Coffee Walking

Different state, shifted landscape

Regular reemergent habit,

Coffee walking,

smoldering joint between fingers,

“Dreaming is free”—

Hysterical, open-range looked over

dancing insanity;

Unbothered, Sunny self-charity—

“I love this record baby but I can’t see straight anymore,”

Eyes wide while darting left and right,

Curious free-roaming angst free paranoia,

Oblivious spacial awareness—

Hypnotic sonic booms ringing,

Vibrating down to moving shoes;

Cold-brew soothing, cool stimulant

coursing through every sip;

High with special, devilish flower—

Green cigarette twisted at the end,

Filter rip for ease in breathing—

Unrestricted mind wandering

Delights Against Time

12:30

Curtain call, closing toll

Through-running river,

Cooling, soothing morning mildew

Grey new hue

2:02 and blacker-blue

Shadow of night blanketing all-

on one half of Earth’s tilting curves,

“Run from the sun like Dracula,”

Deserved comatose insomniac;

Pretty pre-dawn

Beautiful obscured, buried alive all-along,

Daytime action blurring— 

Dreaming, sleepwalking,

alert without lust

Solar husk, tin rust

“All in all it’s just another brick in the wall

Brightest star is the fastest,

slickest serpent to fall

Destitute, disturbia miscalculating Apollo fireball

Suburban oddball delights;

Fading gifted disease of the mind,

Faltering dull dementia, stalling—

Peter Pan playing against time,

A dozen in a dime

“Kill the Demon, Kill the Muse”

Who it’s truly attributed to I’m altogether unsure as I’ve never heard it worded in such a manner before; but driving along the I-90 while listening to Smashing Pumpkins singer and tea shop owner Billy Corgan’s podcast, the guest Jeff Baxter explains, “Kill the demon, kill the muse,” in a somewhat humorous delivery albeit, but it is an intriguing statement to consider. It’s word-play which uses what is understood to be their implications both definitionally; and doubling as trigger for introspective investigation.

Muses being odd, mysterious entities of addictive intrigue which inspire passion and as a result act, like Carl Jung put it, as conduits to one’s own unconscious. The concept of a muse being like that of an artistic guiding angel; with there being nine different representative deities paired with such outlets in Greek mythology. Paired then with the word demon as also used in the statement, a word that also has its origin in the Greek sphere with the etymology tracing to the classical ‘damōn’, meaning a, ‘spirit, divine power or attendant supernatural entity,’ not intrinsically implying evil. However the typical and generally understood connotation of the word is malevolent; similar in tended contextual imagining in some regard to a heroin addict scratching around, thumping and searching for an unpinched vein— or more charitably: drawing on a pain for power, like Kylo Ren hitting his bowcaster-blast-wounded side for aided anger and sustaining imbued byproduct energy in The Force Awakens, as fuel for passion. Adrenaline. Inspiration, motivation and creation. Not getting over it more psychodramatically medicating in order to stagnate and stay in the preferred, wired state as it has such a divine, driving hold…

Westworld

Written while driving from South Dakota through reservation land in Montana and in taking it all. Through an April winter storm and gas station stops a poem scribbled in between sights seen out the van window. Title given due to traveling West the entire route. 

Westworld

Gray wisps of rain;

Curving curtains around conservative-inhabited vague spaces

Small plots on vast green,

blue and healthy, earthy tan;

Rich, data-depleted interstate street,

Covalent rape-trailer—

Hiding an open secret in rural,

plain sight;

Concentrated, collapsed suburban,

Post-traumatic stress infusion;

Thousand yards staring down—

into blank-face destitution

Dipole-dipped delusion, evading snake-stick,

Pushing prod with a cheap, synthetic leather scent;

Prosthetic parody—

in and out under the clouds:

Stale tasting Starbucks

Queer, once in a moment shitty coffee—

Small-Wall infantry.

butchered strung up to a tree;

Flaying poles dancing—

Murderous, moseying impulse

Wearing out, wondrous new side-route—

New copycat miniature ranch county range,

Free-rein, open carry days:

Small town gossip, glossed over malaise:

Reservation reprehension—

‘stay the fuck away or we’ll kill you’

Repressive, open-range intent,

Free-roam roulette glory hole;

Ozone fusion, chemical dispersion

Sky cleanly cluttered,

and scarcely is there a soul off the road;

Choke-hold latex tether shredded over—

invariable trillions of blades of sharp grass,

Stretched beyond elastic,

strained overstate divides and rung through miles of mud, sun, muck and gorgeous valleys of silent, salient selective serenity;

Bone-laced lines of traveling history,

Battery low and the sun descends West—

as also headed, an un-winnable race,

79 mile an hour pace;

Hate a bitch enough to dig them up and desecrate their face,

Post-mortem parlay—

Wild-West, bleeding gas mileage 

4.22.2026

Raspberry-Sonne sonic stream,

Van leaves Via I-90

To (or) through Madison today

Sears tower behind for a later date

Illegal flavored vapes and flavored, 

failed array

“This arrangement is arranged”

Passing Wilson Avenue exit ramp-

Downing caramel flavored,

frozen coffee drink

Western wavelength;

Drill beat droning bass-strength,

Vibrational vocation:

Pseudo-sober elation,

Strained epiphany overconsidered…

Weakness is last strength;

Sly sleepy eyes, climbing over chairs—

Mummy-rust coughed up cat dust,

Sterilizing to stone soft

Guitar riff writes the sign-off

“So long and good-night”

Past-future lackluster

Hole-blown passion filibuster,

Salient synths singing serotonin;

Sick sound-silencer,

Building it up then burning it down;

Extended, condensed winter

Breaking in anticipation,

Engulfed undercurrent—

Cupid with a stuttering rotary turret

Repeat runaway:

Black-mage, egotistical empathetic sage;

Concerning, disintegrating 

Retention pace, vertigo space—

Reason rings the rope regardless,

even if out of respect:

Dearly departed stitch,

Obfuscating bad cadaver,

15mph toll racer

Pay at wanted risk:

Polar-predictable pricing—

Flagrant fragrance, knee-natural dog on a leash;

Nicotine sweet tea, 

Midnight nowhere road gleam

04.13.2026

One-fifty in the afternoon and I’m once again back in the cafe section of the second floor of Chicago’s monolithic Museum of Science & Industry drinking free coffee, courtesy of Shane’s membership. Blip of a discussion on the allure of such ‘special treatment’ for members, it’s a payed for image of privilege in a sense with the contained rewards. Reason to be here today, at least specifically isn’t completely clear beyond that it is a neat spot and wanting to get out more; like last night driving near the lake front and stopping by a park to walk its loop and smoke a joint before being interrupted by a vulture-esque tow truck shortly stalked the vehicle needed for necessary transportation at that night time of morning…

Talk turned to the enacting of plans; and then to the overlap between intelligence and malicious manipulations which are delegated out by more left leaning fellow travelers, namely from dominatrix related occupations where such psychological play is practiced to near perfection— which is why intelligence agencies often use sex workers as tools for psychological operations. 

Contemplation what to see here at the Museum it would seem what is left unexplored is the submarine. There is some Anne Frank one which sounds intriguing but not available to being seen at the current moment. Decidedly, the coal mine exhibition is what to do…

04.12.2026

Sitting in a corner restaurant in a town on the Chicago outskirts. What I can see outside the window before me is a brick wall surrounded by grass behind a street, lettering on it reads “ST JOSEPH UKRAINIAN CATHOLIC CHURCH. I take a bite of the hummus and olive oil dipped Middle Eastern gyro, it’s a scenic spot and from what I am told, everyone can read the room as to the reason for my being in Norwood Park Township and apparently fitting a gothic profile; and am obviously as such a true crime sight-seer passing through the neighborhood that once housed John Wayne Gacy…

The food I ordered— a falafel wrap and French fries— arrives at the table. Consuming half and from there back out to the car quickly dropping off the food, then heading next door. A smoke shop, I got a new vape— blue raspberry flavor from a brand called Mr Fog. Never heard of it or had it before but it’s the same as a Lost Mary…

…

Graveyard visited prior was quite a sight to scour through. Stone and buried bones in rows upon what seemed unending rows, eventually leading to a statue commemorating the Haymarket Anarchists as well as the notable headstone of the anarchist thinker Emma Goldman. Etched into the stones: names, dates and various recognizable sigils. Crosses, Freemason iconography and a communist hammer and sickle. Some of the Freemason grave markers have three letters carved with a pentagram: OES, which according to research signifies that of an adjacent fraternal organization called the Order of the Eastern Star; whose members typically consisted of the female family members of Masons, matching with what can be seen in the gravestones.

Carved into the back of the stone monument dedicated to the Haymarket puppeteers is the name of Louis Lingg. An eyesore, by my understanding of occult literature. Quick connection is to the Great Beast, Aleister Crowley, in his Book of Lies with a poetic piece titled with Lingg’s name. Tellingly the writing opens up explaining, “I am not an Anarchist in your sense of the word…” and wrapping up his contrarian to the contrarian claim by stating with a (personally perceived) Machiavellian lacing that, “every ‘emancipator’ has enslaved the free.”

…

Starbucks brand medium blend

Late-night data,

discussion about atomic arsenals,

international obliteration;

Scrolling sights of Seka—

A Flock Of Seagulls sings from Spotify

Omnipotent omission, disguised delusion:

Profound, propelled illusion,

Rock me Amadeus. 

Culpable

A million years yesterday—

Cross-crossing paths,

Unlasting and retained ridges

Culpable,

Forensic exposition,

Underlying exhibitionism

Too much too soon

Cautious option

Isolated optical illusion

Theosophy & Laundry

The final day of March 2026 and the occasional venture was a trip out to Wheaton, Illinois to visit the headquarters for the Theosophical Society of America. A bit over an hour to reach the destination by car, counting nearly becoming stranded from running out of gas until a Shell station finally appeared for it and some coffee. 

Getting to the location I was greeted with a scene which seemed right out of a Supernatural episode by its aesthetics coalesced together: overcast, greener surroundings and a red brick and stone building full of esoteric thought. Center of focus within the bricks being the Henry S. Olcott Library chock-full of archived Theosophical journals, pamphlets and racks of philosophical works from Blavatsky to Zoroastrian literature. 

In my browsing I was led along the walls to focus on a few publications which seemed of note. Most interesting of available material being that of a four volume collection archiving a journal publication called The Light Bearer from 1993 up until 2008. Flipping through it presents as largely Buddhist leaning streams of thought with degrees of (syncretic) Gnostic lacing and interpretation. An interesting title for what is presented; in most contexts the term 'light bearer' conjures up a Luciferian or Promethean ideal. Pipeline separating though with connection to Satanic or adjacent thought evident (as well as within Blavatsky's Doctrine) with comparative analysis. Satanism being the closest the West, or specifically the USA, can ever get to the Eastern philosophy; its means of attaining this Gnosis is via indulgence in the existence whereas Buddhism's enlightenment is through a negation of said desires; both going into the introspective results. 

A small hardcover pamphlet was the next item of captivation, A Theosophical View of Human Races. Short, brief and syncretistic bit it is a largely symbolic posit regarding the idea. Going about explanation by historical mythos such as Atlantis, Hyperboreans and Aryan's with a purported new (at the time of the pamphlet being made) American on the way; detailing that it is more to do with era's of existence and the evolution humanity has during said segment rather than an ethnological determination as with breeding, the species is technically always evolving. In a sense the view given is akin to that of Mark Fishers' conception of 'disidentity politics': a fluid form adopted as method to dennunciate the dissatisfying institutional impositions. It's reminding in the Theosophical sense of a personal omnipotence, or elevated consciousness-- spiritual enlightenment; while Fishers' would be more hardline agnostic sociopolitical, awoken and reasoned with more of a depression. 

Lastly looked at in the Olcott Library was a small hard leather covered translation of The Book of Devotion from the Bhagavad Gita; and then a larger red book which was an exploration of power through a Hindu lense, which I find to be of so much interest I plan on returning soon to read it through...