Grux Kaban

Keith B. Real never had a better name
georgia green never been so down
crazy jeans never been so straight
bein alone never seem so attractive
and bein alive never been more fun

wish you could be here if i knew who you were
wish i could be there if i knew where you are
wish they would shut up, i know who you are
wish i would shut up, like with maybe a car

life is like daisys they’re really just weeds
fake is like real, although it really should’nt be

The extraordinary is become the only thing
The only thing has become the food for no one
Its important, but important no longer matters
The opposite and the extreme has become the reality
Has become so obscene, becoming modest

Red is like a show
As in it can be seen, and that’s about it
It don’t mean anything anymore
Cuz no one will listen

The random seems to be the only thing nice
The only thing real
But dangerously fake
Dangerously blind to just how much
I am

But nonchalance is a food readily swallowed
A nutrient more unnecessary than sugar
Than paper
Or dirt

But not the good dirt
Its more like salt, and I am being obvious
Makes it all seem useless
Makes it all seem plagiarized
Old
And more useless than anything
And anything is so very useless

I eat of the fruit of a disease
A disease I secretly wish I had
I think I know everything and that is something real
A real disease
But I want something more secret
Then she’ll find out, and cry
And love me
I’ll take anybody!
Like everybody should, or really what they want
But that’s not my problem
Hey now everyone knows that
You can whistle
Guh
Everyone can do that
Are you talking about that
And youre so interested
Like its deep or something
But everyone already knows that
Youre dumb

Im dumb?
Youre mean
Why don’t you know that?
Everone can tell that
Its so simple
I see you looking at her
Go talk to her
Anyone can do it
Geez youre pathetic
I could talk to her no problem
Its so simple
Youre pathetic

Maybe were both pathetic
Everyone doesn’t understand something
But that’s obvious
Everyone knows that
Duh
C’mon as if I didn’t know that already
Subtlety is art

Hey now
Repetition is life
Its part of life
You better get used to it
What do you talk about
Something new?
EVERY TIME?
C’mon
You discover cancer yet?
With youre brilliant talks
Youre oh so special conversations

Ok I get it
You don’t have to repeat it

Random thoughts for October the fifth
Movies are great and I get bored with talking
I analyze everything
And nothing
All at the same time
Im really not sure
I mean
Theres a lot I don’t know
I feel I know everything
And I try to know
I mean I try to tell myself I don’t know

Bubbles arent poetic
But I like the idea of money being a whore
Or a woman or whatever
But a bubble?
I mean, I guess it works but its not poetic
I said it before and I mean it, that’s what repetition means.
I cant think of anything better
A reaction?
No
A bubble is a perfect metaphor
It expands to virtually unknown size and without warning it’ll pop
At least no warning for those who don’t know
Still works
That is just part of the metaphor, some people know is going to pop
And others don’t
But I’d say everyone jumps when it finally does

The bubble is a disease
It can be life itself
A situation
A relationship
Very important things
So I guess I shouldn’t judge so harshly
Thought was put into this often repeated metaphor
But i still think its really not all that poetic

I want to use some words
Not for the … actually yes. For the fun of it
Weed wacker
Faux pa
Im pretty sure I misspelled both of those
Maybe not wacker… but im not sure
Ill leave it that way though

A MAN enters a room
A man, sitting on a chair, in the room, laughs
The man is taunting
The man is angry
And the man is all of these things beneath something else
Sad
Perhaps?
He says, “why do you laugh at me?”
He hates it when he laughs at him
Its his number one pet peeve
Really though it just makes him angry
Does it make him afraid?
He likes to ask himself questions
So the man, now well into this room,
Searches
He rummages…
Is that the word?
He’ll find out
Or not
After all, he is searching
He makes a mess of the chaos
You really can tell the difference
I think
No, he thinks
He does not make a mess of all of the cabinets
Unorganized bookshelves
Rooms and hard-disk memory and things on purpose
He is only searching
The man in the chair says
“what are you searching for;
Insert cutting remark here”
All while laughing
“don’t laugh at me”
The man says mildly
Nonchalantly
Keeping his cool, of course,
But
He meant to say it angrily
He meant to put passion in those words
But he doesn’t feel it
I think

The search continues
Computers are broken, sofas are kicked
Linens are soiled
The room is a dirty mess
Is a disorganized mess
And all the while the man really had better things to do
He did them
Sometimes
Usually late… or barely on time
In-between the search
It looked like nothing, the search that is,
He told himself, and those who asked,
That it was nothing
But he really was looking
I repeat, I am sorry for that
So is he

He goes deeper
He finds he doesn’t care
Mostly because at this point he is lost
He never was good at keeping his train of thought
The man in the chair
If you can call it a chair anymore,
Because the whole room is a mess,
Laughs some more
“that’s it”
Said the man
Because he hates it when you laugh at him
Its his number one pet peeve
I repeat
This time the man in the chair becomes serious
Arent I a great actor
that’s all I feel I am sometimes
The man had found a lead
A road to nonchalance
Deep in the recesses of the room
His chaotic and now, messy beyond repair, room
I shouldn’t care about people
Theyre a burden and so am I
I don’t want that
So he continued searching
It was now a hobby
And he wasn’t really searching for anything
He really was just wasting away
Time

Within a box
Within the room
Within a door
In that room
Like a basement
Is it still the room?
But there is love
He wants it
He searches for it
But its not really in the room, is it?
Does he have to invite it in?
Does he have to go into a basement that doesn’t exist?
Does it exist?
Its so hard to believe
When everyone is infuriating
But why then is he searching and yet running away from
The same thing
Love?
He doesn’t even know what that is
After all, he is selfish

The truth is the lives you touch
Really have been touched
Contrary to your popular belief
you don’t live in your own fantasy world
I guess everyone wishes that
They do
don’t they
that’s not a question, really, you just want to be alone
Deeper though
You want to be surrounded
By people who love you
But you know you don’t deserve their love
You shouldn’t care that much
But that’s exactly how much you do care
Enough to botch things up
Enough to want to be alone
But you’ll end up a burden that way
And all that caring
Will leave you alone
So stop being nonchalant
And perhaps
Start to care in a different direction
The direction where the party is at
that’s stupid
And you think everything is stupid
You want it to be

Want to be alone
Thinking everything is stupid
Except you
But you’ll admit to everyone that you know, that’s not true
Except you
you’ll lie to yourself and say
“youre stupid”
But you really are

I know its hard to admit you don’t know anything
Hard to change a habit, and much harder to change you’re mind
Even that teacher from the DMV knew you have trouble letting go of things
I’m not sure that’s relevant

Why do you like to explore the explored
Well that is life
To talk about things
To have conversations that people have had already
Countless times before
And enjoy it anyway
Breathing doesn’t get old does it?
Or sleeping?
You dog!
Insert laughter here
Do it
Here once was a gentlemen from Cambridge
He thought he could cut open a flutter
Then the flutter got out
And he screamed with a shout
That flutter is eating my butter
The man from Cambridge knew
That his butter was ruined

I don’t know where im gong with that

So that’s it

10/8/10

I am impressed with myself
I may not say it enough
Although I really do
Too much
[all in some European accent]
Those last few lines were pompous
And so were a few others
Before that, the ones where I actually spoke just like that
I was just kidding around

She walks like a whisper
To him
What does that mean
To him

He doesn’t exist
To her
But she know who he is, although it doesn’t matter
To her

Classis tenderfoot mistake
I know what you mean
Im talking to him
Women are whispers
Cause you cant open your trap
Even your wildest fantasies
Of sharing your best self
Your gold medals
Your money and muscles and great power and such
All of which you don’t have
Even those fantasies
don’t include you talking above a whisper
To her

I try to be poetic and truthful For some reasons I cant put together, it makes me happy
In a sort of way, at the very least im
Comfortable
Is that what people search for?
Comfort
My experience
(finally some experience)
Has taught me that comfort
Is more often bad then good
In the big picture
Of course a fluffy pillow is good
A true gift from heaven
Manna for the masses
But a fluffy situation
A place where you can rest both your head and your life

Writing down thoughts is healthy
don’t let anyone tell you different
But don’t get comfortable
Expand
Progress
And remember others
It’s a lonely life to write and live and breathe alone
But it is comfortable
You forget the comforts of a life unexplored
I’d bet
that’s where my experience ends
All I know is that I can get comfortable doing anything
Especially nothing
comfort alone can not be a sure sign
It never should be
You comfortable on those jagged rocks?
Almost there
You comfortable bleeding?
Just about
You comfortable dying?
Of course not
Its like testing water for wetness and then
drinking it
I’m sure a failed wetness test can say something
But not really anything of much importance
Or whether or not you are poisoning yourself

5:30 10-10-10

Oli oli auxen free
Misspelled

I want to write a story. The story can be about anything, but I want to implement a lot of what I believe into it. Ive always thought stories that are fun have been real winners.

Play time

This story will begin with a boy. Simple enough to make a whole set of plots with. Im pretty sure half of all the stories ever share the same premise. The other half is about love or some shit. Hey I can curse! Id best not use that power too often. Anyways this boy.

Walking down the street jimmy, whilst eating an apple, was jumped by a group of jimmy-haters. They punched him in the gut, slapped him in the face and chewed his apple to pieces. Right in front of him.
“why would you do this to me?” yelled jimmy
One of the boys, the medium-est of the three said nothing in return, just smiled loike the whole thing had been a joke. Everyone knows its not a joke when the victim starts to cry, and that’s exactly what jimmy did. In fact, he started crying o fast and so loud that the silent, smiling boy became infuriated. He decided poor jimmy needed more games to play, he decided that his play time needed to be extended, and so he and his group of friends played with jimmy a bit more. They punched him in the gut, kicked him in his side, and even twisted his arm. Then they all ran away.

The silent boy slowed his pace. Daniel was his name. he was alone now.
Why would he do such a thing.
Why couldn’t that kid stop crying.
It was only a joke, it was only for fun.
He’d done much worse to his friends, and they to him.

The classroom was quiet. Except for the scribbling pens and pencils. The voice of the teacher, the squeaking of the pen on the dry-erase board. Is it called a pen? Daniel didn’t know. He woke up with a start and wrote down everything the teacher said, but mostly what he wrote. He’d catch up later, re-read the notes that he put in a chaotic order. Math problems obviously go down the page not in a circle, no one can understand circles. Im not talking about “pi” ether, Im talkin about putting something that’s supposed to go down the page in order, out of order and all around the page. He wasn’t going to read it later that’s for sure. He did enjoy a lot of the class though. The parts he understood, the explanations of the teacher. Lucky for him those were superb. He probably didn’t care though. Not much.

The classroom wasn’t too stuffed, at least no one was sitting on the floor. He didn’t really care about scenery. Daniel didn’t like to read it or look at it or write I down. Except when it was spectacular, you draw that shit down. He had tried, and had basic sketching skills. In other words he could draw boxes.
That’s all right, perhaps its all a memory technique, so that the place would be remembered for him, later when he hoped to one day visit. Or in one of his various stories he always imagined but never wrote down.

He saw himself flying through the clouds. The iron man suit, his creation obviously perfectly calibrated for flight. He was unafraid and his dreams were born, a fulfilled in this flying image he saw. His father drove the car he was currently in, driving down a freeway that had probably been painstakingly made by hordes of people. A real beauty perhaps, and the walls decorating the surroundings were interesting. They were tan with etchings and carvings into it, it seemed like a picture appeared as the car whizzed by. Later he would prefer to drive, but if memory serves Daniel liked being driven at that time. Not himself though, the Daniel outside flying in the clouds. The iron suit of flight. It didn’t need to have weapons, it just needed to go fast and work perfectly. He wanted to fall endlessly, land terribly and survive. He wanted himself, the flying man, to have scratches and battle scars. How else could he prove he was a bad ass? At that moment though he was flying hopelessly fast, close to the ground watching cornfields whiz by. Why could he never forget this dream. Not even a dream but a day dream.
The silver and red and gold suit whizzed by and the corn stalks followed. Like in the movies when speed causes a powerful gust of wind to make everything follow you. He could go faster if he liked but he was at cruising speed, simply wanting to float over the earth and feel the speed slowly crush him. Like when you are pushed back in your seat as a car accelerates quickly onto the freeway, only that feeling times ten.
Suddenly the night came. He could fly in the night of course, he was a genius and he had made a perfect flying machine. He increased his speed and flew upwards, scorching the earth below him. And up he went through the clouds as high as he could, this was the worst part. He imagined himself going up an elevator, no superman pose, simply a nonchalant stance as if going up to the top floor of the tallest building in the world on top of the second tallest building in the world. Obviously this was one heck of an elevator ride, but it wasn’t his favourite part. He imagined himself in a suit. Fitting perfectly and obviously custom made. He strutted with confidence to the ledge of this impossibly tall building. His face was one of nonchalance and ultimate confidence. He unbuttoned his jacket and without so much as a fleeting thought he strutted right of the edge. The man saw himself falling, he didn’t feel it. He saw that the confidence never left the man, he even fell with style, and the angle he was watching this occur was sublime. The man fast reached a point where he became tiny, and his vision caught up with this falling confident man. His black tie flapped in the wind and he slowly flipped, stylizing his fall. However he was in the suit, the iron suit. There was a sudden flash of light, not death, but headlights. Somehow the iron man had fallen at an incline, making it that much more stylized. It also gave him a few seconds between his daydreaming ass and an oncoming car which he narrowly avoided. As he fell he arched his iron back and as he scratched the top of the car, a truck, he increased his speed and flipped over. He always imagined he’d be too late, and so he was. Once again he saw the impossible style and grace of the iron suit crashing against the side of the road. He didn’t want to hurt anybody and so he didn’t. His face fell hard against the dirt and he was rocketed into he air. He fell again this time on his back crashing onto the ground hard as he flipped over and over, like a racecar failing spectacularly. The light of his chest piece shone brightly as he crashed more, a spectacle to behold and as he finally slowed down he was happy he had seen the whole thing. Chocks dig battle scars, that’s obvious. So he was happy as he lay like an eagle in the middle of a cornfield, his parts behind him. As he blacked out the image of his parts lighting up with beautiful sparks was the last thing he saw. He woke up in the morning totally fine. He gathered his things and flew home, the cornfields whizzing by.

The power-man was wrapped up entirely inside of a creaky old van. Context is entirely unnecessary to him, however the situation was seemingly dire. He was in a straightjacket, he had a masculine scar on his brow and the blindfold over his eyes was itchy. His feet had been bound, his mouth had been taped shut and the entire van was wired to implode. He stared at the roof, wires coming out of everywhere, technology he didn’t understand all over the place. Outside stood an entire army of medieval warriors, superheroes and villains, soldiers of all types of wars and an endless desert. They all stood watching, most behind bunkers and others standing defiantly on black hills, underneath which the desert of sand still existed. Black dirt had been brought in special for the occasion, and some of the more extravagant assailants had even built monuments or buildings to stand on as this entire event took place. I’m not sure if a countdown took place, but the van began to shake, in fact the entire area began to rumble. The defiant assailants stood firm on their footstools, staring at this old Junker filled with their hate. As the van imploded collapsing upon itself, the parts began to separate, like a tidal wave collapsing upon itself. The tidal wave of twisted metal, fire, sand dirt and storm spread further and grew larger and larger. As the assailants were hit with this tidal wave of violence their gravity was taken out from underneath them. A villain with a fancy monument was falling up, a superhero resting firmly upon his black dirt foothold fell 43 degrees sideways and all the rest fell in degrees all their own, including 181 degrees. As the chaotic tidal wave grew, the chaos of where it had just passed gre worse, and fantastically better as well.