Generic for Ambien

my goodness, I keep making mistakes and typing letters that just don't fit, that don't sit right on the page. They squirm like children, and I scream out Act your Age. And now, I can bring myself to thinkwithout moving my hear slightly to the left. I can't even look the computer straight in the eyes. Too white, Too bright. Like a chalkboard on a movie steamship. I am that ship, and these feels are my sound stage. The drugs have brougt on the lights and the swaying sensation; quite right quite right. pause.

now my back feels like a skyscraper; thrusted down into the river pushing the dancing, the dancers in my mind, like the rocking of the sea storm is almost over. That the shaking from the open windows, letting all the cold air in might change our composition. Instead, our master, our maker, is 3 sheets to the wind on the sea of "lackofsleep" and all he wants to do is go home to his wife and dog and sleep soundly by their side. Instead, he is held captive by pregnant daily ideas that pop, and pop, and pop, like an earthquake, but only at night.

Now I am on a see-saw, and my huntched flesh is creeping and folding over each solumn keystroke, each pathetic, drug-induced ounce of dreck. Why would any of us that this sludge, this shit, this shadwell, and try it for another go. The only mildly redeminaing factor in this whole exercise is that I'm writing this; these terrible phrases whilst on DRUGS. It's that our through-put? The selling point? "He worst this on sleeping pills. on Heavy , call the doctor and have him send em in, fucking sleeping pill.

What I can say is that following. I am in my underwear. I am rocking back and forth. I love and hate the off-white light shinning on me from below. If nature is embodies in the light of the sun, Hell must be covered with phosphorescent tubing that flickers. Then the real question is: How did the Devil get his hell light up here? Because the light of the night, the light that is made by man and dinosaur bones millions of year ago, it creates the shadow where all evil can reside. The is a dim and flicker light in hell. And we have many duplicates here on earth.

Now, I want to make something crystal clear; I am writing for God. I'm writing to find a way to salvation. I'm struggling to find what kind of language you want me to use. I am half-gone to evil, but I'm still awake, here, strugglin. Waiting for the wicked to come-undone. Can't we just weight it out and the wicked will win? Can we just all be wicked? Aren't we that way anywaY?

Once, an older woman, about 58, leaned over to me while I was working my day shift at the bowling alley. She leaned over the top of my deak, above the shoes and the shoesclean can, and she had been leanin that whole time because she wanted me to take a hard and good look at her Tattoo. A Tattoo on her tittie. Her big left purple titty. (the keyboard has changed shape, and now it's harder to type. It's now round like a bowling ball, or like tits. I'll keep at 'em) It was a tattoo of "Where's Waldo" and in that moment, I got it. I understood the book. I understood the meta-textual game of waldo and his stuff. I understood how to fool billions out of trillions all you have to do is keep them preoccupied. As this older tatted titted troll lent her unique talents to my visage, I realized that from underneath, I was getting robbed. Reilly and his tit-tatted wife had thrown on over on me. BUt what they didn't know what the register hand less than 7 dollars in it, as it was the middle of the day. I would pay $6.74 every day to get a view of those tatted twos.

Now what's done is done. I've got drugs in my system that are trying hard to knock me out. So people play games with sleeping pills; this is my first. I think the game is, can you type until you pass out. (Bonus points for being able to get to bed, shut down your computer and not vomit on anything you like. Note: Pink Slippers are extra points if covered in chunder-barf.) Yes, the effects seem only to be physical, as I can turn and move my neck in peculiar ways and with much greater ease than previously remembered. My eyes are seeming to cross at times and when I rub my head all of my sense start mixing and clustering and custard and jam. When sense was once external, has now become internal. When I rub my head, I can feel the inside of my skull with my fingernails. Feels like the hull of a ship, or the hollowed out innards of a pumpkin. Like the smooth of a conch shell once discovered on the sand. Or at least the 3x5 sand display box in this New Zealand Gift shop. "We can wrap it up for you," She says kindly as I finger the inside of my smoothed down skull and flick out pieces, flecks, debris or my brains onto the page.

Fuck you for getting on my case about how I'm writing this. I really don't know where it's gonna go or when it will get not there. I've stopped. The drugs are starting to beat me. And I will not go out in a bang, but in a limpy misspelt whimper.

It seems that moment might be coming nearer still. I just sneezed 2x and sneezing on drugs is like sneezing as a acrobat. Your head moves longer and further and slower, more majestically like molasses readjusting it's course.

I'm still here, now, 26, not sleeping, at my dinning table, on some prescription sleep meds that have made me blather up a nasty and frothy concoction.


I wrote so much more than this that got deleted. I wrote another 20 minutes about what it would be like to be single in new york. It's really all I want. less than I want you.

see now I'm sober, so burnt that I'm going up to bed. Watch your head on the way out.

fuck

Without Expectation

We go into a poem
with so much expectation
that the poet will take us

to some roman ruin,
that, with a spark,
comes back to life again,

to the edge of the arctic,
teal and shimmering
auroras cover the stars,

to the edge of the river,
where there is a picnic
with watermelon and ants

you are wet, from head
to toe, and I wait for your
twenty-something bound bun

to come undone. We
expect our poets to
drop us in the water;

to renew us and
quench our imaginary
thirst for truth and love

for peace -
But this is not that kind of
poem - this poem is a flower

and when it blooms it
smells like flesh and
tears and blood and bile -

It is not the pot of gold
but the darkness from
which every rainbow starts.