WHY ARE THERE SO MANY WEIRD CULTISTS?

• All butchers must give up their firstborn, in service to the blood god.
• All haberdashers are in secret alignment with the gods of fate. The seams will hold or fail as they must, not as they should.
• Children in bad homes know but one sure way to escape: swear yourself in service perpetual to the Jolly Queen of Sugarplum Fairies. This has long been her readiest supply of mortal servants.
• Almost all itinerant tinsmiths and sharpeners of shears swear secret oaths to peculiar gods.
• Widows sometimes hear the whispering of things long dead.

a quiet place, abandoned - far western oklahoma

the fading, rusting memory
of inconsequential recent history
a galvanized tower now owned only by ants

Horror exposed expression, emitted and remitted.

Collegiate briefly learn. Yearn and finally find release.

Relief always purchased in future pain. If it even waits that long.

-_▪]•○▪¤□○♢☆

Middling bending trilling along
So long
Wizard eye, <(●)>°•○▪¤☆
Wizard sleep.
Cloud the present, pain and all,
Via milky crystal ball.

Seen past dreams of whiskey streams.
I broke across the happy fog
Of memory distant longs
For release
Too sweet.

Pseudo Manifesto

To all my libertarian friends (and anybody else that wants me to be ashamed of poverty)

First, by your own values I owe you nothing. However, I have to live with me so I consider politics and morality on the reg.

I am not ashamed of being poor. A lot of how I got here had to do with shame and fear, but let me lay it out plainly:

Your position does not give you exclusive license to morality, to a sense of worth.

I need help right now. My family needs help right now. I’ll stop accepting help just as soon as I don’t need it. In the meantime, I’ll figure out how I can help. Why wouldn’t I?

Well why don’t you just get a job?
1. I am not physically capable of performing any of the dead end jobs I could land.
2. I have a job. I work. All the time. It’s words and images I shape, but it is work nonetheless.
3. If I were to go to work at Walmart, what would it land me?
  a. A great deal of pain.
  b. Possibly slightly more money than I make as a starving artist.
  c. Spending 40+ hours a week in abject misery.

I’ve done all that already. (And when I was a libertarian I participated in NO entitlement programs, you asshole conservatives with EBT cards…)Fuck that. And importantly, I cannot do these jobs.

With government assistance, Sharaya and I can keep the kids and ourselves fed, clothed, and reasonably happy. With little help from family, we are currently sheltered. My words draw in enough money to more or less cover the rest… not that very much more is actually necessary.

Is it the misery that makes the work valid?

Without government assistance? … well that is a scary prospect.

But what about theft? GOVERNMENT HAS BEEN IS STEALIN’
The things you more successful folks have created, were not created in a vacuum. You had help whether you liked it or not.

Trying to decide how much of everything everyone deserves out of everything all the time seems like a crazy fucking way to live.

No wonder I was so fucking tired and angry as a Randian.

So instead, everybody pay in. There is a social safety net.

Without being totally concerned about whether or not our children starve, myself and many others are free to swing for the fences with new and exciting ideas. The people more concerned with certainty are still allowed to act like that. You are still free to generate gross amounts of wealth… just nobody has to die in the fucking streets.

Do you not see that without that safety net, our lives are significantly more dangerous and less free?

Do you really think that $8 /hr you got for flipping burgers in high school was solely created by you?

Do you believe that your inheritance is somehow earned exclusively by you, if you have such a luxury? By what? The accident of birth? Was smiling at great grandma actually, factually worth several million dollars?

Anyway, I’m not ashamed of where I am. I am trying to get better, be better.

I’m also willing to help you, if I can (and if you’d let me).

So anyway before leveling that most horrid accusation that I am nothing but a terrible blight on your bright futures, some fucking leech to your otherwise shining success…

Before you do that, please take a step back.

And go ahead and fuck your own face off.

Love and Void,
Evey -_-]

Nihilistic Zen...

Who I am... am I? I am?

The moments exist.
That they're not very important is in itself an unimportant observation maybe.

To be useful. Useful. Useful.

Fuck. It implies valuation.

So does living.

Fuck.

Inorganic granite pink.

The color of knuckles and concrete.

A naked eye. Some ragged claws.

Aware surviving unfair.

Do they sleep or not sleep?

Sometimes Panic

Sometimes the panic turns,

spinning into accomplishment and excitement and worth.

Sometimes it does not.

Sometimes, today is a dead weight to be endured,

a time of darkness, tied in back of a van, as streetlights race in mocking lines across the filthy carpet, moving without will, without hope, under another’s impetus.

Sometimes it, it’s pitch black closets after the giggles were forced away, duct tape peeling painful free from skin.

Waiting. Laughter turns to terrified coals in my chest, impossible to express.

This will be a funny story later.

Black eyes become jokes and unsubtle warnings.

Love and safety only flow through very narrow lanes.

Both are lies.

Both are truths, poorly considered.

It just takes time. Finite terrible time.

Sometimes panic turns to memory to terror to breathless present.

Forgetting that this is not for always.

Not for always.

A wink of a blink in a cosmic sneeze.

Sometimes panic.

What else would there be?

flying fuck b/w rolling donut

vision blurs like glass tiles
in opulent office spaces 20 years ago
eyes thrumming to a staccato beat
pencil necked geek from some
record I don't remember

this is how I fall apart

I imagined it would be like coming home
sliding into sleep
But not asphyxiation
It wasn't even sexy

I can't get the pencil to fit
broke the lead
Still trying

Two scars like track marks all it bought me...

Memories hollow hope, nihilistic zen behind bars

Bend Bend Bend

This is how I fall apart



A dress not that dainty
but nice.
A wife not that dainty
but nice
A life not that dainty
but nice

Hate sits in the living room.
Hate needs to see the news,
at one at five and two.

Hate stares through me with dead eyes.

I was riding out the wrong side of a mediocre high.

Pain is mine.
Personal property, like a medical bracelet.
Always close, an epipen.
Something unlikely in case of overdose.

In a dress.

This is how I fall apart.

Slide down, the bell curve and sigh
Wrong end of a one way line
Riding on ghosts of embers of wisps of smoke
Wrong side of today.

Wish I was high rather than alive.

this morning on the swing

Spiritual significance clung like a cloying stench,

Daylight to Nimbus to daylight

What then?

Beauty revealed in a burn heap

What then?

Sirens signaling the signal can yet be signaled

What then?

Superfluous.

Cosmic Tragedy takes a back seat

The sun shines, the dog sniffs about,

Leaves crumble under feet.

Smile.

Is it any less real since the fire came from a bottle?

Functionally it is the same.

As authentic as my meat computer can get… 

shadow stache

The tiles were arranged so organically, were it not for the phosphorescent hues and contrast, one might take it as a natural occurrence.

The rainbow stone tiles, as the men took to calling it, returned light with surreal intensity at each of their many haphazard edges.

Without the use of chemical enhancements and calculatory engines, we might never have so much as understood the tiles’ purpose. Certainly our crude deciphering would have been impossible.

The language is reflexive. Each placement and subtle shift of hue, thickness, or spacing changes all meaning. The availability and variation of the medium affected what could be said and how….

Yet they found the means to express whichever it was they meant! Their written tongue was absolute art! Technical Manuals have brought me to weeping bliss.

The subtly and complexity of thought necessary to employ such a variable tongue astounds me to this moment. Even after all we have seen.

at least there is this

I needed something beautiful today.

I'm so glad this exists. Few have captured the beauty of everyday living as well as John K. Samson.

The Weakerthans broke open my brain so long ago.

The shining smile of parking lots, shadows, and dive bars... may it never leave me.

I took a moment to put on makeup and present a face to the world I wanted to see.

My mistake.

I expected only a few things to fuck up this morning.

I only anticipated 45 minutes for what should have been a 30 minute trip.

My bad.

Ten minutes. Ten minutes too late.

The construction doesn't matter. How I was blocked in and had to fight through, and then close gates, does not matter.

I do not matter.

I needed this and failed once again.

fuck

exhaustion

I’m so tired. Living exhausts me, day to day.

I understand privation, now more than ever. I had everything taken from me because I look strange*. *Which is to say, I exist outside a meaningless mathematical mean. How silly a thing about which to be concerned?

As to whether or not I get to keep my everything now, remains to be seen.

I’m so fucking tired of telling the tale. I’m so fucking tired of remembering it was real. I’m so fucking tired of nightmares with police.

I am so fucking tired… tired of smiling abuse. Tired of dreading doorbells.

So tired of this, so tired of them, especially.

Old names and wrong genders grate like a hair shirt. So tired of smiling and silent abuse.

I get it. You wish I wasn’t here, wish I wasn’t strong, wish I was not real. I am, though.

You hate me. That’s fine. I don’t really care about you. Just, it’s the way you are. You are so fucking exhausting.

Fuck you, Arkansas. Fuck you.

Don’t even get me started on Oklahoma.

Cupcake Wizard and the Bully, Preludes 1.

His morning started too early, always. Kevin didn’t really remember a time when he wasn’t tired.

Cats moaned in gross excess of sex outside his windows. A hollower version of similar sounds echoed from his stepdad’s room. Jim was watching porno again, or maybe he was just passed out with the Skinemax blaring.

Broad fingers and chewed nails rubbed his eyes.

Kevin sat up, cross legged in bed. His heavy arms draped across a big and freckled belly. He yanked a sheet over top of him.

It could not stop the sounds of the city nor the lights outside his window nor even the crickets, but it helped. He sat like that for quiet hours as anger slowly swelled inside his guts.

Morning was the worst. Jim would be awake.

Kevin hated the sunlight as it shone through his well-worn sheets.

“G’t up, fat ass!”

It was barely cogent. Jim was piss drunk again, but he always woke up early.

Breakfast was nothing beyond dry toast and verbal abuse.

Kevin was hungry when he bailed early down the fire escape.

in brief moments I can remember the sun on my shoulders
the wonderful press of too many bodies
the clear call of distorted guitars
raw and wonderful words
movement
the joy of movement
when we were young

search through cabinets ceaseless

in bitter need of sweet relief

glance across cans and pouches, bags

wanting none, needing more

fingertips atop crinkling plastic

reaching, wishing, almost pleading

an ice cream bar, marshmallow poptart,

or some sense of closure, of safety, even of weeping

comfort might taste sweet

but we will never know

Good Morning Ember

There is no fear in the dark

Creation bends along, rends along,

moves along just fine.

Pressure, forceful, blasting free

She makes her own time

She takes no time

She squeaks, suckles, does not cry.

She sees no need to open eyes.

Ember burns, sprouting fire,

Breaking bonds,

pink Phrygian, freedom capped.

She naps.

I die.

She wakes,

I live.

She squeaks and does not cry.

She sees no need to show gray eyes.

marks on my mind

Pain, and flame, and fire.
Mazes in minds
devouring dreams.

Salt cellars in the basement
It was not the cellar.
why is the cellar door so...

on the floor in the bathroom

marks on my knees

pus and splinters in my hand

marks on my knees

marks on my knees

marks on my mind
I didn't mind?!
marks on my mind

psyche surrender quiet black
never go back
never go back

marks on my knees
marks on my knees
surrender
forgotten and spread

Terror sunshine vomit pain

Breaking image drown disdain

Vines and knots ever again

Shining houses crash within

A mind beyond such mortal heights

To moral depths and ring’d with light.

Red upon black

The room with the masque

Disease freedom brings,

Pestilent chains.

Monstrous pangs

Dead to memory

Nothing  bring.

Nothing bring...

always true

In a few hours, I might die. This is always true.

 

I didn't make this and forgot to note who did. I'll attribute properly tomorrow, maybe.

 I probably won’t though. Die, that is. Soon, at least.

General anesthesia is a new drug for me, though.

(Even for my eyeballs surgery I was awake. I’ve had to stay awake through many awful things.)

No way to know how it will go. This is always true, too.

Anyway, I love you all. 

Except for you…

Jesus fucking fuckhat I’m a bitch.

If you’re reading this I probably do love you.

My “last one” playlist turned out equal parts emo/goth and punk and weird.

I’ll probably get to hear it again…

Probably.

Certainty is laughable all the way down to parts of pieces of molecules.

I purposely put off listening to the new Episode of Nightvale so I expect I’ll stick around just for that.

‘Cause that shit would bug if I died.

Just kidding.

I won’t exist anymore.

I might die very soon. This is always true.

I ate a donut stick late last night even though the gluten tore me up.

I walked in sunshine with Olan today.

I felt Sprouty move underneath my arm.

I finished writing my book.

I read some Heinlein.

I did some living today. I might die very soon.

I’m gonna focus on making that first declaration as always true as the second.

I wonder, will the grave pit be shallow or deep?

Anyway, in like 7 hours, I will be unconscious with a camera up my ass. Which sounds a lot more fun that it will be.

Peace out, beansprouts.

-Evey

Olan Expectant, Smiles beside a stream.
Hidden in silken hair and light,
wonderful wonder in his eyes, alive!

fuck a truckload of today so far

Doorbells make me want to die.
Every time.
Terror of the everyday,
Broken parts
sounding
klaxon, catastrophe
Terror Dreams of doing
needing seeing believing
impossible pangs
quite possible pains.

it drains
destroys
dismembers
but always, always remembers
me. remembers me.
dying quiet
take me away
a nest built in lavender
and passiflora.
musty roots remember,
vegetal glory
cold days underground
without a sound above
the sifting settling voice of earth
a dearth, a dearth, a beautiful dearth. 

Evey Shrugs

This essay is telling. Go read it then come back to me, Please?

I am a malfunctioning machine.

There was a time when we were netting $300 every two weeks, with a wife and newborn, and still refused to get foodstamps or any other aid. All under the guise of morality.

I hurt nothing but myself, and my family, with such nonsease.

I was once irrationally angry that a woman was buying a birthday cake via EBT. (I certainly didn't verbally assault her, however.)

Previously, I had been morally outraged by overhearing a conversation in which one woman told another something to the effect of, "I got my foodstamps. I don't need his ass." She said it with a sense of pride, HOW DARE SHE?! To my shame, I thoroughly ignored the second piece of that statement and all the beautiful and terrible implications thereof. I sincerely hope she is well and not with whoever the fuck made her feel that way.

Really though, I was mad because I was going to have ask to borrow money from somebody soon. I was mad because, with the insurance we had to have to stay safe, I didn't have a paycheck. (Obviously medicaid was not an option.) I was mad because the untreated mental illnesses that had haunted me since early childhood still screamed in the background. I was mad because I couldn't afford the beer necessary to quiet its screaming. (Both figuratively and literally.)

I'm pretty certain I was mad the entire time I was a libertarian and Objectivist. It felt good to get blitzed and rant about all sorts of shit I didn't really understand. Maybe I did know better, I just couldn't admit it. (It was hard to quit that view of humanity. I still find it beautiful if inept. Every man and woman and child an independent hero, needing no one, smiling at dollar signs and the fading sun...)

I kind of knew that the Austrian school of economics didn't pan out in reality... but it was a version of economics I could actually comprehend. That made it the right one, right?

I was mad because Republicans were evil. I was mad because Democrats were evil. I was mad because I wanted to impress freedom upon the world, and could not. No matter who starved. No matter the cost in lives, Freedom bloody Freedom, John Wayne into the sunset, motherfucking Freedom!

But is there any such thing as freedom when 40 hours a week doesn't result in a living wage? Fucking medieval serfs didn't work hours like that. How free was I to act and find myself when I had to beg for help every few months? Often from folk opposed to my own values, folks openly opposed to my sexuality, my very identity?

I don't have any definitive answers anymore, maybe I'll get some. I know I'll keep looking.

By every measure I'm aware of, rubrics of business growth, economic viability, and, importantly, quality of life, democratic socialism is the most functional form of government. It's where we need to begin if we're to sort this shitshow of American government out.

I'm still a minarchist at heart. I still don't trust the government or really anyone that seeks positions of authority. I am, however, pragmatic enough to believe it's our moral duty to begin with the most functional model of government available. With perfect transparency we can see what works and have healthy, fact based debates.


Crony capitalism doesn't work for most folks. Capitalism, raw and naked, has never existed. It probably would not be conducive to a healthy, kind, and happy nation. (When America has been close to naked capitalism, amazing things have been done: the railroads for instance. However, there have also been terrible, terrible costs: the railroads for instance.)

So it took homelessness and a lifelong dedication towards truth to sort it out, but I guess I'm a pinko commie faggot. You were right, guy who threatened to kill me on the internet. Congratulations? I guess.

Depressing the sieve. Collecting detritus.

Things like hopes and dreams and running seams.

Fall away. Do not float, depress.

Express only oils and honest experience. Purified of childish things, we bring only truth coloured like jade.

Mistakes have been made.

It's hard to explain.

Where, oh where, to begin? The benign? The end?

The days and ways of shattered faith, and other trash. 

Remain only bitters, let's make an Old Fashion.
Manhattan? I had different drives.

Still here we are, in such a dive, delightful.

Oh let's just make it a whiskey and gin.

You grin and we taste.

It's awful.

We ordered them all night.

Nothing's alright and we smile.

The glass ogress is best expressed
in sundry verses quite complex.

chaos eye, digital sigil

Could the eye have been made without algorithms?

Perhaps.

I find it unlikely.

Hand skewed numbers, were necessary. N'est-ce pas?

Dance with Sierpiński, but get him tilting drunk.

Atomic Gardens are all the rage.

Radiating rings away from beta-decay,

but not gamma today.

Tomorrow though, it may, it may.

It needs to be just wrong, proper skewed, at odds.

The chaos, the chaos gods.

Happenstance and peradventure,

Running free from helix indentured.

Destroyed?

Effectively, though not quite.

Shaking hands perceptible,

fighting impalpable memories 

shaking melodies at odds, cacophonous.

.

It heaves. It sleeps. It dies. It eats.

It sees. It sees. It seizes.  

Works too grand.

Peradventure, and you will pass that gate,

past the garden, Hypnos waits.

Impatient.

Red eyes, rimmed in dry lashes.

Cold still and blowing.

Haphazard reaps to sewing.

Do you believe in sanity?

Distant prince. Hyperglow eye. Forever never more and five.

Sounds, feedback and static
Message an echo of creation
Haphazard snow, electromagnetic.
Universe as a show
Just heavy breathing on the other line
Microwave radiating outward
In all directions
No exceptions
What once was will ever yet never still be.
A memory of a moment long gone
Ready to be received, always.
Broadcast forever in all directions
Breathsome labor pains
All things were born in hot violence
We are but a cold echo.
Crashing against cold stones
For kinetic heat.