyself”)

Damn fucking straight, I’ve lost it, gone off, scattered the marbles.
I’ll be sorted out by morning, don’t worry about it.
Snowballs can make avalanches, folks. It all starts with awareness.

The air tastes like aluminum particles
Now, what the fuck was I doing again?
Oh right, back to Mother’s Milk
nectar of the universe:

Om Mani Peme Hung

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America Rant #1

Fuck you.

I love you.

Geographically speaking, I’m from the East Coast.
New England, specifically. It’s frosty over there.
The kids cope with cold through liquor & dope. The usual.
Don’t act so surprised! They got that habit from your parents.
Don’t believe me? C’mon, let’s take a walk through the park.
No, I’m not here to blow your mind on some shock-and-awe content ejaculation.
I’m here to talk about what’s bothering me. Listen up or leave off.

I hear a lot of blame directed at the poor.
They are lazy. They live off the middle class. May be true, may be false. So… who created this system?
How are y’all gonna question social welfare before corporate welfare?
Do you know where all that money goes?
I’ll give a hint: they both end up on the block; one sells pills & one sells bundles.

Fuck you.
I love you.

Man, we’ve been walkin’ these same God lovin’ city blocks since Sodom and Gomorrah. Oh Babylon, you beautiful bitch, you’re always headed to rubble; always burning.
Nothing has changed! It’s always been you & me.
I sat under that Bodhi tree for seven days; wept for five.
I was there when they nailed you to wood. Remember?
Here we are again. I’m still standing.
Every-here, it’s the same houses. Same city. Same conflict. Same lie.
The only new things are the bricks and the names.

See, I have this bad taste in my mouth from everything.
This town, this city, this so-called “park”. It’s all trash.
Don’t believe me? Then what is it made of?
What happens when nobody comes around to upkeep it?
The water is dead. The air is dead. The earth is paved over.
We don’t build fires anymore.
No elemental contact. What is it that makes us human today?
What is it that separates us from the animals?
It’s not technology & ingenuity, no no, don’t you dare take credit for another mans invention. If you can’t own the bad shit, then you can’t take credit for the good shit! It doesn’t work that way.
A trick answer: we are the animals.
We are not separate; we go to great lengths trying to convince ourselves otherwise. Nothing is independent.

Fuck you.
I love you.

Hey man, don’t get upset, this is my home too. I did this too.
I love it here. All of it.
The whimsical whine of the train as it creases its way through city skyline folds.
That look of lusty love in her eyes with that yoga-pants butt bouncing down the concrete steps.
Damn, I love it!
Even the gore; the man with a mask, deranged smile in his dark eyes as he saws through the connective tissue in my neck bones. I scream every time.

“Yeah, I held the knife. He is infidel. I had to.”

“Yeah man, I was just working on the war story. I was going big ’til I lost my head off that last scoop!”

Fuck you.
I love you.

Be-headings are real old school man, don’t believe the hype!
That shit’s been around since before the block was square.
Same with riots. You think Baltimore invented that trick?
Hell no!
We learned how to bust a block down before there ever was a town to rip up. We’ve been bad since before Genghis Kahn was raping Taoist Nuns.
We’ve been slangin’, hangin’, and bangin’ since we all had one area code: Pangea.
It’s a human thing.
It’s not a motherland thing. It’s a Gaia thing.
Fire eat wood; cosmic snake swallows tail; as we slay we nourish.
Yeah, I’m going to spit some hippie shit.
This is a whole planetary organism, Gaia, Planet Earth,
capable of omniscient sentience, an aspect of universal self-awareness that is our legacy.
It is the logical arrival of consciousness; to know until there is no more knowing.
We get a piece of this planet but we recently took more than our share.

Where am I from? Right here.
After that distinction, I’m from Planet Earth.
After that, I’m from space,
made up of the same stuff as brain sharts & star sex.
Before that… well shit, I’m nothing.

Now that I might have your attention,

Oh, right. You probably do.
Let’s re-examine the “problem”.
So… there is a group of radicalized religious zealots.
Okay. They’re killing anyone outside their belief system.
And they are taking the whole planet over!
Woah, woah, woah, what you mean, guy?
They’re having six wives with six kids each,
and they’re training to shoot us down.
Hmm. Sounds scary.

But, you know what’s real scary?
I can’t sleep.
Here’s why,
some 300 years ago, a bunch of Pirates dressed like Pilgrims packed up shop in England and hit the open seas.
They went under the classic guise of “fleeing religious persecution”, but the whole thing was funded by a sense of material conquest, i.e. escaping financial persecution.
The top English bulldog got too fat & heavy from eating most of the food so a few scrappy mutts crossed the railroad tracks & tangled with some Natives to eat their own.
They carried the same habits as the Bulldogs.
Okay, I realize a few of these dogs were loyal, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still dogs. Dirty ones at that.
They forgot their original home along with their original religion & went seeking a master in some Anthropomorphic Deity, aka “God”.
Thomas Jefferson, bless his heart, may have been the only clearly realized individual in the whole cabinet.
This “God” guy gave them a permission slip to slit redskin throats and take whatever they wanted under the pretext of “civility”, “political correctness”, and “manifest destiny”.
Their efforts to domesticate the seemingly wild native were in vein. The native rage has merely been placated. Don’t believe me? Check out a State Penitentiary in Montana.

With free license to expand unchecked, we quickly boxed ourselves in.
Agricultural waste pollutes the rivers, factories pollute the skies, garbage barges drop shit in the ocean. The seals are slicked in oil. You see where I’m going.

We’re all hopped up on Muslim Haterade because we can’t even take a fucking look at ourselves?
Our home is dying. The largest threat to National Security is ourselves.
It’s that simple.

How do we stop? Right here, right now.
This computer. Plastic.
This phone. Plastic.
These shoes. Plastic.
That car. Plastic.
That fuel. Petroleum.
This shampoo. Petroleum.
This hash oil. Petroleum.

This is our home but we have to pay to be here? No.
It’s hard to break away from. It’s hard to break. It’s hard.
Dead dinosaurs are laughing at our extinction.
The Muslims aren’t killing us. We are killing ourselves.
And it’s not even global warming!
It’s simple toxins, EVERYWHERE. The pacific ocean is a prime example.
In the water, in the air, in our food.
Slowly we succumb to laziness, ignorance, & toxicity.

So, when are we gonna get together?
Unify all colors.
I mean ALL colors.
This is our heritage. This is our home.
This land belongs to all beings.
The lines in the sand mean nothing to the whole beach.
We can heal, but first we must see clearly.

Feel free to rip me to shreds now, you gang of scared-ass wolves.
Burn me down fast & I’ll rise again faster.
This isn’t war. This is love.
I’ve been here before. I see the fear in your heart.
I’ll never stop loving you.
No man, I’m not Jesus.
I’m just another motherfucker, caring from within.

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A Brief Diarrhea on Trimmigrant Labor & Cynicism

A Brief diarrhea on Trimmigrant Labor & Cynicism:

Might as well be working on a corn farm stuffing my face with polenta for all the good this lifestyle is doing me.

“Woah man, you’re not being safe.
Better hit this hash.”
*cough* –COUGH– ***COUGH***
my face feels hot and
(complacency drives me around the block
without ever going anywhere)
I can’t find the words through my mouth to express the trip I’m on
so the pen, the key, & the brick wall MUST DO!

“Safety meeting! Come on kids!”
“Take it to the head!”
*cough* –COUGH– ***COUGH***
(don’t be a bitch)

I’m on a mary-go-round for Jah knows how long;
uncured weed shits down the chutes ‘n ladders
of my respiratory tract.
I hack it up & spit ‘dem blood-clot demons out.
Expectorants expect mucous projectiles.
Painting the ground with lung slime,
I digress. I complain. I wheeze.

With a successfully developed mush-mind,
I explore the Void and nearly drown,
(hill crazy is just past the next switchback)
long hours under lamps give way to existential emissions-
I pause, settle, realize,
“Wow! This is a very clearly conceived confusion.
I fully comprehend how little I understand.”

No philosophy. No meditation.
Suchness pervades.

A thought persists:

Psychedelic cash crop farming.
Cutting through layers of green.
Where does all this money really go?
Who is Babylon? Where is Babylon?
Are we building it up or burning it down?

I’ve got to hurry down and slow up;
my legs & knees are soft from sitting down so long.
Gotta hit the trail soon.
My shoulders & neck are stiff.
Someday I’ll read a good book.
My pupils are stone cold & mossy,
secretly trimming trees with invisible scissors.

(yes, this is my brain on drugs) ((NA, keep steppin’))

I love the life but I confuse the means & the end.
Which begets which?
With all this green money, is it up to us to do ourselves in?

Ah shit. I don’t know. I’m just a migrant worker.
Time to get back to clipping.
I crave sunshine. I yearn for calm breezes.

A silver light shines although the moon isn’t mine;
I am thankful to have a job.
I am grateful to live a vacation.

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