B.J. THOMAS!

Somehow SOMEHOW my heart is beating a love for art still. Somehow that's where my feet are bringing me day after day I find myself amidst beauty on riverbanks and under overpasses. I see people making this beauty, and maybe I'm making it whenever I open my eyes or maybe every time I close them.
and goddamn this text I'm typing out just looks so goddamned classy sitting here on this white background. it looks tasteful. it looks like it can sweep you off your feet and teach you to dance. and maybe it's substance isn't the same and maybe it doesn't want to be classy or tasteful, but I'll be damned if it doesn't want to run dance classes in the Catskills.
and books or pages or zeroes and ones aren't enough to keep this in because every GOOD book is more than a book, the words on the page explode out and scream in your head making you sing with every pore in your body ecstasy isn't the aim but somehow the bullet always passes through there on the way to hit somewhere a bit more fragile and damaging. a good work of art is a good workout. it tears you apart in a million tiny little ways and leaves you there, sore and cursing, to heal yourself like you have to. so i never got why people damn pain to the worst of hells, or why people revel in it, pain is pain is pain. it's there, darling, whether any damned one of you wants it or not. and pain is where you grow and pain is where you die and pain is pain.
and somehow pain isn't enough to build a home out of. discomfort does not lead to comfort, no matter how familiar it gets, and i don't want to write about this. pain isn't life, but life is married to pain and this is where it gets confusing.
we all want to live within the boundaries of happiness. some of us build fences and walls on the border, man it with memories of what happens when you cross it, we shoot ourselves in our foot and put it in our mouth. and i'm not saying that i don't like my flat in this metropolis, but vacations are nice too. day trips to the cliffs of despair and all that. and i feel bad saying that, because i don't seek out these trips, but i get kidnapped some nights by regrets i try to deny, and i'm dumped at the side of the road far from home, but today the rain drizzled down insubstantial, not even enough to be fun, but as people passed frowning like all hell lived between their lips, i couldn't help but smile because, man, I can't help it. and also, admittedly, because pop-cultured poetry swam in my head.

rain drops keep falling on my head, but that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red. crying's not for me, 'cause i'm never going to stop the rain by complainin'.

yeah just like that. and i wish i could think of a better quote for it all but there it is. aye, there it is.

 

 

FACE!

Hola,
What's happening velvet thundercats? I knew it! Oh you guys! Always sneaking around! Having adventures! Being precocious!
Okay, I don't know where I was going with that. I'm basically just going to let myself write for a while and see what happens, maybe if I split open my head and bleed over the keys the write connections will be made with the electricity within and beautiful words will come out and dazzle all over this exploding fiery revolutionary world.
Or maybe not. Maybe the words will all be trite and over-used. Maybe not one word will make the difference. Maybe.
In other news, Machine of Death, the breakout hit short-story compilation that was mentioned by Glen Beck (GLEN BECK?!?) on his radio-show in hatred, is getting a sequel. And I really want to submit a story but I don't have any ideas. So it's going to sound morbid, but if anyone has any ideas for how someone could die in a way that could add some dramatic appeal to their lives while they have them could you let me know? Or, y'know, write that story yourself? That might be a better idea.
Anyways, the point is, that it's going to be awesome, and I would love to be a part of it but if I'm not then ehn? I could deal with that.
I guess that's it.
HIGH FIVE.

madness

bon soir canada,
how's it?
that's cool. god damn. i am so f'kin' tired bro. i want to say something cool and mindblowing and completely fuckin' genre-defying -defining -denying here but my brain just ain't working those cogs and gears right now. seems like ain't a lot is working the way it should. i want to say something life-affirming and remind myself i am CANADIAN and A MAN and ALL THESE THINGS I INSISTED ON IN EUROPE but the fact is that jet lag is fuckin harsh to deal with. if my head still thinks it's in paris does that mean i'm still in paris? where does my perception end and where do i begin or is there a difference or am i one and the same with how i perceive the world? and then, if that's the case, then why was perception altered when i was drinking absinthe? was i a different person then, or am i always and always will be LEE MOLNAR. and is that the sad fact that no matter where i go or what i choose or choosen't to put into my body my body will always be me? is that the case or were fluroscent bulbs always that goddamn beautiful? i don't know but i can tell you now that all i want to do is listen to tUnE-yArD and bliss out and simply accept the MADNESS screaming through these veins of city streets sleeping under the broken glass soft cells of my skin letting in the sunlight and holding it in there so in the middle of the night i scream light from every pore.
yes.
that is exactly what i want to say right now.
bon nuit paris.