Advanced. Civilized. Insane.

It’s strange, living in the context of this society and having to find a job. Want a good job? Be a skilled motherfucker. Go to college to learn skills for a particular career — one you might not even be able to acquire, which could suck, as you might need such a job in order to pay off your student loan debt.

No college? Dropped out? Learn a trade.

In any case, it’s a fair question: how exactly is it that you go about getting a job? Well, bare bones, it goes like this: you are free to choose who you are a slave to, if only you can master the art of advertising and can coerce them into such a purchase — because let’s face it, you’re really trying to sell yourself to them through a resume, an application, during an interview, by showing what an effective tool you can be in their toolbox, what a fine and dandy fucking cog you would be in their particular machine. And once you get in, once you’ve been bought, you go on to try to prove your worth, show what a grand gear, what a superior slave you are so as to earn that raise or promotion.

This? This is growing up. This is being an adult.

It’s amazing the suicide rate isn’t higher.

For 99% of our history as a species we lived in small, nomadic bands that hunted, gathered, fished and engaged in small-scale agriculture, wandering about within a fixed territory in response to the seasons, enjoying deeper social connections and far more leisure time than we do in modern society, free from the ills that plague the modern human, our ultimate impact on the environment moderate — but the agricultural revolution, the industrial revolution, where we stand today?

This? This is advanced. This is civilized.

This world is insane.

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Done With the Numb.

Managed to escape
and rest assured,

I’m never going back.

Made me so small.
Could’ve squashed
me like a pesky insect,

and I’ve been
there before.

No empathy.
Devoid of compassion.
Seems to be universal,
to be so cold
and calculating…

I embody
your counterforce.

My soul
was just marinating,
for I had
to feel it all, straight

through
to the marrow
to know,
and now I know:

You’re too empty,
I’m too full
to fill the chalice
I’ve apparently become.

I feel too much,
a fucking sponge,
you clearly feel nothing,

either entirely hollowed out
or you’ve grown
too numb.

Sorry, no sympathy
for me available
in your present capacity.

I’m not just going,
it’s passed the end.
I’m gone.

Fade to black,
roll credits.

It’s over.
Done.

In a Body of Dying Weight.

As the sun dives,
the lights
are on
and everybody’s home
in the mosh-pit
chatterbox
writhing between
my temples.

Try and exhaust
the mind, but every morsel
tossed in its direction
does nothing to satiate;
it only serves
to feed mental momentum.

Work on exhausting
the body, but how many times
can you masturbate within
the span of a single evening
before the damned
thing packs up its balls
and leaves you?

Tea
and other herbal remedies
coupled
with meditation
and relaxation exercises
fail me again.

Always up
during downtime.
Occasionally even awake
within
the subjective space
of dreamtime…

and as the sun ascends,
burning
my sleepless eyes,
so alive

in a body of dying
weight, I pry
peepers open wide
and drag

worn soles
through or around
another unforgiving day.

Restoring Factory Settings.

1/13/18

Pleasantly high and alcohol free, I listen to a hypnotic video on YouTube that aims towards removing unwanted hypnotic suggestions. As I do so, imagery pops up before my minds eye. I watch it all from the witness perspective. Sexual images emerge and fade as well as images of the stars, reminding me yet again how badly I want to lucid dream so I could feel the experience of flying through space again. Finally, I see imagery depicting the violent, consuming waters of a flood inundating the land, destroying things and carrying the scattered remnants away. When I awake, I feel considerably better, more together, more myself than I have in some time.

I listen again the following evening after smoking some cannabis and drinking some Kava tea. Again I recall having had seen apocalyptic scenes of destruction, though this time I’ve retained no memory of what those scenes entailed, or even if they depicted the same flooding scenario.

I presume these scenes are symbolic, of course, or at the very least hope they are.

While the drinking has become less frequent, I tend to overdue it when I haven’t drank in awhile, embracing some lame excuse that brings me back to it, where I subsequently make up for lost time. On such evenings, my brain reverts to writing poetry that I hardly remember writing, if at all. It also seems that alcohol and pot as a cocktail is what elicits my state-dependent tendency to revert back to the erotic hypnosis videos — otherwise, there is no issue staying the fuck away from them. No booze, no problem.

One wonders just how I developed this tendency towards watching and listening to erotic hypnosis, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it was my own manner of upping the ante with respect to porn. I’ve read before how I’m not alone, at least in the most general way: one watches moderate porn, but after awhile suffers from the law of diminishing returns and is then inspired to watch more extreme forms of porn. Erotic hypnosis became the higher rung on my stairway of perversion. The sense of intimacy provoked through sustained eye contact is what drew me in to Hypnotic Haylee and from then on it just got out of control. I began watching other erotic hypnosis videos — always seductive female hypnotists. I was always careful to avoid the exceptionally dangerous and cruel ones that degrade males, absolutely enslave you or try to program straight men such as myself into being homosexual. Even so, who knew what subliminal suggestions were present in any one of those videos? Who knew if a seemingly innocuous erotic hypnosis video might be a Trojan horse?

I tried to transition back to regular, mundane porn while drunk and high, but while drunk, it just wasn’t the same. As a consequence, I started looking for hypnotic porn videos on Porn Md. — and I found them.

Most of these were “alpha male” videos, which I thought might balance out hypnodomme videos. Last week, I came across one hypnotic porn video that seemed innocent enough but fucked me up royally. The following morning, I felt gross for some reason — brain-raped. Who knew what it might have infected my mind with? This shit had to stop.

I’ve managed to keep away from them for over a week, dodging even porn, falling back on old school still images to get my stupid rocks off. Two days ago, I decided to try to find a hypnotic video that would reverse unwanted hypnotic suggestions –and found one.

It seems a worthy form of experimentation not only because of the frightening hypnosis videos but because of how I feel certain television hypnotizes us all with who-knows-what and perhaps it might have some effect in posthypnotic suggestions implanted in my mind by those inhuman creatures…

Choking.

Rage-fueled fantasies
of confrontation
infecting
me all damned day.

Enlivening
to the darkness rising
in me, yet so exhausting,
so asphyxiating.

Such a rich reservoir
of brutal and negative
emotionally-saturated

scenarios
I’ve been drowning
in yet again…

Violent words barked at a power-hungry,
control-thirsty, narcissistic,
socialized psychopath
with obsessive-compulsive tendencies.

Biting the tongue viced
between clenched, then grinding teeth,
choking on my own blood…

To Defy the Odds.

Here you go
again, you fool:

considering another honest
attempt to improve
your life, bearing knuckles
pounding inside,

self-flagellating emotions,
images and thoughts
predicting futility
and ultimate acquiescence
to a dismal,
stagnant fate.

The best predictor
of the future
is history, right?

A past
forever present,
a skipping record
aching to be broken.

(I’ll shatter
it to pieces.)

Do you really think
you can defy the odds?
What makes you think
for a moment
that you might be oh-so
fucking special?

Toes curl
from confidence, fearing
the plunge
into arrogance. Recoil
from hope,
as another successful
effort to lift
yourself up just to fall
down again

might leave
you with nothing
but a frantic striving

for solace
in what you might
come to accept
as an inevitable
circumstance,

and that which would
then be reduced
to a mere illusion
of personal liberty is all

you are left
with, and it

would be such a shame
to kill it.

(I’ll risk it. Hope
is my fuel
and if need be,

in the light
of the potential
consequence,

it also serves
as a working
hypothesis
and my prospective
sacrifice,

and if it comes to that,
I’ll summon

the strength to rise
above it.)

Of Fast Food and Dwindling Hope.

Customers stare at us saucer-eyed through the drive through window as if we’re bizarre creatures in some fast food exhibit despite the fact that they’re the ones gobbling up the foodstuffs we prepare for them like ravenous animals. And we’ve seemed much busier lately, too. Given Thanksgiving has just passed us by and the Ohio cold is finally kicking in, you’d think people would have had their fill of gorging themselves and would be more inclined to stay home, but: ‘Murica.

I’m happy when I’m done changing trash in that area and move to the back, but I don’t get too far until Ulysses comes back and tells me that the men’s restroom needed tending; that someone, and I quote, “jizzed on the floor and wall in the stall.” As I make my way to the lobby, a short walk, two other people stop to tell me, all with smiles and ill-concealed laughter. I haven’t even been clocked in for fifteen minutes.

This is what I get for not finishing college. For having no ambition. For not successfully overcoming my fear of damned near everything: being sentenced to almost fourteen years as the maintenance man — janitor, really — at this fucking fast food franchise.

I mean, it isn’t all bad. I like most of the people. I smoke whenever I want and drink copious amounts of free coffee all day. Still, not a day goes by that doesn’t threaten the meager amount of hope I have for us as a species — and being part of the problem certainly doesn’t eliminate me from the equation.

As if reading the news wasn’t bad enough.

Issues With Authority.

As I’m down visiting my parents for my 39th birthday, in between the awesome Mexican food (my favorite) and the Dairy Queen ice cream cake, my mother asks me if I remember when she sent us to summer camp that one year — and why she never did it again.

I had absolutely no memory of this.

Evidently I got up and left the classroom I was in, sought out my sister, Eve, and took her out of the classroom she was in, and then sat us both down beneath the trees outside, refusing to go back inside — or to let my sister in there, either. We remained beneath those trees until mom came to pick us up.

Though I had no recollection of the incident, I knew why I had done it. I remembered having done things like this before. Running, hiding or stubbornly rebelling against what I perceived to be oppressive authority — never in a violent way, though. This continued with my mother and about every job I’ve had: the omnipresent power-struggles.

I told my mother that I probably did it because adults in power, they tend to be dicks.

“They still are,” Eve, beside me at the table, chimed in.

I couldn’t argue. “This is true.”

The next day, Elizabeth and her boyfriend come visit me at my apartment. Elizabeth had baked me a pot birthday cake that kept me high about every night of the following week, as I ate from it slowly. We also smoked a bowl or two while they were there, during which time Elizabeth, a manager where I work, informs me that Connie has been promoted to assistant supervisor of the franchise.

My stomach turned. My teeth clenched. Hatred rose from within me and proceeded to consume me.

For the majority of the nearly fourteen years my unambitious ass has been working and rotting away in this fast food joint, Connie had been the store manager and my most immediate boss.

Though she calmed down near the time she was transferred to another store — mostly due to medication and becoming a grandmother, it seemed — she nonetheless remained an unempathic, narcissistic, deceptive, authoritarian asshole who could not be pleased, no matter how much you busted your ass to do a good job. After years of suffering under her reign, I was absolutely ecstatic to have someone else as a boss. Word had it that since the new guy bought the franchise they were trying to push her out — and now I learn they instead promoted her.

It isn’t, as Connie used to claim, that I don’t like women in power. I’ve liked the last two store managers we’ve had and they both had vaginas. I’d give my left nut to have Hillary at the throne instead of Trump despite the fact that I’m not the biggest fan of her. It’s a style of leadership that gets to me, that I find utterly intolerable, and this style seems nauseatingly commonplace.

I don’t know where my issues with such authority began, but they surely continue.

Light And Shadow.

I hate standing in line. That’s what finally led me to avoid water parks, as a matter of fact, especially when I began smoking and they wouldn’t let you take a puff despite being outside as you stood in a herd of humans for an absurd length of time. More to the point, for the last two years in the very least, when I had to get my registration renewed at the DMV I met with an excruciatingly long line. Last year, I had to go to the place twice, because after waiting for over an hour for my number to be called the first time I had to ditch out to ensure I’d make it to work on time. So this year, I left early. Two hours early.

I didn’t even get too lost, which is unheard of, and upon arrival I found the place was occupied by at most five other customers. I didn’t sit for five minutes before I was summoned to the counter. Figures. So now I’m parked in the lot at work, smoking, writing, reading, wondering if the experience I had on my way to the DMV is unusual or one of those things many experience but for one reason or another never take the time to talk about.

On the drive to the DMV, along the long stretch of road I drive down on a daily basis, the sun shone through the trees lining the side of the road and cast an enduring barcode formation of long, slender shadows onto the path before me. As I drove through these shadows, the flickering began to effect my vision as it always does. It’s like when you watch one of those animate, hypnotic spirals online: my field of vision became like the surface of a lake disturbed by a relentless onslaught of waves. I try not to look at the road for too long, quickly looking to the side or down at my speedometer, which morphs to a psychedelic degree, hoping I can fight against the altered state it starts to conjure by limiting my exposure as best as I can.

This happens frequently, but it’s rarely this bad, probably because I don’t often leave this early and the sun is far lower in the sky when I typically drive to work at roughly three o’clock. Is this a typical visual phenomenon, or does this suggest my high hypnotizability? I’ve never heard anyone else mention this before, but it seems unlikely I’m the only one…

Self-Awareness, Empathy, and Reason.

Selling yourself short.

Buying the lie
held up by the tripod
of tradition,
popularity and faith.

Equating love with fear.

Finding meaning
in your suffering
through twisted fables.

Grow within.
Embrace the path
of self-awareness,
empathy, and reason.

Find yourself.
The only true path.
Transforming in the light of awareness,
creating yourself in the process…

Release the beast
from your dark dungeon
and tame it.

Give your demons
a walk and learn the ways
of the world through their eyes,
comprehend their reasoning.

Go the way
of catharsis and alchemy.

Exposure
provides a mirror
for that which resides
within, hiding in the dark,

living in the gutter,
thriving in the shadows
that enshroud
your days:

feedback
permitting
adjustment.