The Machinator

My dog died on my first birthday, my first inkling of tragedy occuring before I could express or fully understand such anguish.

I learned through hardship. I was raised by a succession of soft tragedies.

The concept of dogs return to me now as I ruminate in my close quarters.

Dog zebra, dog watches, dogging down doors.

The dark red light now isolates me and brings me to a point of meditation.

It makes me feel somewhat like an NPC from my younger days, a gruff sailor with an illuminated mind.

My uniform is tattered, as becomes my mind.

Days of exhaustive expenditure.

I keep my mind illuminated through autodidactic measures, refusing to lose my grander of faculties.

There is something to be said of a man in a tattered uniform. One part man, one part beast.

The appearance is the basis of judgements with actions invisible and overlooked.

My foibles I attribute to a flaw in the system of analysis.

You can’t partake of an apple with a rotten core, discard the apple and move along.

Control is the name of this game, a game I overstep with an illumination of spirit.

My method of control is a play on passive aggressiveness, to be the one in the room with a secret.

I make it through my days just as best as I can, a stellar mind/body cavity making time for pontification – selling my soul one seed at a time.

The essence of thought has always been by downfall, controlling the rhythm flow of textures bemused.

I am here of color and light dictated by the effervescent flow of transgressions.

No more, no less.

I pick up my hammer and swing.

As a simple sailor i am wise to spend my times correctly, chipping paint and obliging the rooms and messes above and below.

I sing a tune as I whistle my day away.

I am busted and primed due to my own volition.

I often times find myself drifting through work unappreciated, but I feel vindicated by the justification of my own existence, serving my purpose.

A man doing the bidding of his god.

I continue through this waking meandering with a sense of purpose, the abyss staring into my soul, enveloping my volition.

I have come to find that work is often not valued, the perseverance against incompetence is often the most desired attribute.

A person doesn’t feel obligated to a finished product, it is more vindicating to transform a mound of clay into an empty bowl than to chisel a sculpture out of marble.

More forgiving if the bowl isn’t good for filling with anything other than what the owner deems important and sufficient.

The marble still serves many purposes without the help of the artist.

Quite intimidating it can be to look into somebody’s eyes and see your fear staring right back at you.

Better to send them away than to submit to defeat.

I win these victories daily, I am often times the only one who understands these grand implications.

My sister is dead. She laid down on railroad tracks for one last time, the blow of the train whistle belighted her last breath. She finally made the voices go away.

I can trace back these illuminations to my darker days, before I discovered the rhythm, the same rhythm I use now as I swing my hammer.

I learn to relish the feeling of the sweat coupled with the heat, letting me know I’m not merely receiving an unemployment check.

I wear these masks, wearing a face made of solemn resignation. I resolve myself.

It’s another day of motion, and I measure each one of these steps.

I take one step as I take one more. I find myself back where I started, and I am home.

I took a personality test when I was younger that told me my thoughts are my best friend, I couldn’t disagree.

These are the thoughts that normally pass through my mind as I sit by myself, yet far from alone – letting the red lights pass through me, but they remain in my walking.

This couch has become my makeshift throne, my fortress of solitude in the kingdom of my mind.

It is my tranquil spot that nobody can touch, where the truth is my own and I am the master of my own universe.

I realized once before that if you lie about your identity to somebody, you create a vector and a new person is born. Is it then possible to be more than one person?

Then becomes poised of the question of soul and body.

Am I all contained in this meat puppet, or is the soul eternal? The safety pin protective from nihilistic resolution.

I walk through the passageways with the red lights in my face, unabashed and intrusive, the mask us from enemies abound.

A mission called presence with an objective unclear.

I work for a paycheck, but not enough to be an ambassador, I represent myself only, I shun the responsibilities of others, I having nothing to fear but leers themselves, to which I cast sheepishly.

My objectives extend beyond this floating animal farm, i find loose connections to the outside through use of satellites. I load myself in and eject.

It’s interesting when you hit that moment and realize a relationship is impossible.

Regardless of what you both want and desire, you are both incompatible.

It is no fault of either of you, but the experience that you have together will soon be a memory, and some people aren’t meant to be friends and lovers.

Nothing to be upset about, you have to keep your head up so you can hold back your tears, there’s no time for crying, no time at all.

It takes a lot of practice to recognize when this has happened.

No amount of practice will ever make you a better partner, only a more resilient ex.

A day in the life rife with opportunity, abounding with mystery…then sometimes fornicating with misery.

It comes like a thief with a knife toying with your fears and your boyish hesitance.

A change to your environment can be quite traumatic, coupled with a sense of dissonance creating strife.

Think too fast and your environment has become conquered.

I swing my hammer again.

“How did I end up here, what happened, where am I, why haven’t I left?” are the words that become conjured abound. Time is of the essence.

Terrorism in the midst, knife aimed at your back.

Stab, stab, stab.


A bank clerk cashing in on your obscenities.

Don’t let your best get the worst of you.

Keep your chin up so they can knock you out more efficiently.

Ramblings of a mind enveloped malaise and malady knee deep in soft tragedy.

I swing my hammer aimed at the center of the Earth.

The sky is cracked and broken as becomes my mind when left open too long, reactions with a hope of resonance.

These are the thoughts that puddle in my mind as I grumble, and mumble a sort of mantra under my breath, just to keep myself breathing.

If god is dead, then so is Satan.

A little bit of trust goes a long way, without even a smidgen of positive regard, a person falls right on their ass. Years of trust and credibility destroyed by a flawed system of merit.

Evaluated poorly due to an overabundance of independence. “Why me” is the common response, because you were the only one who didn’t fit the mold is the prompt answer, swift and direct. Keep your chin up, I swing my hammer.

I traveled far and wide, trying my hardest just to forget, to free myself from my memories, the harder I tried, the more memories I needed to forget.

Never quite free but completely alone at the same time. As if I needed to travel a million years just to remember what I was running from in the first place, like a modern day bard with experience and a fist full anger under my belt moving me forward, forever searching.

I walk into a bar and they pour my drink, still searching. Make love to a woman, still searching.

I have holes in my pockets as well, normal wear and tear, government issue and self inflicted.

So much energy in the air. I swing my hammer.

Stream of consciousness.




Spirit of adventure.

Did I choose this life or did it choose me, to swing my hammer, crack the sky, break my nose? Profuse. Rising sun,

I break another heart, my heart can only be broken three million times, evanescent and ethereal. So much blood a heart can hold, falls all over the floor.

That moment you feel a chapter end.


I speak cryptically to evoke passive aggression, hard to understand amongst my fellow hammer swingers, not every one is born for abstraction.

A skill learned through years of being stupid.

Love comes wearing so many phases.

Sitting on that irreverent throne of superiority, openly judging everything in the world through your tinted windows, truth being the amalgamation of the proselytization of store bought opinions and tv characters…signifying nothing.

I learned through years of programming to hate programs, give me freedom or give me tv.

Not another slave to programming, let the power go out, let the devil box turn off, time for conversation, time not for mute ideations.

Values of a valueless society.

A culture of pop exploding.

I swing my hammer, burst the bubble, up in flames.

I had my time in Japan as a sailor.

Love, frustration, confusion, and a whole lot of anger. To blinded the sweet smell and soft skin to realize my dreams weren’t worthy of me.

The dregs always found their way drawn to me, all broken and tattered, drawn to the way I swing my hammer, crack the sky.

The ground is broken and tattered, as becomes my mind.

I am entrenched in the scuppers, drawn towards the ocean. Lost amongst the ocean, impact waves, even the smallest oceans.

Coffee houses, night clubs, and brothels, no love anywhere, soul lost amongst expectations.

Commercial culture, lives guided by an empty metal mother.

Nights spent in agony, no love anywhere, so many bad choices, clothes smell like smoke and breath tastes like regret.

I wake in the morning contemplating over my night spent with nightmares.

My mouth is dry and my face is warm.

The red lights start to burn, but not as much as the bright lights that cone with reveille.

Over time it’s more enjoyable to spend your days underway than in foreign soils.

No fun when they make off time repugnant with the stench of being an ambassador.

I swing a hammer while underway, now I’m here doing the job of the peace corps.

No love for me anywhere. I can mask it with beer, but that is a sin against my god.

To spend your days as a fugitive, no time for contemplation.

Your crime is voluntary. Y

our life is to maintain another person’s vision, somebody else s dream, not your own, your dreams died long ago.

No hope, no dreams, you swing your hammer, aim crack the sky.

You are an ambassador, do your god’s work.

Creativity is your sin, your thoughts are futile.

Float away in the ocean, stuck between your heart and the great blue sea, settle down, calm your chest.

Smile, be polite, hide the fire burning within your bosom, forget your dignity, fall in line, legs stop growing.

In death I will have a beautiful corpse, covered in colorful scars.

Tattoos are scars you have put on your body willingly to remind you of a different place in time.

These times are sometimes good and sometimes bad, but are always past. P

eople often tell me I have too many tattoos, I often wonder what makes them assume I see them as a mistake, it was a choice I made, choice often lead to scars, and my scars are beautiful.

The scars on my body are often intertwined with the ones in my mind.

Early morning stone light.

Clouds of smoke and the feelings of discontent.

The early morning ride on the train from Tokyo, surrounded by the other 90 percenters.

Marriage is such a silly concept these days. How many wives can I possibly meet out in the dim lights and still have faith in sanctity.

So many excuses that they find.

He is underway and I am lonely, like he isn’t just as lonely as he is, only his dim lights are red and the only comfort is the itch.

Hug it tight.

Nights spend with insomnia, no sleep to be found.

Such a contrast to the cool breeze and earthy smells.

Thoughts always compounding.


Rhythm of my feet on the ground, clears my mind.

Eyes full of concern and confusion.


Twinkle in the night, inverse of the darkness, resplendent, fading into the background, resplendent.

No love to be found alone on a contorted piece of metal.

A warship is no place for god, faith lost and fading.

I swing my days away, beauty of the evening light.

Wavering in the breeze.

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