Words

They're coming to get me, they're coming to get me. They wear blue, they were black, and have golden badges on their chests and lapels like massive body strength wanting to consume me. But they won't get me, they won't get me, because I write this, because I write. They can't stop the writer from writing. They may have muscles, but I have a brain and that outdoes any muscles or politics that they may have. I'm a rat in a maze, I'm a rat within walls eating cheese, chewing my way out and I'm inside them chewing their skin and drinking their blood in a wine glass because I feast on their authority because I don't respect it. Useless cops with nothing to do and I don't mind because I don't see them and they don't see me and yet I had to call them when I was in trouble. I did my job, they did theirs and we parted ways and it's too bad, it's too sad we couldn't be friends anymore, but they stabbed me in the back, fucked me up in the ass and it hurt pretty darned good, so there is nothing I can do except hold you, hold my writing, hold what keeps me alive, because without it, I would have no support, no rock, except for Jesus, but it's hard to hold on when you're falling down a well, and you need something to help you scrape along the sides. Something to help you open your eyes so you can see Jesus, and once you get that first step, then, and it's only then that Jesus becomes alive in your eyes. He's there, just standing there, not moving because he wants you to come to him. He's too lazy to come down and save you, you have to save yourself and only then do you get the goods that heaven has to offer, and you think it's all bs, but once you get out of it and see all this shit, you're thinking it's pretty good and then once you're in, you're in for life, and it's a good gig, the people are good, and you don't mind their company. Sure there a few bad apples, but you ignore those because their ticket is almost up anyway, and you don't worry about them because you're hanging with the Big J eating and drinking his good wine without the hangover the next day, and that's heaven when you can get drunk and not have a hangover the next day.

So they can't get me, they can't get me, I'm too smart for these rich pricks, obsequious dicks with guns on their sides and badges close to their heart. They respect the badge, but they respect the green as well. It's money that talks, money that makes decisions, money that tells you who's right and wrong. Money writes the rules, the government doesn't, only think they do. They only do because they're rich and he who has all the gold makes the rules and that's all bs, so all you can do is smoke a joint and write whatever you do and keep moving in the world because when you stop, that's when you die, that's when you've given up. And as long as you're moving, then that's something, because most of these political bastards have stopped moving and smoke up their money, and once it's gone, they have nothing because young up-and-comers are coming up with more money taking them over. There's always a bigger fish. And meanwhile you're just floating on the street, high as a kite, still surviving, still living and that should be worth something. It's something when you can write.

Fear

Why do you fear? Why do you let them control you? Because they do. They're bigger, they wear uniforms, they are the law. They're not the law, the law is in your mind, that is the law. The law is what you control, what you know. That is the law. I don't understand. If that's the law, then I can do anything I want. Precisely. You control what you do, they don't. You make the choices, they don't. You can choose to stand up or sit down. Then I choose to sit down, what's the point of getting up when they're there? They're not there, you only think they are. You decide if they're there or not. It's your mind that decides. So they're not there. They're not there and it's only you with a blank slate, with a blank piece of paper to tell the story of your life. What's that life going to be? What are you going to tell the world? When you're dead and gone, what's the legacy you're going to leave behind? What legacy? I have no legacy. But you do. Everyone has a legacy. You are your own legacy. What's the legacy you can leave behind? What words can you leave the world? What will they know you as? Who will you be when you are gone? That's your legacy. And people in uniform won't stop you from that legacy. Nobody can stop you from that legacy because they don't exist for you. And when they don't exist, they can't touch you.

Dead

Oddly the last time I posted was in October 1st and since October 8th life for me has been hell. The police or security or whatever you want to call them, rent-a-cops, I really don't care, but they're idiots anyway. They finally screwed me over for the last time, but that's not what bothers me. What bothers me is they're still alive? And what bothers me is that all their body parts are still together. I'd like to cram a screwdriver or a drill in their ear or something and make them bleed the way they made me bleed by stabbing me in the back, and I still bleed from their betrayal. Why should I have to leave my job? My job is going well. It's just seeing them around, seeing them everyday doing their stupid patrols which is not really anything but trying to look pretty. They got swanky new uniforms now, but that still doesn't hide what they really are. Just a bunch of politicians really, that enjoy kickbacks from the rich and enjoy harassing the lowly.

I talked to Jack Kerouac the other day. He's my mentor. I asked why I should bother going to work, why I should bother getting up. I mean who really cares anymore. Why wouldn't I just put a bullet in my head? I mean what's the point of life anymore, when you just don't feel like going to the mall maybe? I could say going to work, but I do like work, it's just they're around and that's what makes work suck for me, otherwise I'd like work. So I asked Jack K., I ask him why I should bother getting up. Why? And he says to me "The writing man, the writing," so that's why I'm up today. That's why I'm writing in here again. This is what makes me live. I mean yeah, my friends and MJ, they all help me, but they can't be here for me everyday, 24/7. I mean they got their own lives, and MJ's not in the same city. I mean I wish she was, but she isn't so not like I can cry on her shoulder or maybe I still can but it still hurts because what can she do. There's only so much she can do to make me feel better and she's tried, but then it all boils down to me. I mean I have a great life other than work.

Why should I quit work? I mean yeah, I thought about it. Sure, MJ just suggested it like 10 minutes ago, but I thought about it before. I thought maybe I should go find another job, work in the post office like Bukowski did, even though he's tried to warn me about working there. I mean it sounds like a good gig. Someone else said I should work there too. Seems like a good gig.

Something to think about I guess. I feel better writing all this. One reason I can get up in the morning, to write. That's my only reason or main reason for living I guess. It's like the blood that flows through my veins. Without it, I'd be dead and I think that's true.

Those cops though, they screwed me over bad. They're not the friendly people you learn about when you're in Elementary School. No these guys are different. In it for themselves. They don't know what justice is. They're too scared, too small. Yes, I know the law's the law and I have every right to press charges, but they won't let me press charges.

Not all the security are bad. No, not all of them. Just the head guy, like the head vampire in The Lost Boys. Keifer Sutherland wasn't that bad. It was the head vampire that was. Him and his little minion. The little minion caused the most betrayal because him and I were close, but now we're not, and he's a Jesus lover and that prevents me from slicing his throat because you don't slice a man of Jesus even if he did betray you. Doesn't mean I have to like him though. I stay away from him, he stays away from me. Don't give me this crap about forgiveness. You just want me to forget you stabbed me in the back. No, I won't forgive you, I just won't know you. You want professionalism, dick, I'll give it to you. Professionalism is knowing your there, but not acknowledge your presence. So I won't acknowledge your presence, because really, why should I? When you caused me this grief.

Other than those idiots, that's why I'm alive, that's why I wake up today and go where I'm going. It's the writing man, the writing.