OverStimulation////////////////

OverStimulation////////////////

Thursday, November 30, 2017

Untitled Collection



Untitled Poem No. 5

The lungs are a tired machine.
They take in smoke,
and put out lies.

Is there a cure for wickedness?
Is there a single being without vice?

Let me weave some words to
mend you, dear lungs;
let me give you relief.

The leaves fall to the earth
every year, and become the earth,
to give life back to the trees.
Likewise the the bird’s bones
give way
to make the bird's eggs again.

Even the most distant comets
fall to the sun
to make it just a wee bit brighter.
So breathe, dear lungs.

Take in reason
and put out  the absurd.

For there is no cure for wickedness,
or a being without vice.

Take in free air
no matter the price.





Untitled Poem No. 7

they say failure
lets you learn
and loneliness
makes you want to speak

but i've failed plenty
been lonely
and never learned a thing
or felt compelled to speak

so then,
shall i simply
make everything work?
shall i simply seek
the greatest company?

come close, ancient poets
come close, wisdom that eludes me
teach me your way with words
fill my heart with the lightness
of being

"fuck you" the poets say
"get a grip" reality agrees

fair enough
that's certainly fair enough

suppose i'll try another path
the best ones are too dirty





Untitled Poem No. 11

far away 
but not too far
there is a moon called Rhea
every day 
the light of our star 
shows the way from here to Rhea

I think I left my heart there
even though I've never been
I fell in love with a distant light 
I think
after I hit my head
falling
I felt my head hit the ground
and I looked up, far away,
upon Rhea, the distant moon

and she said, "I watched you live and die a thousand times.
I've watched the trees grow a thousand feet and burn down,


and you can still join the light."

aaand when i woke up
the n urse said her name was R

R what?
i said

"R," she said
"General said'n you took a shell 
in the trench,
screaming, 'Rhea, Rhea
please fix me.'"

so they sent me there with cannonfire
and i wnet far away





Untitled Poem No. 38

here, take this flame
let it light your mind
and home
and stove

let this fire 
into your heart
so it can burn away
your ill intent 

trust me 
this flame came 
from ancient trees

ancient rain
could not kill this holy light
I hand you now
there is no devil 
deep below 
there is no reason up above

take this flame
and light your own sky

make it so
none of our flames die





Untitled Poem No. 63

laying here
among the wires
the condor considers its prey

but it knows
you can't eat a spark
despite how hungry you are

so it looks on 
beyond the wires
flying high on golden wings

up there, far away 
an angel sings
sweet slumbers to hungry birds

"sing," the condor says
as the angel looks at the sun
"it's already singing for us,"

she said
"but if you're hungry
feast upon the tears of the ear
feast upon fear."

and the condor got
z app ed
down
to the 
sp arks
where we lay





Untitled Poem No. 57

what happened before time existed?

well, something made time.

fuck knows if we'll ever figure out
who or what did it
but it's done

the best moments,
like stretched strings,
build tension and snap

and when those moments snap
what are we to do?

stretch new strings
make them sing
and if nothing else,
use dreams to become a king

god knows we spend so much time
in dreamland
even when we're awake

so go to bed 
and wake up for once







Sunday, September 10, 2017

The poem you wrote for me in my dream that I woke up and wrote for you



You don’t have blood in your veins.
You have cataclysmic ancient fire
going through you.

And every time your heart pumps
that fire is born again,
like a supernova.

And when the cat brought a mouse in,
I wasn’t sure if you empathized more
with the killer
or the killed.

But it didn’t matter
because you were telling me about
this palm reader you knew,
who takes months to read a palm,
and in the army
he lost his arm
and he had a sculptor carve him a new palm
with a perfect future on it.


Monday, June 5, 2017

Local Man Banned from the Seventh Dimension After Bad DMT-Trip

DETROIT, MI--Citing a series of scandalous and damning violations, a being from the Seventh Dimension told reporters Monday that Aaron Thompson, 23, was permanently and irrevocably banned from the Seventh Plane of Existence. “His feeble mind could not fathom a single moment from my realm, let alone understand common courtesy and basic rules,” said ̳̻̳̠̰Щ̞͈̦͡倪͈̹̥ψ̺͍̮̣̪̟̘ὼ̯̠͈μ҉̳̪̻͕ͅί͎̥͎͖͢द̯ु҉̬͓ख̗̱ा͕͘इ͓̟̳̗͝ͅ an ancient presence from the Seventh Dimension who described how Thompson smoked more DMT than he could handle and entered the higher dimension without any sort of invitation or goal. “He was blind, deaf and dumb. In a fit of agony and confusion, all he could do was scream unintelligible pleads for mercy. It was pretty damn rude.” The being, whose name could not be uttered or comprehended, went on to say that Thompson’s unwelcomed visit would be his last, and that was “really going to fuck with some of his future incarnations.”

Sunday, May 14, 2017

Public Service Announcement from Your Local Friendly Tax Collector






That magical world they told you about

was wearing a mask all along.

It’s ugly underneath,

and it’ll bite your throat like a hungry dog,

if it gets the slightest chance.




That’s right, there’s not a single unicorn,

treasure chest,

or castle in the sky.




It’s just cement roads,

faulty streetlights,

and the inherent suffering

that all living things share.




It was all a lie.

Jesus and the easter bunny,

all of it was a fairy tale,

or at least gross exaggeration of the truth.




But now you must join in the elaborate charade.

You must look upon the rotting foundations beneath the world, all that you hold dear,

take its weight upon your shoulders,

and do it with a smile,

while you tell children the very same lies

that blinded you.




The skies may darken with ash,

and the rivers may run dry.

But even so,

you mustn't forget

to pay your taxes.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Alzh

I met a bird today, and I forgot its name. It told me that birds need more than just wings to fly. They need hearts to pump the blood and skulls to hold the brains to make the wings flap. Without those things all birds would fall from the sky, it said, just like rocks. A bird told me all of this, and i forgot its name.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

The Third Grade Music Teacher

A million dying screams ring out in unison.
Ms. Allison sits on a worn-out and uncomfortable chair, with a stale cup of Folgers,
trying only to blink,
and remain conscious.

The third graders hold recorders, drumsticks, and tambourines in their hands
with sweaty palms and itchy trigger-fingers,
the same way criminals hold a gun during a robbery.

She thinks about the whisper of rain on the windowsill that she loved as a child. She thinks about the first time she truly appreciated Mozart, and the years she spent longing to share her passion with younger minds.

But every day is the same.

The third graders are a barbarian horde, far more subject to their personal whims and desires than her central leadership. Musical notes are ancient and forbidden symbols, and instructions are nothing more than the sound of sand
shifting in desert wind.

So she sits on her worn-out, uncomfortable chair, and she tries to embrace the chaos
with the third graders.

On the few days she is not incredibly hungover, she plays her flute with their cacophony. She glides along the discord like a kite in a hurricane, sometimes opposing their noise with melody, sometimes joining in like a jazz musician stricken with madness.

She hears Tchaikovsky’s cannon blasts ringing in her mind.

One time
she even screamed at them like a deathcore vocalist.

And on those days she simply can’t cope with the madness and nihilism of the third graders,
she just has a substitute come in
and play a movie for them.

Thursday, February 9, 2017

Thursday, February 2, 2017

The day nothing made sense anymore



Albert woke up one morning, and he immediately realized that nothing made sense to him. He was in a room that he didn’t recognize, an unfamiliar alarm clock was going off, and there was a strange dog looking at him.

“Where am I?” he asked himself softly. The dog tilted its head to the side, as if perplexed by the question.

He uncovered the blankets to reveal that his boxers were made of something like aluminum foil. They crunched metallically and folded as he stood up and further surveyed the room. There were many pictures on the wall, but each of the pictures held the same image of what looked like the back of a man’s head. The background varied in color, but it was always very dull and soft. All he could really see was the back of a head. There were many shelves in the room, but they were all very low to the ground or close to the ceiling, and it seemed like nothing occupied them but dust. There was a window completely blocked by leaves and branches, and in the corner there was a door that bent in the middle at a 90 degree angle.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he said quietly. The dog caught his attention again. It was beginning to look very distressed.

“What, do you need to pee or something?”

The dog was trembling. He walked to the strange door in the corner of the room and opened it awkwardly to reveal a much larger room. The ceiling formed jagged arches upward, and all the windows were too high up to actually see out of.

“Sahhh dude,” a woman said from the corner. His eyes quickly turned to her. She was also wearing strange metal underwear.

“Hey,” he paused, confused and a little shocked. “What’s happening? Where am I?”

She laughed. “Fuckin’ classic, you’re late for work dumbass. Aren’t ya gonna get dressed?”

“Seriously, I don’t know how the fuck I got here,” he pleaded.

“No one does, mannn,” she said and began laughing again.

He kept looking at her silently with a confused and frightened stare, and she just kept laughing at him more and more, as if it got funnier the longer he kept standing there. The dog walked to the center of the room and began squatting. It pooped into what looked like a litter box, and as he watched it, it looked up at him and meowed. It shoveled dirt just like a cat, and went back to looking at him oddly.

He became overwhelmed at that point. Nothing made any fucking sense. He walked back into the bedroom with the corner-door and began looking for clues, anything that could potentially help. He was now embarrassed and horrified, in addition to being completely dumbfounded by what he had just experienced.

“Am I dreaming?” he asked, as he began pinching and slapping himself to test the question. It certainly didn’t seem like it. Although nothing made sense, it all felt so incredibly real. He considered the possibility of drugs, but then when he began to think about it, he didn’t even know what he did the previous night, or any night for that matter. He knew his name was Albert, but for some reason that’s all he could really remember as he stood there in the strange room.

He looked for a closet, or clothes on the ground, but there was nothing. Just the bed, shelves, nightstand with an alarm clock, and all those pictures of the back of someone’s head. He got down and looked under the bed. Nothing. He went over to the alarm clock. It read “74:W.”

“God damnit,” he scoffed. “74:W?”

Defeated, he walked back out of the room. “If nothing makes sense, then where would the clothes be?” he thought to himself. He looked around the strange room. The girl was nowhere to be seen, and the dog was curled up on the couch. Everything Albert saw was off in some way. He peered into a hallway with a low ceiling, and it seemed to spit off in into many other hallways. There was what looked like a kitchen, but all of the appliances were side-by-side on one wall. The front door was a large circle, and it seemed like the colors were inverted on the TV.

He began looking in all the cabinets on the kitchen wall. Soon he found clothes in the oven. They were burnt and warm, but it seemed the clothes were already naturally black. He put them on in the strange living room, and it felt surprisingly good to wear such warm clothes. He brushed the ash off as he looked for the mirror. The girl entered the room.

“Dude you’re super late, it’s already 82:W,” she said.

“Late for what?”

“Work, man!”

“Shit, how late?”

“You were supposed to be there three days ago!”

“Three days ago?

“Hahah yeah. But you’ve like four days late before. It’ll be OK.”

“You sure it’s OK if I’m three days late?” He was almost willing to believe anything at this point.

“Yeah of course. Hey, you tired?”

“I guess so.What do we have, coffee?”

Coffee? Wow man, that’s a little hardcore. What are you gonna go buy that on the streets? All we have is some good ol’ crack.”

“Uhh…. crack?”

“Yeah, we have SunCash premium crack right over there. It’s your favorite,” she pointed to the kitchen wall where there was a little crackpipe and strange lighter next to a brightly labeled package of SunCash Crack™.

Albert was feeling thoroughly defeated. He felt some strange desire to go to work, even though he remembered nothing. If life was this strange inside a house and with a job, then how much worse could it be broke and homeless?

He looked long and hard at the crackpipe. He went up close to inspect it, and ran his fingers along the pipe’s glass contours.

“We really just smoke crack?” he asked hopelessly.

“DUUUUUH, it gets you ready for the day!”

Well, I suppose it will, he thought to himself as he lifted up the crackpipe to his lips. Albert grabbed the lighter. It was metallic, shaped like brass knuckles, and had a red button on the top. It felt good in his hand. The dog caught his attention with another confused glare as Albert looked around the room. He looked back at the dog with an equally confused look as he ignited the crackpipe, inhaled deeply, and held his breath.

Smoke poured from his lips in waves as he began coughing, but he suddenly felt the smallest flake of sense fall back into his world. It smelled like burning hair and fried electronics. Then he was hit with an instant bust of energy and euphoria that was almost overwhelming. He still did not know what else this day had in store for him, but he suddenly felt completely ready to take it on.

“Where are my shoes?” he asked.

“Uhhh, what are shoes?”

“You know, the things you put on your feet.”

“Oh! You mean bananas?”

“Bananas? Are you fucking serious? Bananas?!”

“Yeah, there’s the banana basket right over there,” she pointed to the table by the circular front door with a wicker basket full of massive bananas. He picked one up, and somehow intuitively peeled one section halfway down, placed it on the ground, and squished his foot into it. An icy shudder went down his spine, but it somehow felt comfortable. He did the same with the other foot and took a few steps around the room. He looked at the girl.

“So are you like my girlfriend or something?”

She laughed harder than he’d seen her laugh all morning. The dog meowed again.

“I’m your roommate dumbass,” she managed to get out through the laughter. “Hurry up, it’s already 123:L”

He looked at the strange dog, the smiling girl, and the strange room again.. And after taking another quick blast of crack, he walked out the circular front door briskly.

The bananas squished on his feet as he walked down the street. He saw other people with burnt clothes like his, big bananas on their feet, and the dazed look of someone on crack, too. He felt self conscious about the way he walked in his banana shoes, and wondered if he looked more high than them.

He walked for a long time, and the confusion set back into him like mist over a city by the sea. He didn't know where he was. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t know where he was supposed to go.

So he just kept going.

Strange city block after strange city block, Albert walked until the bananas fell apart, and he gave up trying to keep them on his feet. Fucking banana shoes, he thought.

Barefoot and desperate some semblance of meaning, he looked curiously at a sign that read:


 Pyramid Schemes and You: A Pathway to Happiness
(*Happiness not included)



He walked in deliriously and sat down in one of the many chairs facing a stage. More people slowly trickled in. Eventually a speaker walked onto the stage. He was dressed like a surgeon with green scrubs and a facemask.

“Immortality is the product of a feverish human mind,” the speaker said. “Everything dies. Oceans die. Planets die. Stars die. And the universe will die, too. Yes, that’s right. But it’s going to be OK. Do you know why it’s gonna be OK? Because I am going to make you rich. Also, because I’m Brad Pitt.”

He tore his facemask off to reveal that he was indeed Brad Pitt, smiling gloriously to the applause of the room.

“One morning we drank black tea,” Brad Pitt continued as he looked directly at Albert. “The rain was so thick outside that it seemed like the sun hadn’t fully risen, despite it being a mere two hours away from noon.”

The crack was wearing off. The walls were closing in. Brad Pitt kept look at him as he spoke and walked closer.

“They’re firing heavy artillery, captain!” he shouted at Albert. “Our position is compromised! Get to the shore you stupid bastard! Get to the shore!” he slapped Albert across the face. “What are you def? Are you dumb? Get to the fucking shore!”

...

He woke up in the hospital with a gasp. Turns out none of that actually happened and Albert has a severe, inoperable brain-tumor.

The end.


Thursday, January 26, 2017

Theoretical argumentative essay on the topic of flying cars


Let’s face it people: They’re fucking dangerous.
I don’t wanna run outta oil 300 feet in the air.
I don’t want some drunkard

falling outta the sky,

exploding in my backyard at 3 a.m.,

and taking my shed with ’em.

No sir,
I’ll take a car that drives on dirt.
I’ll take a car that breathes the same air as me.
Because I don’t care how many propellers it has;

no damn car

could be weightless
as a bird.


I mean, who are they kidding?
We weren’t meant to have wings.
We weren’t meant to have gills, or three eyes neither.
Cats hunt rats cause they got claws.
I live
on land
not in sky.

And so it just ain't right.
I couldn’t trust the cars
or the people in ‘em.
And you shouldn’t neither.






Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Frankie and the Dog


They colorized a picture of Frank Sinatra.

They gave him shining, perfectly sculpted pearl teeth,
radiating crystal-blue eyes,
and saturated, golden skin.

I’m sweeping pink flower petals into the trash, looking at it.

“Frank Sinatra didn’t look like that,” I think to myself.

“He had crooked teeth, dirty teeth.”

I think about the old black-and-white pictures of him.
I think about the stories where he berated women,
and said racist things about Sammy Davis Jr.,

and I clip the dead branches off my plants 
to make them healthy.

“Nobody could have eyes that blue,” I think as I look at the picture again.

“He looks like a digital saint.” 

Images of stained glass pour through my mind. Frankie and the rat pack are immortalized in glass windows, smoking cigars, bringing music to the desert. 

I hear “Fly Me to the Moon.”

I see the rings of Saturn. I imagine what summer is like on Jupiter,
with purple waves of chemicals rustling like dead leaves,
and I look back at the picture of Frank. 

“That skin looks like the product of radiation.”

I think about the nuclear scare of the 50s, bombs falling out of planes, people dying in muddy trenches, jungles vanishing in orange flame,

and I become altogether too sad looking at that picture of Frankie.

So I popped it into photoshop,

made it black and white like I thought it ought to be, 
and added a cute dog to cheer myself up.