Ed. Note: This is without edits. From a maniacal journal entry from earlier this year. I'll probably take this post down as soon as my jaw starts hurting -- but since I've been gone all weekend, at least it's something. Read this as fast as possible to get the full effect and to gloss over the mistakes...

<2003-02-15> Bayzha 2003 -- Disjointedness -- One way, then the other. Blondie. Deborah Harry, Debbie Harry, NYC, CBGBs, the Bowery. See, there you go. Ten degrees Fahrenheit, perhaps the difference between life and death. Beauty to the right of you, history to the left of you, destiny in the front and back. The W The W The W The W The W The W. SEE! There you go. Blue collar bombardment -- unintellectual BS; Intellectual BS. Give me the words, give me the inspiration. In clothes I don't want to wear. Tethered to a brain I can't understand. Driven by forces that make little sense. There's hypocrisy in every statement; there's friends in every beer. There's virtual pauses, there's madness, there's euphoria, there's catharsis, there's drunkenness, there's madness again. Letch Letch Letch Letch Letch Letch. Give me my daily letch. Licentious Dust, Licentious Dust: the orgasm of some unknown writer -- buried in some bullshit 10th grade text. There's amphetamines, there's anxiousness, there's agitation, there's spiders on the souls of my feet. There's bad puns, there's misunderstanding, there's psilocybin monologues, there's constructs before meaning, there's cigars on editors' desks. There's rum, there's rum, there's rum, there are things that come in three. There's cathartic Yoga, there's triadics, yes triadics, yes neologisms, and yes, neologisms that come in 3. There are things in my left hand, there are things in my left brain. There are Lou Reed aficionados, there are Velvet Underground freaks. There are pauses great and small, there *are* essaical and contextual corrections. There are autonomic reactions, there's understanding, there's misunderstanding -- there's standing metaphorically naked. There's misuse and unuse, there's waste and neglect. There's unfinished, there's unpolished, there's unfocused, there's misguided, there's emotional separations, there's sloppiness, there's entropy, there's a place no one wishes to visit. There are truisms and platitudes and there's everything you've ever learned at one dinner. There's interpretations, there's misinterpretations. There's memory and there's everything I've ever forgotten. There's nihilism, there's subtext. There's subtext better than 2 million years of orgasmic evolution. There subtleties, there's desire, there's unshielded desire, there's jazz both aesthetically appreciated, and jazz, "look at me, I'm hep." There's what I want to say but I can't say it, 'cause ridicule is the jester that stands taller than all generations laid out end to end, around the equator, around the Tropic of Capricorn, around the Tropic of Cancer, around Henry Miller's long list of American banned books. The jester dances tall and pervasive -- in scientific dialogue, in intimate conversations, in Frito Layed useless conversations. Some ignore him; some completely succumb... There's emotional reaction, both inductive and direct. And there's --once again, everything I've wanted to say. I'd give all my words to a savior, great or small, male or female, at arms length, on moments immemorial, perhaps soon to be forgotten forever -- which sucks, but it leaves the Jester frenetic, dancing happily.

While waiting for life that sucks to die, why not listen to my favorite unsigned bands: TQ's Garage Band Playlist.