Wednesday, December 31, 2014

this v. this

i cried at the news. a fortune cookie
had made it come true. goal accomplished!
i thought maybe i'd make a postsecret out of it.
'kuz i thought there was something
with me this whole time that i don't cry at the news

just trying to keep up with
the names of countries, why

do they keep talking about islam, and saying

white/black- and please do bring light
to how non-violence isn't even non-violence any longer.

nonono i don't want to be apolitical! i want a special title!
bring light to how impressionable we stay
and do what we're told
but say we go out of our ways not to.


my name is george orwell. i left
the graveyard seeking a 24mg nicotine patch.
there wasn't a single person who
i passed on my journey
that knew everything like i do.

should you choose to,
i hope you find the learning experience exciting .

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

human embrace, walking
along the outskirts
of warmth.

in the body temperature
is a song
and it takes a while
to get used to

before you can like it

what is it, you

and apart,
timid conversations
being velcro

i wont tell
truth is the celebrity
with all the power

and if you bow, happy ending

Monday, December 29, 2014

relationships are super important.

i've become important so
earning being volatile


stay inside.

how busy i am

burning holes in my jeans
picking lint off my bare mattress
plucking things that can
be plucked. peacock feathers.

those ignorant birds!-
white vases
without them feathers.

warm tissue needle

heart's desire, needle

i tailgate its
every move,

i love your life.

"i'm near"

old photo albums)
"just a sec"-

bridge of the forest-
hunter's debt

long overdue
the dream

doing what it is that
i want to do.

shoot it, then
spit on it

then walk away.
there's more to life than being
held captive- rat

i like them but mom says no
i argue rats are super intelligent
rats live in the streets though
i like pigeons too and they're dirty
and they're flying rats.

good point. dirty!

recedes from the pointed direction
of sensory flow

without warning. hard-wired
human behavior is

certainly worth giving a shot.
you will live again-

your innocence is not yet shot.

i'll raise my cup to it.
there are greater mistakes to

yet, still

through the door and out the passage
tumbleweed scratching throughout the plane

planning your dream himalayan travel trip

Sunday, December 28, 2014

aum tara starving light force-

you be my skeleton key,
my darling daughter.

and if you meditate
meditate really hard
you learn that

first of all
relativity: discerned perception.

and second

not to feel bad
if i'm not always gasping at
how amazing the stars are

for if i do not gasp, it means
i am not attached

and stars are dead so even better.
don't get all hung-up
on the dead!

i've only known
exaggerated in appearance
oh why
oh why me

because really
they are just as much
particles of the flux
as i am

little atoms fizzling, eating
away at each other, babbling

in vowels and even numbers
about cosmogony

walk the streets nude
mimic the ceremony
the best i can.

preparing for combustion.

sentient teal rings!

Saturday, December 27, 2014


big flat-topped rock, mica
eroded trash,
why have you pinched the
skin of my feet?

it's the swim for which i am in,

awakening the ambergris

i want the same as them

djuna at night do you
drown under my porous waters?
it's such a

and i did it myself

i did it to see
if i could make

a space station
in light-brites

i was so bored
and i didn't want

mutter pretense moan hot
bubbles sprinkle tissue
leech fig tree first man
first woman first fuck-up
figuring it out the

fool-proof way mutating into
every other color imaginable
turning out to be
no matter what

the day is shot,
say my body saved the
world if the world is a war
and all i did
while it was happening
was lots of nothing

can we keep it

even after he became enlightened along with all the other german people in my dream, and he ran out of his house proclaiming it, it was too late because this was post-apocalyptic, and we had all wound up marrying everything we didn't believe in but found comfort in, and there were giant ant-robots everywhere we had learned to adjust to, and it was too late. we lynched hitler when he came out of hiding, because sorry from hitler didn't mean anything.

Friday, December 26, 2014

i'm going to the supermarket to see the lonely people and gather ingredients to make lonely people food and hold a really small lonely people party.
a glaciers pace
placid rock

i made you that way

gripping onto

final attachment remaining,
the last artery.

before wandering
into nomadic travels.
i'll lose my soul and really
that'd be all i'd have to lose
if it weren't for you.

plate-shift having
often offended
herald in the plasma barely
under the ocean surface

into cells that too
are naked of color

also naked of happy

happened upon during
explicit conversation

this day offers many moments of hush.

i wish to let the other know
i think this is anger

toward you

lost in distance from me

is it taking a long time to
make new friends i'd write

on a postcard
followed by several question marks

i wont
i wont pry no matter what it takes which
is a lot
did you know those are pearls
yeah pearls are saliva

and it's all over your pillow
out of your mouth

and mine as well

you breathe, breath
changing pearls to opaque

how light!
this pearl is for us all
and a sacrifice for

the moon
thank you! being

alive is so threatening

this pearl is a he loves me, he loves me not pearl
and so are the next few.

this pearl is for
the born at long last

and also for
born again over and over
at the same time.

"alive" is the origin

we are all flowergirls, after all

these next
keep the planet spinning.

underneath our feet
possession of feeling


i confess i am its and i give

it all
the power

pandora was naive
yes this is she

and yes
this is she proudly
hey tree bark

aren't you a little forgone

you hang in there for

yourself alone

hang in there for

dreamless sleeper

the weather vane holds steady
aphids on your body

their teeth bare say they're racoons

cleaning their teeth

generous cleaning
generous cleaning

on you i to sit think dream without

feigning. you

grow into a brave symbolism-
how i'm all about decomposition!

Thursday, December 25, 2014

since i've left this war
i don't care that i have genius.

too much extraneous.
senseless fumes

back in the day
perfect was the law.

i healed lovers

made their favorite foods
walking down aisles in favorite colors

i like how dye

is it not extravagant
like the weather?-

one extreme to the other,
never to return

but always longing to?

when i go back i will be a baby
look i'm pretending to be a baby

i know pretty i know
shiny goo goo gah gah
i know shiny

developmental stages,
dear post secret: i keep almost typing "dear craig's list".

dear post secret: washing my hands after using the bathroom for me goes about fifty-fifty.

dear post secret: when i worry i don't love my dog enough, i don't realize that's silly. i don't even realize i'm distancing myself from reality, which is an obvious coping mechanism, and that's why i don't feel like i love my dog. i just worry, think fast, and overreact.

dear post secret: i triggered my old best friend who i love so dearly into cutting themselves again after years of not by showing her my own personal work. i never talked about it with her. but if i see her again, i will, and i will apologize. it will be more momentous than a marriage proposal.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

dear post secret: one time i was put on the spot by my first "serious" boyfriend. he asked me what i found most attractive about him. i didn't know how to lie, so i told him "your eyelashes".

dear post secret: the first guy i dated was such a bad kisser that he broke the bottom webbing of my tongue. i bled a lot and went to the E.R. the bottom webbing grows back, as if a lizard's tail. i promised him then that i'd keep it between us, but i've told this story many, many times.

dear post secret: i wish that i was raised with a better religion than "christian-athiest".

dear post secret: i had a crush on my ex-stepmom's cat. it drove me up the fucking wall. it was more like, like many things i've experienced, having an evil twin tell me i had a crush on my cat than experiencing lovey-dovey thoughts about my cat. no. it was EXACTLY like that.

dear post secret: this also happened with my dad. i was convinced i had a crush on my dad. i think that was a by-product of spending all of my childhood before then trying to impress dad.

dear post secret: when i was little, i became mean to a friend that was nice to me because i was scared i was a lesbian. my sister told me i was.

dear post secret: i'm beyond scared that i did a lot of the things i have done because, unconsciously, i wanted to collect compelling stories. and maybe not unconsciously. maybe i'm just a monster out to manipulate the world.

dear post secret: every crush i've ever had has been obsessive.

dear post secret: i love aileen wuornos.

dear post secret: i'm invariably afraid of overhearing other people behaving sexually to the extent that i'm convinced it's frequently happening, but i'm certain i've been heard over and over as i feigned reckless abandon.

dear post secret: i always lie to therapists when they would ask if i'm having protected sex, because i didn't want to feel like i was in trouble. i've had more unprotected sex than not.

dear post secret: i'm so sensitive about invalidation that when i talk to people i am always afraid of accidentally invalidating that other person.

dear post secret: my favorite novel is "the bell jar", and probably because i can actually concentrate on it.
i shower
drinking water
bathing in drinking water

baptizing myself. we can
all be cleansed

we can bare living with sin.
the bathroom mirror is steamy.

with my index finger
i trace the shape of the body on it,

the body
to whom this country would
appear as it is
if body alone

tracing the shape of "we will
work it all out one day-

you never know
about tomorrow."

mirror of mine, i'm
your dimension removed.

no longer am i in love with your poetry.

Monday, December 22, 2014

dear post secret: when i listen to music i imagine i'm the lead musician, or involved in the production somehow. i've imagined myself performing on award shows countless times. i don't even watch award shows.

dear post secret: i say the most expensive thing i've ever stolen was ninety dollars. lie. it was seventy-five.

dear post secret: i say i've never cheated on a boyfriend before. this is bull. i felt very alone in one relationship, and wound up seducing guys who i did not care for, committing a single act with them on the impulsive-whim, and would pretend it never happened, never talking to them ever again, and talking badly about them otherwise. these things did happen.
what's more upsetting to me is not the people whose feelings i probably hurt, but being a complete hypocrite.

dear post secret: i got involved with that one boyfriend when i was in the middle of a "relationship", or whatever that was. i say it's morally okay because the guy i was already involved with had disappeared on a crack binge and it was all a total joke anyway. it was all indeed a total joke and i felt freed and happy when i dumped him harshly via voicemail, but the crack binge is only something i strongly believe. there's no evidence to it happening.

dear post secret: both of those boyfriends i met in psych wards.

dear post secret: i worry i plagiarize everyone.

dear post secret: i believe typing a lot doesn't make me the type of writer i could ever respect.

dear post secret: i find david foster wallace assy and smug.

dear post secret: i remember so many things that are probably very insignificant that have hurt me. i carry the burden because i know the only reason they've hurt is because i'm so unbearably sensitive.

dear post secret: i consider myself very much so in touch with my inner genius, and respectful of it.

Sunday, December 21, 2014

i dreamed my therapist kept going on vacation or kicking me out of her life due to insurance mix-ups. and it was in a slum.

dear post secret: somehow, writer's block being one of my biggest triggers this last breakdown makes me feel better about myself, as if it was a respectable reason to go crazy.

dear post secret: i resent sentimentality.

dear post secret: i know i do not want to marry and that, in the distant future, i want to foster older children. but i believe that i will marry and birth children of my "own".

dear post secret: thinking about suicide doesn't comfort me anymore. i panic when i think about it. i regard this as a major step toward maturation.

dear post secret: i don't want to die without seeing my mother's dreams come true first.

dear post secret: my mother and her "companion" have been together since 1995, and i still can't make eye contact with him. he freaks me the fuck out and i'm not alone.

dear post secret: i compulsively repeat (e.g. listen to the same music over and over and over and over and over).

dear post secret: i never draw anymore. it causes distress to even think about drawing. i only like painting now.

dear post secret: i experience satisfaction out of watching my blog-hits go up, and i write more when i'm not satisfied with where they're at, in order to raise the hits. it causes me to wonder if i'm a closet-capitalist.

dear post secret: i'm afraid my sister is going to call me out on my laugh being fake. i can't tell.

dear post secret: i need to consider accepting i'm probably "chameleon-like".

dear post secret: an old friend called me the other day. i let it go to voicemail. i feel she only gets in touch with me to announce wonderful news about her life, and i could really care less no matter how much i tell myself i'm happy for her. when i listened to her voicemail i detected she still hasn't changed, not even a little, at least not in the directions i had always hoped she would. i couldn't decide whether to call her back and be pleasant and seem fake to myself or just not call her and seem like an asshole to myself. i've decided not to call her.

dear post secret: i'm more comfortable with the idea of revealing everything ever about myself to strangers than people i know well.

dear post secret: i'm jealous of everyone and everything.

dear post secret: i don't see myself ever being a true buddhist because of my commitments to being ridiculous that i just wont let go of yet.

dear post secret: i mostly don't care for "modern" art or poetry because, as i'm always assessing everything, i almost always conclusively write it all off as laughable, forced bullshit.

Saturday, December 20, 2014

i don't know what it is about new experiences that i imagine they're going to be completely cleansing. that i'll just go places, smile, meditate, eat well, have epiphanies, and read books in a mere few sittings. my abusive lover the inner-demon follows me everywhere. i'm staying with family in what's kind of like a mini-portland, and i love it so much more here. and i keep worrying i have to keep an ear out at all times, so they'll sense that i'm doing that and this will stop them from talking about me behind my back.

dear post secret. for a long time, i have been waking up at home when my mother and brother are getting ready for work early in the morning just in case they start talking about how much food i'm eating.

dear post secret. this substitute teacher once brushed his crotch against my hand that i had raised to answer a question in second grade and he was ugly.

dear post secret. i continue to live in fear of sexual things happening while i'm right there as if i'm invisible. sometimes i cough when this is happening to remind myself i'm there to get it to stop, and it doesn't.

dear post secret. sometimes i smell semen for weeks at a time.

dear post secret. i feel disgusted with myself after i masturbate and just roll over in hopes of sleeping it off.

dear post secret. for years i've been masturbating to my ex-boyfriend who i firmly believe is dead now sexually abusing me. it's the only thing that gets me off and i fucking hate it. it also makes me doubt i have an imagination.

dear post secret. not having invisible friends as a child also puts me in the compromising position of doubting my imagination.

dear post secret. i was raised in front of the tv. i don't want to hate myself for it anymore.

dear post secret. orgasms are underwhelming and feel kind of weird. i blame meds for this.

dear post secret. i believe i've made most of my memories up except the ones i don't shut-up about. i don't shut-up about them because i at least kind of believe they happened.

dear post secret. my self esteem is so low that i hate myself for hating myself not that hate exists.

dear post secret. i don't believe anything except the self-hate.

dear post secret. i went absolutely apeshit on two people this year and apologized to one of them. the only reason i did was because i didn't want the opinions of people who saw me to change.

dear post secret. i listen to music when i write to inspire the rhythm of poems which makes me feel like a total plagiarist.

dear post secret. i never talk about my most traumatizing experience anymore, but the worst part about it was that there was no escape. the second worst part was i was terrified for a while after it that black people hated me.

dear post secret. my last two GAFs i saw were both 55.

dear post secret. the only reason i wanted to recover from my alleged anorexia was because i believed my inner dialogue would improve. it never did. and i still don't believe i was ever "truly" anorexic.

dear post secret. how stereotypical is it that i can digest sylvia plath, anne sexton and virginia woolf better than any other writing?

dear post secret. i feel inspired by the pain of the middle east.

dear post secret. i feel inspired by the pain of africa.

dear post secret. my nickname in first grade was crybaby. i have been a crybaby my whole life. i tried to quit a few months ago but gave up after a few weeks.

dear post secret. i question my reasons for my "humanitarian" acts.

dear post secret. i don't identify so much as an addict as much as someone without boundaries that are "supposed to be obvious".

dear post secret. when i'm in public i believe someone is going to try to reach out to me on craig's list missed connections.

dear post secret. i heard depeche mode in toys "r" us yesterday.

Friday, December 19, 2014

wait for it, fellow disney fans

does it matter
that you do not see that woman

as the type of woman to

raise her own baby?

that's a little heart sick of 
pumping oxygen and

claims it knows hate

you're crying yourself to sleep 

you're only hurting yourself
why hurt yourself

you just love these memories
of people paying attention
to you

so you push them away

it is stormy as you
swear it is, though only the eye
of the eight ball can see

and you.

secret of you known to
all but

breath of fresh air
for all but

give me sustenance so i may
reject it all over again

Thursday, December 18, 2014

trim yourself
from your excess

and be it

wrap your god around it

god into it,

the swirl
big earth storm

you are to always go
spin around what

you are made of
and the earth in this.

it'll tell you itself


this is that of purpose

huge motorcycle roar

what are you crying
over now

oh eye, i trust you to
be kind
must you expect me to
go on like this?

must you expect me to
go on like this?




Tuesday, December 16, 2014

i'm afraid to ask google********personal00?bc /not see *crickets* (key word 'not see*&i really do want to be all alone i really do. i reallydo want my life to be a total joke it really is all for attention and anexcuseto feel badly for myself

and the people say "no" to me when i say that
and try to tell me otherwise which means

they are not real
because since the truthis real i give in. my name isjoke lady, bc this isn't a funny. he he he he he, a fortune. "you'll wind up in either a group home forever and ever or pilgrim state forever you need stop trying to not rot away you're not good at preventing it!
"don't you know life is good? don't you know people care about you?" i still want to punch all the people including doctors that said this to me and tell them i'm going to make suicide impossible just to get them to shut up i'll commit the unlawful i swear.

my best friend is going to move beyond the mountains one day. and i'll still be here. pretending i know things.

Monday, December 15, 2014

things my body tells my mind

how about you get me out there
how about your objective change
from more than just exposing sunlight
to my calves
and to my forearms
more more more

how about you worry about carpal tunnel syndrome
how about you stop eating like you do
how about you eat like you used to

apples and baby food and leafy greens.
put me in the yoga pants,

i know you're going to.

go in a plane and scream "bomb".
monster on the wing.
dance a dance that mimics fire.
open sideways at your eyes
the litter needs to be changed

let the guinea pigs roam the living room
suction cups piecemeal away at the paint there.

i dream of chaos and failed attempts at

i cheated on it.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

a dedication for daniel johnston from 2011

i saw christ,
& bored. he didn’t look at me.
it felt like i was
in brooklyn.

went home. devil
had let himself in, spare key

was under doormat. he skinned
my body off
me & i knew

what i looked like,
no longer
vicariously. no more guessing

Friday, December 12, 2014

what do you see?
a clown? a drag queen? an exhibitionist? an attention addict? a whore? a little girl in mommy's makeup? baba yaga? a maimed easter egg?

i have looked at the sun westward and i celebrate the sky

Thursday, December 11, 2014

a mushroom can be a blow
to the body

solemn biological cessation
o holy night

(feast on me i smell like play'doh)

the perfect day
blind date

blithe and dangerous union
the flamboyance of dopamine

year 1950 AD- it's
the end of the movie, darling.

let's get married

because neither of us know that i'm
a panther

a whale song
in the seagull's ocean

a famous person

you see a blow to the body masks itself
exhibiting quite some talent- i

confuse the blow with
the event that linked it to me, itself

i call myself the names i
overheard in the womb

mommy i am in you. stand your ground.
once again, i
yearn nutrients.

you are the crag i
play tag around
chasing my shadow until

i say "safe".
the sun is setting is why
i know my shadow is gonna go when the sun
sets is why
wonderful baby in red bandana sleeping
womb of wonder woman

off in the deep-end when nobody is looking
half drowning
half clawing crusader

eyes an inch long

eyes elongating my face


matter of fact i'm out of high school

the word "saucy"
wratched choked
ten toes

heaven is clouds over japan.

heaven jr.
korea-clouds weakly hitting on me
we're the opinion-trance
spirit says bruce springsteen
spirit says unfathomable childhood
spirit says time out
spirit says attention seeking behavior
spirit says you just thought "i don't mesh well with this is why"
spirit says you didn't have imaginary friends

therefore, you are not imaginative
i mean, that's just a given

the equation is simple.

you had a choice but
you wanted the real deal. real-life people.
o sappho, spirit says she raised you with your mother.
you still live under her roof. you admire

her crazy-meticulous gingerbread house.

spirit says "thank you" for cleaning, but
she's happier you've loosened up and become
less strict on yourself.

spirit forgives you for being a dick when you were little.
you made up for it by softening up later
in the nursing home.

spirit says you need to go back there

since you like that atmosphere
turn into mary's little lamb all soft and sweet

you militant little monogamous ouji manipulating
tension breaking pro censorship pro life pro marriage pro
trend riding pro voting pro tobacco industry pro

drop to my cranium spirit is an
apple in my belly anti-contempt

chick chick chock click clock kick kick
feather-trace keep calm if you can
chicka chick chick dick

be smart don't look back
i hear wal-mart sells cotton balls stretch them
around your

stretched young body
green colors must be the forest
nice guy mom dad i introduce you both
white-blue eyes crayons little
limbed-eels squiggle zap

clumps of sea bubble bubble
tongue of shit
shooting light-bulbs

baby carriage electromagnetic sprites
i'm going to die in france after my
sugardaddy buys me a pony

rest in peace it's your turn to
choose the colors to paint my room with for the first time in my life!
i'm sixteen, four years since my last
slumber party so it's about time

purple and lavender
every one of my friends has purple and lavender and
we all get our periods at the same time

purple and lavender
purple and lavender.

we empathize with each other like
purple and lavender.

happy happy bucket of mystery-flavor
crystal ball ahead in the future,

i'll cause havoc with my half-brain, remind me to.
monarch butterfly
remind me

tortoises live 'til like one hundred years of age

canada remind me

committee sufi

i was on larry king again. again, AGAIN. i made funny faces at him in yellow lipstick as usual. this time i was representing my new "apolitical" movement. people who disowned everything from our cultures to the colors of our skin in order to be absorbed in truth. we were also re-instating what "peaceful" means because the words "peaceful protesting" being thrown around so casually really bothers us since the word "peaceful" is in it. i'm seeing an awful lot of act-first-talk-later lately. if you meditated on it, what is peace? you meditated on peace? you it?
throughout the +06 hours i thought about it yesterday, and an additional handful more today, not a soul in the group including myself could come up with a name for ourselves. it's because we didn't need a name, to be identified. why do we need collective titles at all times? throughout my series of interviews, we would switch up who was who to represent us and at random, not claiming a leader because that's not what we were about. since all opinions are of equal worth, we were free to answer tough interview questions how we pleased without losing respect from our colleagues. as i say, "everyone poops".

this is a fantasy. a fantasy is something i tune into when non-fantasy is asunder. it always is.
yesterday i turned to fantasizing when i became angry at myself over not focusing on reading. and again, at sucking at art. today, today, after reality became a little too heavy to believe in again and totally behaved like the end of the world, i turned back to the fantasy again while cleaning the bathroom, attempting to watch movies, creating a new makeup scheme, and painting. i wave the white flag. "i can't focus." now what?
people brush off fantasizing as a mere maladaptive coping skill. i would like to suggest that as i flip out and feel demoralized, fantasizing happens compulsively and can even lift my mood. it's powerful. the poems that i share here are by-products of fantasy-trance.
i don't accept myself. i fantasize i accept myself. really, i don't know when i talk if i'm lying or not. maybe i do accept myself and just don't know- or perhaps secretly do know but pretend i don't. the safe thing to do is to assume i am, at all times, lying- although parts of me believe myself, and i'm pretty sure they're all from the peaceful committee, the big voice says i am lying. it hates me. i'm not sure what i did, but something pretty damned fucked up, because it's very resentful.

it's a splitting headache. one worth moving away from.

people like me were built to grow up into major disappointments. either that, or we were meant to face that challenge, and put ourselves through the pain of pragmatism to prove that we can break the rules better than anyone else.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014


you're not a christian genie
you're an electric eel

show me that diploma while you
congest the streets-

the only rebellious act left is
taking space in your sanctuary.

i've got anxieties

so tell me good things.
throw only bad things in the junk drawer

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

committing crimes

panty hose
change in appetite

down in the delta

hang up dial 911

identity never existed. and

love doesn't exist any longer-
people tortured the feeling.

don't cry

we will dance and dance and
respect each other


everyone will go to this party.
harmonica i am ready o your
shooting pain my lord!
we are the terrorists
the pawns
as well as the pacifists


cluck cluck cluck cluck

to the honeymoon i
remember clearly
even more,
the wedding song

can you spare a moment and
recall me?

marriage is an indoctrination
but it's so old that

it's a part of us now

i'm against all i yearn for-

the hypocrite
twitching husky-eyes

innocent people

the old man knows

Monday, December 8, 2014

coping skills for when you know everyone ever is trying to kill you

look pretty. makeup is indicative of happiness. remember
the word "noisemaker"
because you see one
after three days of stressing your brain out over it. celebrate your
three-week no-cutting anniversary
by continuing to not cut. don't watch tv with mom,
because you don't feel like lowering your
standards just yet.
improvise poetry on the computer. link together
words that feel very specific therefore important
and remember one day you'll consider
yourself a poet like superheroes wear
briefs outside their spandex pants.
torture the people that love you with text messages
that don't directly say, "i'm wondering
if life is just a little too heavy yet boring
for my liking"
but say "what do you think about my surviving?"
apologizing via text is lame.
they'll tell you to go fuck yourself later
even though they would never
to anyone
you'll get it out of them.

they'll thank you for the favor.
and then it'll be your turn to tell them to
go fuck themselves, because it's likely
you were just unconsciously testing them.
don't have a cow.

feel good about yourself that you don't have an i-phone.
you do have an i-pod, but
it was a christmas present
because someone stole your previous one
which was also a christmas present
and there's only one band on there that could
potentially make you look uncool. REM.

it's not like you walk around the town with earphones in.
it's not like you don't realize shit.
it's not like you don't hear the music already.
it's not like you walk around.

don't title the damned pointless manuscript. go
to support groups where you're probably just
trying to get attention, because you can't tell when
you're lying or not.

wear pigtails. dress like lara croft. fuck up
your ankle again. refuse to cook anymore.
little alphabets
and music box notes

saving the world,

idealists are fat-eyed with
balloon thoughts

o they believe they're psychologists.

like my sparkling water-
frantic bubbles-

my temper loosens its beads
drops its "g"s and

my tongue licks a path in the snow

decorates christmas trees
loss of my last baby tooth

fizzle into babies
my safe place

my first kiss
this goal is my greatest interest

come, halcyon days. i said come.
paw. other paw.


o i am a
glow in the dark,

that wants to look over the
homeless teens.

if only they knew they had all this
mystifying power over me. they'd

feel better about themselves.

then grow up and shrug
it off.

if only they knew
that i think their inner-beauty
is astounding. if only

they listened to my thinking!

superheroes are

fated to know better.
in my smile i see teeth and
very good acting.


pick flowers
hungover on

our calming romance
the new baptism dance

i indict you
over and over again

you smile
as if it means nothing

make it mean something
make it have meaning

are you mad at me?
bleeding my thank-yous
out of "respect"

you the body which is not
you- we spit on it, it's me

i've got you, babe.

have you got me too?

soon we're cocoons and

imagine eternity- the royal family

what we are going to be.
i will see long girls
and not much else.

i'm tropical my brethren
my brethren we're islands
distanced nature-ideals
encapsulated and sent

to the moon to be mined

go indirect.

have it in you,
the nasa-man's
take-off voice

then clear for landing.
bite for a bite.

body heat for body heat.
the fruit label, the fruit-skin

chewing with your mouth
open i spy

beet staining,
off with your gloves i turn you pink.

i'm happy to give this to you.
how tired i have been

mastering the craft of learning,
in transit

ping-ponged betwixt cacoethes

betting at the race tracks
while my ass is whipped around them
and i'm on my hind-legs

on my soap-box

i've seen the sun rise and
i've seen the ocean,

i've seen tv and i've
been to concerts.

i have seen myself look at things
for long years.

my mind, your body.
headless in public

you are attention
you are your world.

at top speed we grow then part-
to miss our appendages

we'll never get over.

hugest priority, shut down
and tear away.
every morning at 5am i wake up
to make sure
that if my mother and brother

are in the next room
talking about how i eat too much

then they'll never do it again.

light meets light; prism
calls on itself.

the earth
paints its bodies

he/she offs pig's blood for satan
calls it a day.

say grace.

over the patio furniture i
burn my clothes

worthy cause
moshing while processing

beer belly
elephants facing windows
santa rituals

restricting then
backing away

do you see the women
touching each other
for money

kundalini strikes again?

over my head
and to the moon

Sunday, December 7, 2014

georgia flight- pay
your mermaid

taken in the bathtub
blankets and injurious

sugar-leak- sweep
the overdone

wishful thinking,
the balloon-heart, proud
to burst

blow of state

on the flight it is funny.

guitar-pluck and lighter-
click; window seat

my reflection says
airplane crash

separate and
hide behind tabloids.

99cent store.
beetle on his back. karma
to flip.

i'm good at roses.
red leaves and alabaster,

ride away south
to haiti
on your inhalers.

not the canadian geese
in the school yards.

is it a shooting star night,
old and skinned

state without streetlamps.

the frontier calming
sound of crisp-smell.

please watch over me.
glide the floor, i step

season of lanterns

uphill the zoo
confused animals

who aren't ever truly
in the first place

toss them the food
tell them

it is meat
slurp the baby down

just like you

organized unconscious
sonic light-hit

beaming blossom and broke
here is god

all else
sound asleep and fond of it, o

get me dreamless

Friday, December 5, 2014

malinger.              malingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalingermalinger


Wednesday, December 3, 2014

get past
the front door

the world is always
going to have you

"thank you
for the blood" it'll

the world is
always going to have
a wreath on its door

it is
a crazy-straw, cornfield

raise your ground

not once in your life
have you been sick

you are full
of styrofoam


toot toot

carols and me on the snow
little child looking into windows
locked out- where ever
will you go? is it
not cold?

i shoot upward!
the birth of jesus carving the moon,
putting our unalterable ending on hold.

happy baby
hundreds of past lives, prime models
for bettering
'til i can find my center.

next door, always

mumbling of prayers

the stories in the king james bible
inspired by these prayers

than than
disfigured as the center of a tootsie pop,
all chewed up.
surrounded by an army of flies.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

ivy-creep up houses
matter mutating

i like this evidence

hydra-steering o all three us
get along

eye of the caregiver:
countless soulmates:
"do i know you from somewhere?"

countless lives-
soul undrugged i
swear this

water we embrace
is sweet

how weird
and always, reminders

it is built as this

cry for ferguson no. 02

Saturday, November 29, 2014

salome reproached

white sapphire do re mi to you i

rain rain rain milky heartwarm all
over the human race i

bunch my hair and pull up my tights
christened in the name of

multi-faceted spinning shine vault

in the depths of space

stars learn they are on fire

i had to tell them
i had to in order to stretch longer.

i bared proof of phoenixes and reincarnations  

rubies began to spring red-eyes in the sky-an

alphabet of desire.

it hurt to look up after that. i began to shift back into my familiar body.
breath of neon
metallic taste
in tune with earth-dna

if i feel it, i am it
donate my belongings to this book burning

plums and nectarines are not of
this time of year must
i stay awake? you may

experiment on my body
if you let me slumber.
i'll pretend.
i'll pretend my dreams aren't
trying to tell me things.

between you and me.
and later on
i wont even believe me
when i tell myself

this was happening.
because it was just you and me.
how would i know if i'm
just making up a memory

if it was just you and me.
lose it.
lose it to history.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

life during the present
trial. murder of a man
to the guillotine before '77

do you know the king?
do you know it was the king who you murdered?

brother don't bother apologizing we
hated him damn the man and
his ermines

death toll meant everything until
we tired of it and

you weren't potty trained properly so you
shit on the streets and call it an act
of punk rock anarchism crimethinc. hacktivism
cherry born when it comes down to
it god-component can we

talk about something easier- a subject
far less sensitive than capital punishment


law enforcement. doctor handwriting
i prescribe you
blooming multiverse i made an animal noise

growl woof caw meow rattle peck blah blah

those are chills
those are chills between my orgasms

i didn't like having them
because i tried to make that face
in the mirror before

and a boy couldn't possibly like it
it's not pretty
therefore it doesn't offer me security

 and that time
we were about to fuck that one guy

which is always exciting

but i blacked out for the rest of the night
except these few times
where he said all concerned:

"are you okay?"

no idea what i said to him. probably "yeah".

the next morning i awoke and
i saw unborn teenagers that

could've been other version of
me by now
hum bum buzzz guzzle nuzzle foot rub

now they're coming out
out of their mothers
out of the hospitals

out of the parkways
house, woods

apartment building
all the people separated to

spend money believing in below
in below, a greatness- an unfinished sentence

mall rats terrorists hoodlums soccer moms
religion fanatics and if they're

separate from my own culture
let the unfinished sentences get taken care
of by someone else,

they're their problems now- weeds.
i've got

other awkward silences to do better at.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

the meat-packing district

giving myself street cred, these hotel
knick-knacks are all mine.
that bible doesn't hide itself well.
that bible is mine.

a screeching halt, squirrell

on the road- you fair well
in trees, fences to trees

beach chairs in the backyard
to trees.
it is the summer and i think.

i'm doing everything i can
to see past the thinking.
furtively learning how to cook,
one tablespoon of flax seeds

in my experimental shakes,

myself to loosen up.
i see it through the telescope next
i see you shaking in your boots.

look at you, obsessing over
the garden only half-yours,

take a chill pill.
go camping.

you're at that waterfall
cool mistiness spritzing

all over your willing

look at that fake-meditation.
look at you wondering

what your third eye is
supposed to look like, anyway.

look at you slurping at your
own soul
fast as you can

confusing the meat with the god.
sat nam! sat nam!

if it doesn't work out by the time
you're thirty.
if it doesn't by twenty seven.
if it doesn't by sunday.

closer and closer to god.

all your gestures of dwindling
going into

kissing a bullfrog,

praying to the shower-head.

even closer.

slice up

that stomach
you've a tummy ache, no?

somatic pain
is a big warning sign.

worms or meat or
both at once,
pots and pans for atmosphere

press the distress signal.
stop the conveyor belt.

horse voice and hat hair.

shut down the factory.

there are other ways to make money.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

songbird's full names
tv guide listings, things i want
for christmas. coffee number

three. sleeping pill. part the vitreous wave,
allow me a poetry.

pizza and ren and stimpy? can do.

young lady

i dream of new york city
because of its filled up space
-a depth-plunge
sitting on my body
except its outline

once a stroke
from fingers in sand
of a bay

the body cannot move, save
toes wiggling, trying to get
god's attention.

now i don't know what i want to
be when i grow up

grandmother and family-friends looked at you
fondly. people find innocence
rather adorable.

keep it. revive it. honor it.
remember these homemakers.

grandmother and grand-aunt sibling
rivalry, instilled

in sister and i
my memory is unwanted
all alone
balloon in outer-space

i'm on the world's tallest ferris wheel
meaning well
it moves so slow
and i move with the clouds

i've got something in my hand
to float to the balloon
and tell it to find its own space

hold it and force it to fly
my ancestors ache to dismiss
belief in history

let us sleep endlessly
tuck us in, daughter

your blankets are nice

bedtime story
don't let the bedbugs bite
my hunger is daunting, julienne
those two sticks

must rub one another
play the violin
over our romantic table

with the candle
that's black
and shaped like a woman

i'll kill your heartbreak
with my glue gun

nobody fucks with
a woman with opinions

inside i'm in a car
looking out the window

lost in the midwest
driving past meadows
worried about possessed children

not dressed appropriately
for the weather.
so i've got a lot of time to think.
hopefully i can pluck at your
little malnourished strings


peak a boo
reality show in the living room with mom and brother. fuck. i was really disappointed last week there wasn't a second episode of "too many cooks".
next tuesday will be my test-drive of leadership at my volunteership. i do not want to think about it. i do not want to print out the employee application nor do i want to fill out and sign papers.

as much as everything seems to be falling into place, and i'm happy, things are a little off. i'm not as strict on myself as i have been for years. too strict. wouldn't eat strict. and coping with the change is tricky. i have to meander around the admonishing voice that tells me "i'm lazy", or that it's my fault i can't seem to keep this one plant of mine alive. i try not to think about this plant that just seems like it's self destructive. does this mean i don't care? i hope not. i did make a few attempts to figure it out.
my psychiatrist says welcome to winter, it's time for seasonal effective to kick in. i need to absorb as much D3 as i can but like, when i go outside the sun isn't around. the sky is petrified puke. my leo heart is way irritated over this.
however, i can walk around my backyard in my underwear openly because nobody is outside, and i just don't care what the neighbors think so i ought to take advantage of that. i'm paranoid about other things all right, but like, there's so much sex screaming at me from the magazines when i wait in line at the grocery store that i wonder if i'm schizophrenic and fixated on a notion that society is obsessed with sex. me in my jessica simpson underwear and my lover's hoodie baggin' up doggie ca-ca or trimming my perennials can't possibly give a boner. i'm an acquired taste.
although now that i think about that wee-bit of factotum when chinaski masturbates to a stranger who's vagina he can barely see across the street, there's a chance.

i don't travel anymore. my jack kerouac days are over. i don't know where to go, and i'm afraid of having a terrible time. even more, i'm afraid of dissociating, because that happens every damn time. but i do miss the aliens i've observed, as they don't bother with my location. really, i can't blame them. the air is tense here, it's ridiculously expensive, and everyone judges each other.

alaska is full of aliens. i totally swear. when me and my girl sat in a big comfy barnes &nobles on one of our daily strip-mall outings, we spoke of aliens. than she said, "wouldn't it be funny if as we're talking about aliens it turns out there are aliens right next to us?" and the two aliens sitting near us looked at us, looked at each other, than got up and walked away.

and i heard today, it's possible that that UFO i saw in 2008 might've been a sophisticated government blimp thing. possible. but i'm suggestible enough when not defiant. that UFO! i was smoking on our patio, when i saw it, kind of like a crystalline squid orb. huge. nearby, i presume. it sat there and glittered, than kind of hovered. i crept back inside to grab the phone to exclaim the news to my then boyfriend. when i went back out, it was gone. dammit kanamit! oh, you really did mean something to me.

Monday, November 24, 2014

twig- perch quiver
up and down it wobbles

the one sparrow. winter
causes forest scenes
to appear gray

sound this way too but
taste and smell tree-burn

the sky wants them
to be miserable

o pandora, widened

heart-face, cross-armed because
freezing, do
make me wonder,

great- grandmother
from shattered egg

at this point glass was eaten
on birthdays

so we could be happy
the rest of the year

make me wonder if i stare closer
even right before
the edge

if i would break because

i know deep down
that it's not me to change it

things can change themselves but
nobody else

efforts to prove this wrong

of course it
offends you

lling lling lling lui ling lling lui,
it makes me happy

uncovering the reality given
by children's books

turns out
they were always about us
and that's, perhaps

why i started thinking about sex
real early

it knew i knew what it was

when we speak of rape
we're talking about lord licorice

and you better learn about that

we've all been there
god has paid me to go there

my body rejected the feeling
that i was pond scum

i'm sorry, i didn't mean

to make you so shy
frostine said, on one hand

i meant to teach
you kung-fu, on the other
vulcan, airplanes
it's safer in the air

than among the camels
thirsty, thirsty.

dragging my sunburns
clawing at
my belongings

then wait a minute
allow me to file
my nails

trimmed evenly
i have the time-

that's a calm distortion.
its other name

is collective unconscious

we all have it
saying it's on its own wavelength

i check on it
when starting the day

no longer do i follow
how we all have it.

maybe the insomniacs.


rained on, bed

miles away calls

strobe lights bat and blink

i'm epileptic

this could be survival
or a convulsion

but my glasses are now broken

rose colored gas station
people get their gas as they would

but are now staring too

release my friend
she wouldn't do this
to you

officer he is forty-three
i do older

than you
to reach higher places

you call me queen

but is it not you
searching the vehicle

if a cure

for cancer?
is north amityville not right there?

helter skelter. he is
my daddy.
i like my residence
the rent is due

interfacing cold X

o, it would be mean to
forget you

my face is bare and peach-fuzzed
you find me soft-skinned

i call to you- reserve

forest nymph developing wings
new dreams

and slaves in
i am in the corner


never been grounded before

i'm as pretty as marilyn monroe.

everyone wears a mask.

marilyn monroe

she would've gone bankrupt

think she was already

when the expenses wear off,
and the war fades from the news,
and the neighbors fall in love,
and i memorize the names of all

the major players,
and the so-called islamic state
finds something new to jerk off to,

and i begin to see why the beetles
are supposed to be cool,
and my friends can be happy
because they are permitted use of
their own money,

and my teeth stop aching,
and the lice stop squirming,
and the fleas stop biting,
and the ticks stop happening,

the bombs stop dropping.

by then it is dull.

daddy used to say
we all have a need for wealth.

oh daddy.
i think we just see ourselves
in everything we look at

and that's why we're so mean!

cry for ferguson

you have the sorrow
it is your gift
get over it

get a real-sick

climb over that barbed wire

of course
you are able only
to inhale the air

from your reality.
can you not trust we
mean well?

must i, i say?

threat. simple. stay back

human, i

yes my fur is warm
in it, i somnambulant

my morning song i do send
i do i do

a window a little opened.
must we trust one another
it says
i should say this

crawling into a new home.
i am that ice inert. erased

of liberation. yoked to

the vehicles and
from the clouds

they changing shapes
without a shame

flattening, tightening

have been beautiful-

they get older
and know the ocean well

for every voice it has
i've known only it as me.

the iron

not resistant
we chased

the backward, only to raise

an embrace
of buried bones.

it was an order


clasp of bittersweet

to the keep-of-the-conscious.

once on a ship.

one baby step
land to sea

many countries
in one swift movement

chipped away core.

swans and sun-down, ripples

making calls out to


he he he he he he!

tread politely tip-toe
mostly by soul

here the law
a stretched plane

give into the dirt,

the dirt
is where i find

i'm searching
an us inside the body.

heaven knew.
she said this through the lagoon:

it's all on you
as i

do not count on you
one week precisely

quickly as molecular structures
diffuse into something more

i was the planet
that is cold and stunning,

as if a figure skater

circles are what i knew,
an around-journey

around blank space- ice
to smooth. it,

dark and punctured
with blind-white beams

my face rested

continuing to stalk.

"you are
the little sister

bearing no thing,

closer to the sun
the muses of zeus

watched over me
fearing where dreaming

would take me.

now on a boat.
it is wooden and splintered
pointed frame.

lay steady,

follow branches in the sky.
with them i am i,

time taking
viruses simply will not do.
the body i sold to put-

who's there?-

an hourglass
where we plot

slipping through.

touch touch touch. do not
disturb flowers

at night, we are in it together,

the ones who cannot sleep,
petals blanched

holding them desperately
i seek a smell.

scent is what shrivels first
and is the first memory as well

which is why we don't remember
being born.

someday i will find you.

than i will save the world,

final breath i get it,

the first anniversary.
silver worms

enter cunning mate

at first it a cold
olympian exit

into spatial curves

matter and more

blueprints spotted
clink eternal

out pour
into the fog,

where what's left
for man to do.

sinuous are we

noting time or no

grasshoppers. dew.
peeling off
paper mache from

my circumstances


i am blistered by the rain

feel at sea
feel up for re-aligning

end up giving

froth over land

helium and happy

Sunday, November 23, 2014

little heart's desire- being
you- gathering

of all my favorite animals

together i
find ourselves fascinating.
can we miracle?

i stay still so float;
first, pulled past
the canopy as i imagine it-

i bring you nearer.
pulled we are toward
aching to sync

inviting body parts
one two three symmetry,

in this poem
the moon will be likened to us.

perigee i stick to my tongue,
walk back to my given place.


all night
i love make-believe terrorists

stress dreams of domestication-

from these i wake sighing relief
the plants haven't given out-

indeed i nurture away.
it is allowed.

oh the church bells twinkle again?
let them remind me they are
my friends.

it's raining out.

a loveletter

Saturday, November 22, 2014

to the effect of how i feel in flying dreams, i was running in the new york marathon last night. i had no idea i had so much stamina. but it seemed to be dystopian out, post-apocalyptic. the sky was grey, after all, and the river kept washing up beautifully blue styrofoam. there weren't many of us racing. the general population might've been more concerned with survival than running in marathons.
from alongside the east river, i spotted the others gathered along the bridge where the race started, looking over the railing at the turbulent waters.
they were gathered together there because hamas was present. i'm not sure where or how or why. than, a "hamas number two" was present. evz! i continued running. i looked over my shoulder, spotting yassir arafat on my tail, running gracelessly, out of breath.

my father ran past me. i know why this happened.

my sixteenth summer during this current life i had spent mostly at my father's place- on an island where, should the opportunity happen where i have a choice to move, i would love to go. dad was between women, so he was doing what he could to discover what his own identity was. everyday we did something new and fun, as awful as i felt- i tried to pretend i didn't feel badly, but i wasn't a good actor yet.
he and my freshly ex-stepmother had just separated, and dad, in his time of crisis, talked to me in that fashion which people who ought to see a therapist that refuse to see a therapist talk to their friends in. in other words, dad told me EVERYTHING, and everything all at once, i learned, was not something i could not handle- as much as i felt up for handling it. it was too much not as a failure for a daughter, as i was beginning to consider myself, but as someone that doesn't have an objective view that's also not trained properly in mental health counseling. i laugh at old news easily these days, and smile when talking about bad memories, trying to get everyone else to smile, really i'm so damned willing and it's probably a little sad. but they never do smile. in the back of my mind, i know it's because a lot of what i've experienced is not funny.

if i were to meditate on this particular chunk of my life- sweet sixteen-putting myself in my old goth maryjanes for a minute-

01: i began taking psychiatric medications as my multitudinous issues began getting a little weird on me, and i barely slept for the entire summer, and derealization was MUCH TOO MUCH FOR ME.
02: i didn't have friends or anything normal like that, and people who did want to be my friends (i was popular for some reason, probably because of my, i'll give myself credit for this, uncompromisingly fucking cool personal style) i was just too painfully shy to form relations with. and i wanted to keep that a secret.
03: my heart had just been crushed by the divorce of my father and my stepmother, which i felt unable to talk about and still do, kind of- because, as i was reminded over and over until i just gave up, it's not like my MOM and dad were divorcing. (i've always been a little sensitive to invalidation.) immediately after the separation, and upon discovering the type of human being my stepmother really was, and like, we had just bonded very closely the few months prior to the divorce (manipulation?) after my whole life being treated unkindly by her, i was told i'm never allowed to talk to her again. that was upsetting.
04: i was basically raising my little sister who i have now not seen in years, which was fun, but also an imposition and a tough job.
05: above all, my dad was unabashedly unloading everything he ever bottled up to me not excluding information a daughter never wants to hear about her father and it's not like i could just cover my ears and say "la la la". the man let me see him cry for peter's sake. i was touched by his trust.

-truly, if a sixteen year old girl told me these things about herself, this really isn't funny at all. the circumstances were heavily unusual were for me, and the change was sudden thus brutal. indeed, it's very upsetting to put myself back in the shoes i wore then.

dad did try to help me feel better with my festering and uncomfortable mental health issues by trying to get me to become a runner like him. at the time i had recently developed the precarious habit of social smoking, and nevertheless hated running. but dad meant well. oh how he would run, way ahead of me, exhilarated, as i would lag way behind wondering if my lungs were going to explode. i love exercise these days and no longer smoke, but if i was experiencing a masochistic-fix, there are other ways i'd rather go about handling that.
he'd run miles ahead of me, and tell me he'd meet me back home. i'd promise i'd run the whole time, knowing ahead of time this promise was meant to be broken. little sporadic sprints, at most, which was cute of me. when i'd finally arrive home, feigning, he'd be so pleased with me.

ooooooooooooh i felt so guilty every damned time.

yassir arafat running like a toddler, two different hamas groups, dystopia, and dad.
and me, losing my direction- starting at the beginning point again. i continued to run anyway, trying to find my way. my way out of "lost-land". never-look-back-land. never-land. whatever-the-fuck-all-that-was land.

Friday, November 21, 2014

in my breast bone i cradle and you shall
be blessed with a mother.

do you know the canyons?
one to ten, face off the wind

that strays past the canyons.

i count on you as i sing
what my mother had sung to me.

the lights are immaculate.
perhaps our eyes aren't used to
seeing things clearly.

come. press your kissed cheek
into me for warmth.

tell all. little lanterns
align for you.

sing terribly afar in the lost lands

i am an artist. therefore, if it does turn out after all that i am the worst excuse for a human being that has ever been, as well as a mistake, than it doesn't matter. i am an artist. art. art has nothing to do with morals. exploit the fuck out of what you find in between- break the law.

my ceiling caves into gravity.
i've got to shovel.
i've got to rake.
i've got to lose weight.

oh, it's the anti-psychotic. weight gain is fate.

what medication does- and i'm experienced-
it suppresses symptoms. contrary to popular belief, no masking is involved.

the mask part is up to you.

i've a mask. a mask, and a confused brain.

i do not have bipolar disorder, panic disorder, or any of the others.
those are inconclusive- therefore, passing feelings.

i have overbearing problems
that have taken over my life.

right now i'm scared my dog is going to die
and if he dies, it is his time,
but i don't like leaving the house alone.

and if i don't leave the house, i'll gain weight.
and if i don't leave the house and if i gain weight, that means i'm lazy and i'm not trying at life.

suppressed symptoms are all which is apparent to me
but nobody else.

i cannot explain my thinking to you. it's not meant to be.

three facts:

i accuse myself of being a worse speller than i actually am. i tend to fuck up COMPLICATED, VERY multisyllabic words. and i only capitalize letters for emphasis.
we grew up piss poor because they grew up piss poor and their parents grew up during the depression and our family trees can always be traced back to flushing, queens where everyone held hands and called one another "brother" or "sister".
today i saw my first offensive "headline" on the BBC. just HOW did this make it to the BBC? check this out. my schizophrenia radar can be pretty dead on sometimes and this guy whose story was being covered had those very recognizable distant unaware eyes that float in your dreams from your memories of psychiatric wards. he's homeless. he's an (maybe) ex-junky (ooooooooooh burroughs comin' at ya!), but has since found christ. he walks around dressed like a modernized christ, carrying a giant cross like that preacher that travelled the world carrying a cross his whole life. he's kind of like the naked cowboy, except horrifically sad and unaware he's being exploited and capitalized on.
philadelphia, pennsylvania. he goes by the moniker "philly christ", or p.j for short.

but like, i think the peppy background music is the most offensive part:
oh you who break the sound barrier
i don't know how your feet move
down the aisle

but i see,
your highness. so i rise and stare.

lily pads in the pink bath
presenteth her faults,

she bows her head down to them,
dendritic electric flutter

ticklish i giggle

forth the pond frozen
this too is hers. you agree?

she births it a little life- a prayer
come through.
the fountain calls for you, our lady sappho.

it is us, the choir
of women you choose to speak to.

we hoot-hoot your language and
string garlands for your daughter's hair.

we release tea candles how they pant!
dripping from the meridians opening

silk worms
opening her veil which pierce
that noble skin,

i am beside myself.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

someone needs to dissociate rejection from being an atom bomb. is the atom bomb thing because i always feel like someone is going to sneak up on me and attack me, or that people are thinking things about me that are negative, but pity me too much because i'm too pathetic for them to be upfront about it, until they just can't fucking take it anyone so they drop me? that's overthinking, that recurrent thought. whatever it is that i'm wrapping my head around really isn't a big deal.

i reiterate- this really isn't a big deal, i have goals, and that's a big deal. goals are something to direct energy toward- a purpose. my type b personality steps aside when i'm truly dedicated. when someone tells me to be dedicated.

message to the world.
i do not want my voice to disappoint. i want it to be seismic, strong, unheard of, and expressive of everything i could possibly pull out of my life during the present. it is important you hear my voice- because i will make you your damned money, and people want to hear a voice that is aggressive and violent as well as heartbroken. screw daydreaming. daydreaming is betrayal of making myself important.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

pressure. pushing down. you. me. me, especially. because i know my experience, so it must be the biggest experience ever. therefore, you have no idea what it's like. you dick. whoever i'm not talking to. made up person! go eff ya-selves! how dare you say you fucking empathize!

the name of my lipstick on today is "please me", by MAC. no joke. actually, yes- long running joke between my older sister and i, over the names of different colors of makeup products. it started when i was little in our dysfunctional family, and i turned to playing pretend with mom's nail polish bottles. for like a year. they'd put on musical plays regularly, based on the ridiculous names of their colors. i grew attached to them.

yesterday i got a job offer. the people i've been volunteering for want me to be a director of one of their programs. um, wtf lol? i haven't had a "real job" since late 2010. after that, i did paperwork at mom's office before i said screw it to that noise, and i worked at a chinese place for one hour and ten minutes exactly.

a real job offer!
and a head's up from the vet that my dog might be in danger but might not be. see how his new injection effects him. his new injection hasn't done shit. and the pills are big.

if you've ever had a dog, you ought know a dog poo-poos pills. layer a pill in peanut butter and chicken skin and the dog will work their way around the pill.
i don't know. everything with him feels like a last hope- like i'm clenching all of my muscles in pretend-prayer, my eyes also clenched shut, "dear god, pleasssse, pretty please, pretty please, i don't know what i'd do without my doggie."

i always thought i was really good at dealing with death, until my dog. my dog is alive, and suddenly i fear death. he's finally past his puppy phase. skipped adolescence, adulthood- now lives in retirement.

okay, at least people-death i thought i was good at dealing with. death is like totally a part of life! then, i think about my two guinea pigs- p.j and penny. they were my older sister's and my older brother's, respectively. i saw both of them die! penny was six, and she was flipping a shit all day in my mother's lap before she croaked at last. p.j. died two weeks later of what i presume to be grief, as penny was her everything. we buried them in shoeboxes. i put two small stuffed animals of mine in their little makeshift caskets with them, for company, for love. my sister and her BFF bought a dozen roses for i forget which guinea pig, angering my mother. she put her anger aside. i cried for days. all the kids made fun of me. it's not like a PERSON died, or anything.

those shoeboxes are in the backyard. when we adopted hugo- i was eighteen, he was my birthday present of choice that both my mother and brother disagreed with me over- i worried he'd dig them up. whatever they are at this point, that is, considering they were each packed in air-tight ziploc bags at the request of us kids.
hugo may have destroyed two couches, my old box-spring, windowsill, scratched and chewed up all the doors and walls by doors, ripped a baby possum in half, ate a frog (whose leg i tossed into the neighbor's backyard in a panic), tried to play with baby birds, fought with countless other dogs, but never went after the graves of p.j and penny. never went after his family, and pretty much loved receiving attention from anyone as long as he wasn't being shy.

damn dog is alive, and i feel as if i'm preparing for this to change. o! what is wrong with me? i challenge myself with pressure. pressure to put together the perfect manuscript, give myself deadlines for paintings, idealize everyone- onto a pedestal far higher than i'd ever deserve to be on you go. it takes me weeks to read books. i sometimes go a day without gorging on the BBC. there are three charities i want to donate to this year, and i'm procrastinating- after all, it's so cold out i don't feel like leaving my room, and i don't have a car. i'm traumatized, and it's not a matter of time healing my human experience. it's a matter of me not trying hard enough to move past it.

oh, to be in love with a silly goose.

Monday, November 17, 2014

can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

this body is heavily lopsided. i don't even bother trying to explain what it is that troubles me the most. i know what it is, but there aren't any words for it. it evades logic. if i spoke of it, my mouth would turn into a giant novocaine shot.

so, everything is a potential trigger. this further triggers. i seem to pay attention only to my anxieties and my desire to numb out. (my therapist says numbing out is indeed a coping skill, whether i try to prove with all my might i don't try to cope at all or not.)

bastard-child! if i could draw a picture of you, you'd look like a piece of black lint that nobody can see except myself. you're too far out of reach for me to understand, or for the doctors to grasp. you are capricious, all right. i wish i could describe you so i could feel clean. who was it i fucked to birth you?

in the back of my head, you microcosm, you flip me the bird.

sprout. sprout. i need to pop you, than proceed to smear you across the bathroom mirror. it's been five days since i've picked at my face. three and a half years since i've had a drink. two years and two months since i've had a cigarette. long enough of noting anniversaries.

it was one year and eleven months since i had gotten laid. like a typical american, i've always had askew trust issues- easygoing with corrupt resources, and disruptively mistrusting of those who mean well. at this point, i had lost contact with any of my friends or acquaintances, let alone dudes. while i took pride in being alone, i secretly spent a lot of time on the internet.
it was on the internet that i signed up for a free dating website that sucks. an onslaught of guys that belong with the guys over at craig's list harassed me.
one did not. we talked about books. he was stupid and lame so he thought capitalism was really great and that the internet is really inspiring. as it goes, he was very attracted to my "strangeness". i've had that word slapped on my ass so many times in my life i don't even know what it means anymore. STRANGE. WEIRD. ECCENTRIC. FUNNY.

a week into talking to him we met.
we made out and fondled one another in his car. it was a paranoid, and maddeningly animal experience. i believe if we allow ourselves into denial of being animals, than we can certainly separate ourselves from our humanity. leopard spots cascaded from the part of my hair, than across our bodies until the interior of his car was fully covered in them.
in the back of my mind when this was happening, i dreaded going to therapy later that day.

a week later i fooled myself into believing i was in love.
about a month later i was infuriated because he was treating me like shit,
after a few attempts of reaching out to him, one night i didn't sleep. i was breaking the fuck down, after all. he texted me the same weird text that just screamed "i'm hiding something"- only i wasn't upfront with him until this time. upfront, as in via text, but still.

eventually he said the worst thing i've ever been texted and hope to never hear/see/imagine/taste/dance/laugh at/cry over again: "you're too needy." although i frantically made attempts at winning him back, or at least trying to convince him that he was wrong, i don't have needs at all, that was the end on his part. snip.

not that those words are nice- in fact, they are admonishing, judgemental, and cruel. but it is the impact of them that i don't believe i will ever forget. it was a reckless abandon this young man demonstrated, when i chronically feared abandonment in the first place.
i want to say "he's a dick because he made me do things" but that's not the case. he's not a dick because i exercised my own right to choose. he's a dick because he shrugged me off so after proclaiming love for me as well as becoming friends with me. it was the deliberateness that makes him a dick in this equation.

yes. it was the impact that led me to disintegrate, than become so sick i couldn't sit up or talk, than rise again.

rise again, learn to remove my memories of this guy completely. this i had to do secretly, as i had to pretend he didn't ever happen from this point on in order for me to believe i could move forward this way. i felt so mortified, being upset enough over obsessing over a guy that i was willing to do anything to get him to admit he remembered who i was, than i'd feel better. i'd stop obsessing. he seemed like the messenger of death enough. die, needy bitch. die.

or rise again realistically. learn how to fall asleep again on the same bed i passed out on, initially, after my attempt. learn how to wrap my head around the whole of what happened- that what i did was a very serious, disastrous, and morbid impulse. even worse, it hurt everyone i loved. it turned out people loved me. this is how i found out they did.

but it did turn out the boy did, indeed, have a lot to do with it. this took six months for me to admit to myself. it might be my favorite accomplishment of mine. because it's completely repulsive and disgraceful that we would try to kill ourselves over boys- it's petty, it's "high school". no, i disagree. it's a matter of pushing your fucking pride to the side in order to take care of yourself. let's be upfront, indeed.

life will not be a plateau anymore. in life there are things i can write about and paint again. while i work on figuring out the use of looking forward to things, i do what i want in the present.

this afternoon i found myself shaking a teeny-tiny container of nutmeg. it started off as a metronome than turned into a maraca. i sang around my kitchen while being interviewed by journalists as a famous musician in my imagination. i wanted to stroke the horse hair somewhere among the strings of this quartet, but my hand got slapped. it turns out i was a mere little bitch.

Friday, November 14, 2014

this past spring a friend of mine who i still can't seem to bring myself to "be myself" around gave me a card. i will always, always keep this card, because it means more to me than other things tend to. it meant to me she cares.

"let me know if i can lend a paw... [picture of a bulldog]

...or an ear. ["ear" underlined by her.]


it took me days after receiving it for the card to hit me. she cares! not only does she care, but she KNOWS. i care, too, but i don't know how to be. we've been friends since february 2010 and i still don't know how to be around her. we've been through a lot since then and remained friends since then. we've both grown and tarnished. i know she thinks that if someone has something to say, that they should just say it. i find that very reasonable and i often agree. unfortunately i don't find a lot of what i have to say permissible. usually when i'm around people i don't know what to fucking say.

letter to that friend: i will always be grateful to you for being my friend. you have been my only consistent friend during circumstances that i could forgive people that wouldn't stick around. shit gets heavy. heavy shit repulses people. you saw deeper and never equated me to the heavy shit itself.
you brought me back a piece of the berlin wall and a van gogh pocket mirror and other cool things from europe. at times when i have nothing to say, which persists, you don't care about that. you don't even know how much of an asshole i am.
actually, if you did, you still might not care.
i don't know what the fuck you see in me, but thanks.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

i am devastated. i experienced so many beautiful thoughts before, when i was laying in the dark for hours, telling myself i'll write them down when i was to get up. and never did, because i was afraid that if i'd go to write them down, they'd disappear.

there are layers and layers of trains of thoughts, all the time. it seems stupid to not just bulldoze over them by going the instinctive route. i say, if it's going to be like this, don't take the scenic route because it wins pain. ultimately decide to agree with the least rational one of all. end it. put your foot down. if it's going to be as confusing as this, reject everything you know can be rejected.

but in my heart of hearts, i don't want to. and i feel a little relieved when it comes back to me- understanding that i do love him. you are in a safe place, a safe place, safe place. i do what i can to convince myself all day that i'm not.

of course, because we are consciously separated, you have no idea what i feel. it would scare you away if you knew how much every aspect of my conscious brain is focused in hundreds of different directions at once without telling me that that's what's happening. i try to do stuff to override it and it doesn't work.

that last paragraph, that, THAT's my life.

my mask is bland. it doesn't come off. if this is what being together is, than i don't want it. it's not that i'm fake- i'm starting to disagree with the voice that says terribly self flagellating things such as "i'm so fake". that's all trauma i heard during childhood, which never ended. the mask stays on by way of pure automatism. it's not going to come off as i warm up to things. it's there.

before i remembered him. HIM. that sick dude. my ex-boyfriend. stalker. terribly sick human being. after i broke up with him he was very, very upset. some things he told me were things you should never say to an eighteen year old girl. or another person. you should never tell another person you're going to overdose on heroin because of them, for instance. another thing.

when i was dating him, travelling to and fro chicago with my part-time manager money, i wasn't allowed to stay with him at his grandfather's house. why? because, i find out after i broke up with him, he had told his grandfather very early in our relationship about my self-mutilation. so to his grandfather, i was disgusting. (which is a bit hypocritical from the aspect i look from, because this boyfriend openly abused heroin and other drugs, stole the grandfather's money and know...)

four years of battling, everyday, the urges, and i'm right back where i left off. it feels good, better than it ever had. it comes with me wherever i go. it feels like reality- like i can feel. it feels like i can do something.