I wrote these at work: 

Held breath and wandering eyes 

Peak out from this black disguise

I play a ghoul, an opaque spectre

But when the fire burns, the flames lick the jester

Silent giggles and ribboned grins

Sing the heritage of original sin

I whisper to the seamstress crafting malevolent sighs,

"Show them the unhemmed fray and various dyes"

The paper is earthbound and dry, too brittle for the letter

Fading with the soil, it's weakness is the strength of these fetters

I jaggedly enter the world

It jaggedly enters my self

The mountains of the earth

Meet the rolling hills of the sky

And grate and scrape

In tectonic pandemonium

The line of demarcation 

Pulses as a neon

Zig zag

That too flickers

And loses its frightful luster

Ran prieur posted a kick ass article about productivity. 

https://medium.com/message/against-productivity-b19f56b67da6

I love that Japanese culture has satirical terms for overproductivity.

Everything, values, opinions are relative and based on perspective. But I can easily change perspectives so my identity isn't my perspective or vantage point. It's like dressing for the weather. If it's a light rain I'll put on a poncho or something, but if it's warm and sunny I'm in a shorts and tshirts. So the perspective I assume is very conditional on my environment and the forms that manifest themselves.

That means what you do has value based on how you perceive it, what you have given meaning in the past, what your culture or species values, and a million other multifaceted variables. That's why productivity can be stupid or really important at the same time. The strife comes when alternative perspectives are disallowed. It's easier to just allow different masks of perception to be handed to you and not be so sad when it's time to pass them on.

This is why expression is really cool; through art, clothing, music, personality, humor. What another values as art might seems twisted, demonic, or insane, but it's fun to toy around with the alternative perceptual bifocals of other people and try them on and expand to include contradictions. 

Like lately I really like azaelia banks. A few years ago I would have passed it on as trash, but now I'm really intrigued by how abrasive and spontaneous she is. It may not be the way I want to see the world but I can still stand back in fascination and awe and mimic her openness. http://youtu.be/i3Jv9fNPjgk

Or lately I've been mentally experimenting with dying my hair blue, and casually wearing stuff like this:

Short story idea: 

Cul-de-sac sounds like the title given to a kingly heir of an ancient patriarchal dynasty. His ancestors would be the 'de-sacs' and his first name is 'Cul'. Cul wore billowy pants, a mean fraggily beard, and nothing else. He had many concubines and enjoying pillaging and painting. The lollipop road endings that are found in most suburbs today are a relic of old temples to the gods of the 'de-sacs'.

One awkwardly liminal boyish-man just happened to be driving down one such road in his 97' Saturn. It's gold paint was shiny and unvisited by pockmarks of rust and brittle steel. It looked new, but as if it had been new for a very long time. He drove down this winding asphalt path to a cul-de-sac encompassed by aged and arthritic trees. The sun was low in the sky, almost apologetically being sad to leave so soon. It poked through the leaveless forest carrying the shadows of the trees into long swarthy beams.

The gods of the de-sacs were very lazy, but extremely powerful. They are of minuscule size and loaf at their palace in an anthill on the other side of the swamp. Before the de-sac civilization left the surface for their underground chambers, they would practice rituals of encouragement and nagging to motivate the lazy gods to act on their behalf. Chosen priest would ride in 4 chariots down a long road and into the grand sacred dome. They then rode eight and a half times around in a circle and using tuning forks, located a certain frequency that would open up a direct resonance with the anthill palace.

As it so happens, the boyish-man was feeling emotionally distressed over this, that, and the other and he sought to distract his confounded mind. He flung himself into a sharp left turn of the steering wheel and squealed around the cul-de-sac eight and half times. Skidding to a stop, he was met with a swift and short and shivery breeze which made him  uncomfortable. He flicked on the radio and adjusted its frequency to the classical station, 104.3 The Cream. 

The sky inhaled deeply all the air in the world and held it in till it passed out and turned a bright gray. The shadowy sunbeams fractured over the ground they covered and a tremolo of a thousand tapping needles scuttled up from the earth and click-clacked across the ashen gravel; typing out some banal office memo about an invitation to a casual event.

To be continued... May be

I like this music:

http://youtu.be/Y10924MkAHQ

http://youtu.be/je0lFe0MHjU

http://youtu.be/F9WvsHSsF-Q

blig blag blog. This a blog. Or a diffracting prism of the processional musings and swings that constitute my being.

poem: 

The peaks are whipped

Up by dabbling fingers of small planets

That commend us to climb.

Try speaking over 

The gurgling enzymes

With a tongue coated 

In a limey brine

Clang of bell in boiling sea

Resin of the accomplished watch

Guides along the elk of tomorrow

The sun crosses the horizon on a new axis

Held by some but not all

Rusted aluminum washboards rest in our bellies

Unused until whenever

Grated street and greater leaves meet

In the gutter that utters a wasting tune

That is sort of true

Of winding branches and plastic bags 

Grinding, sighing, and belying 

A fickle current of the forgotten

That rots and sets

With every fidgeting clock

Juxtaposed under familiar widgets

That knock the sounds of rocks

Tumbling diagonally to a darker alleyway

Into the lap of a stray man

Contemplating his agony

The ocean howls 

Down the closed corridor of brick

And mortar

Licking and lapping

The knobbled cobblestone

With a slow leather clapping

And tapping at the heart

Of a dusty man

Crouched in the shadow of a locked dumpster

Slowly losing its countenance

In the failing streetlight

As the almost man flickers

When the wave rumbles up the drain

He only snickers in its refrain

Sitting in his knickers

Coiling through his fingers

And hair

A hat of wicker

Which he made

For his sister

In Baltimore