on a sunny day a drunk espy loopa bumped into a group of counter culture travelers. he asked em why they did it. they answered and explained the best they could. this was his response:


"culture...counter culture,
still culture no?

in the end that never ends you swing full circle
its not what you own or where ya stand that makes the difference.

it's how you are as a person.

ya lot are the same fuckin lot as those people in the big poof chairs with gold watches and roll in those big fancy cars that never stop.
tho your gold watch is the sun and the only big cars you ride that never stop are the ones on the rails.

in the end it's who yah are that matters, that makes the fucking difference.
not where you stand or what you think you do that makes you so jolly wholesome.
no no my figure of speech friend. that's not what makes youre life so fucking great."


they ignored him. kept on traveling. and did what they thought was the right thing of course.
espy loopa continued to walk on. drinking. observing. and write what he saw.

the sky rained drops of music for hours. each sound took a perfect fit in each persons head.
the people were happy. they danced in thier dying city.
i sat and watched quietly. notes dripping into ripples from my clothes hair and tip of my nose.
there was nothing romantic about this. we all just soaked it in.
it starts to fade out. quiet sunshine breaks thru. everyone is tired.
we all start to sleep. then step out of our bodies again.
into the quiet.

"listen to yourself in vacuums"
a train vibrating car windows nearby.
"try to catch up to your dreams"
"a failed writer can love too" you told me.
and then you kissed my words.
dead trains seem to love this stuff.
i'll admit i did too.

i tend to write like i'm watching my dreams.

i tend to fail to write honestly myself.
which i don't like. but even when i write honestly,
my thoughts come out a bit overly dramatic.
or angry. or wrong.
i tend to crumple more pages then save.
and i tend to hit a delete button like my finger is making out with it.

nothing special.

i use to carry lil notebooks with me everywhere i went. usually filled them with random rubbish of things to remember but usually was used for address and contact info for strangers id never talk too again and friends id always promised id mail letters too then fail so instead mail them a book. they'd be filled with addressees of tons of people who most of which i don't even really know that well or talk to a lot. then there's the few highlighted names of people who i do talk too usually. the other people I'd never talk to tho I'd always debate on weather or not i should keep or toss out. i always kept em tho because of that "just in case" feeling. ya know? maybe I'd talk to them in several weeks or months and what not. keeping in touch with people use to be a major thing about me. maybe we'd be close friends in the future, or something neat would come from it. maybe maybe maybe maybe. "what if".
this morning. i threw em all out. i'm done with it. my desire for communication is basically dead.

my midnight dream became a fantasy of 12 stars swallowing crickets