Thursday, April 30, 2015

a bullet's music.

with hope misplaced in a longing,
this longing a somatic twitch, i travel to a light

that only appears bright.

it is not at the end of a hallway.

something else
is at the end of a hallway. i'm being walked there
by trustworthy sources.

there is shit in my way.

in the hallway,
i feel threatened by criminally insane fuck-ups,
(it appears i am not one of them,)
threatening my sense of fear

that i occasionally acknowledge i learn from.

out of everything, fear is most in the way.
its logistics seem no longer relevant.

a criminally insane person is easy to fall for
when you have it in your dna.

two hundred criminally insane people at once
are easy to fall for
whether it is in my dna or not.

i take criminally insane people into my train of thought,
like suitors who are equally curious.

a fresh batch of thoughts are being entertained.
they are entertained by pain.

i do not seem interested in restraining myself
from accepting ideas

whether the crawl up under my skin
or drop on my tongue like a first snowfall.

it's christmas. i better open christmas presents.

i continue to be walked through the hallway
by the same trustworthy people.

this story was what the spirits presented to me
last night.
before i fell to sleep, i asked them what it was, exactly,
that they wanted from me.

there is something. do they need it, maybe?
i told them i was interested in seeing.

in the longing i see a ghost.
i see i have made myself sick with longing.

all is at once.

at the other end of the hallway continues to be
all which is all at once.

at some point i bow my head.

siddhartha.

little siddhartha gets in the driver's seat.
he does not put on his seatbelt.

go bullshit around, boys, i say to him
and to his brother.

into the sunset, they go driving the car together.

one grows up damaged
awaiting execution.

the other brother knows damage
through first-hand experience

and is born from it during the moment, which is
where the universe has been,

over and over again.
the moment right now is all that has ever been.

siddhartha grows like a dreamless tree
never assigning
meaning to the movement of muscle.

it goes there and does that.

he lets it be one. he lets it be one.
he accepts aum.

Monday, April 27, 2015

below the belt.

can you see true love? it has grown

into a big planet

it is not even gaseous
it could kick jupiter's ass.

it's bigger than jupiter, one vast silhouette-

the biggest clump of mass
around.

i'm puzzled as to how this came to be.
was it true love's dream to live

and not ever die,

at least until the sun was ready
to part from its atrophy?
did true love

simply just go for its dream
and all had come true? was it suprised?

was it a birthday party suprise? did it
pop out of a cake-
icing and ass and tits?
was it a spell that worked out

expanding beyond earth
without repercussions

for screwing with the order of nature?

fuck this.
i do not need to figure out this bullshit.

this true love shit is not a clause
listed under
the rule of the sun.

my poor, poor sun did not know
true love was a prankster, without remorse
for human life.

true love was a hell of a liar.

it had to be
good at lying.
good lying was all true love had going for itself.

and now that i know, i light fire, fire, fire.

i do not need red lipstick
on the flesh of my face. smear this.

you do not need it on yours,
nor do you need it on your bone.

what we need is a baby
from the side of a street- something

to refer to as "it"- a by-product
of our twisted shit-

or i'm off to your jugular with the word of divorce.

knife to your neck, we're going to
take that baby in and throw it off.
here is your beautiful life, we will say,

as if a happily ever after deal. and here are your

two idiot parents
ripping it the fuck up.

in a lucid dream, hamlet comes to speak.

what ever are those two thinking? says he.

they do not think, methinks, not
with those plastic bags

choking the circulation of blood
from their bobbling heads.

they run around like chickens with their
heads chopped off, functioning

headless
chickens.

this one heard the other say to so-and-so, whom
that one had slept with- don't

tell us all "no"-
that the baby would have been better off

if left on the side of the streets
for dead.

yes. boil, boil, i want this soap opera
to overflow.
look at me giggle with warts on my nose.

he does not need lipstick
on the flesh of his bone.

they are both now in this alone.
chop off that pecker. let piss

be the sky.

let me down, and down, down, down

you go.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

roadkill.

i found a keepsake
in reason-

i wore a chain around my neck
and strung a trinket
filled with ash, emblematic

of reason.

in reason
something about it reminded me
of a proverb
in a dead sea scroll

washed up on shore-

it was found
all shredded and incomprehensible,

all but lost to be deciphered by feel.

considering this, i found a reason
to send it back out
to sea

and let it believe
in itself

nothing else
nothing more. nevermore.

leave yourself alone to explore.

i've got my own discoveries
on my hands

which tremble
from the awareness of being soaked
from the inside-out
in chemicals.

these hands
cling to one another
for body heat.

i must look forward
it's the little things that count, that

turn us into something of
more amount.

sweet nothing,
be my pride and joy.

do not disprove my falsity. falsity
is my only child.

it has a button nose, and eyes
the same color as mine.

something about this face, altogether
grows distorted into
an envisioned staccato, a jaw
dropping further

into the unknown depth
of a vortex

as its body descends

to whatever mossy floor.

it is a bridge to which it sinks down to.
it has a seizure.
it gets hit by a car. a cop car.

with the sirens and all, it did not hear
all the screaming for help.

the cop car was busy
figuring itself out.

this scream for help i speak of
tends to be an unconscious effort.

i see it in everyone.
it is the collective unconscious

trying to help us out.

goose-pimples, mere goose-pimples.

unease.

he who sings with disregard to
sensitive subjects

continues the narrative of war.
this i do not care for.

a stretched moment of silence
is soon after followed by

daffodils, and flowering trees.
i leave the room i love. it is spring

that season filled with love outside.
uncomfortable, i go about it.

this is a day a person is meant to love.
it is felt differently.

it is felt
as if an allergic reaction
to poison ivy.

june 2013.

taking reason prisoner.


my body felt light descending, a warm
glorious finger

sticking it into eternal clouds.

the upbringing of another sunrise goes without need
to be faced ever again.
and oh, i could not

possibly deal with it! macbeth, macbeth!

my body degenerates on its own, a dented shell.
it disowns its biology, tossing
its face-

let them eat the cake-

departure from the given
name. it declared this

a radical liberation. the earth
takes care of itself now

should this fresh pair of
toes sink into it

or no.

there is that face nearby- that
stubborn old flesh.

on it, anthills found use

and occupied every particle of it.
the face moved its hole, once
called a mouth,

muttering an SOS

while coughing out worms and dirt
and its tongue falling apart.

but the body it had called to had grown
senseless.
it obeyed the general direction of life.

it does not know
any other way

nor does it care to.

amen, amen, amen.

amy brown; nyn.


i am so excited to have found her in my collection of old stuff. she was my favorite amy brown watercolor. even when i grew out of my faeries phase i still loved nyn. i feel major kismet with her.

(also found among many other goodies...a vintage national geographic map of iceland; and a PEN!!!)

dancing over seeing things.

in the beginning is birth. ouch, ouch,
birth. it distorts anatomy
and makes a person scream real crazy

from any vocal chords they can grip onto

until their voice is lost for days
in silent repentance

for getting reactive.

but this is what must become.
it must become

through intimate human experience.
nobody said birth was painless.

we learn terror from intimacy
and intimacy alone.
it brings us right back
to the beginning-

flashing before my eyes,
photosensitivity, damn the sun
and its shedding of light-

i cry because i'm sad and i don't get
this art of breath.

i am introduced to life all over again.

i didn't mean to block it out-
it seemed to happen because

there would never be a resolve
and it was too strong

to work it all out
any other way.

i did not mean to destroy
some pillar of my memory. in fact,

i meant well.

and here i am again, upset
by pain,

knowing brilliant work

will now run out of my womb, silently
and it will indeed do what it can

to try to knock it into my pea-brain

i've got this shaman thing
going on for me.
i do have that.

people rip their lips in order
for an otherworldly beast to speak.

and you must see this
in order to listen.

the shock runs through
one turbulent fuck of a river

and if it didn't
you would forget this lesson.

be okay with the shaman.
learn your lessons

and never forget them.

Saturday, April 25, 2015

touching.

there are those days when i am very affectionate, all
touchy-feely,
wishing for hugs and calling my loved ones "sweetie".

i ought to remind myself
that there are those days.
i do feel a bit like harley quinn, that basketcase
from batman-

i lean toward one extreme because i am it,
then suddenly the other

because some psychoanalyzed part of me
might as well be this opposite

and feels the gravity.
perfectly comfortable, i become it.

the split-personality exists.
it sure as hell does, according
to this arkham misfit.

it is sexy, in fact

in a tight-fitting one piece and red lipstick
so deeply red it is nearly black

and shiny as cellophane wrap.

the split personality is my diagnosis.

i am uncomfortable with the notion
of leaving my bedroom today, the

pink and heather-grey sanctuary
where i offer clean clothing
and feed a family of plants.

this room is practically my baby, though itself,
being a womb,

mothers me instead.

a visitor comes in, as if on a hospital trip.
on one end of my bed they sit.

they go to lean against the wall
with their back nearly touching my feet.

get off of me, i raise my monotone of the day,
in a panic. get off, get away from me,

this is far too much.
i am sorry
you are not an exception to my dilemma.

i am sorry for everything, in fact.

they come back later to ask me
if at any point i would like to leave
my sanctuary today, though i did,

at least a handful of times,
to use the lavatory. i pissed. i took a shit.

i washed my hands, cleaned my ears
and flossed.
that was it. but it was more than enough.

i dragged my feet back here
in my ridiculous red pants
and charity-bought shirt

boasting of humanitarianism
which i either have or have not.

someday
i would prefer to wed it.

but all relationships end. perhaps
i would prefer
to wed not.

i can imagine the awful things that
are either being said or thought

about me
all in hushed tones
in the neighboring sanctuaries.

and since "sanctuary"
is a spiritual word, what is said in them
is sacred.

i must respect it.
i cannot judge it, though always
as usual
am i permitted to imagine it.

i imagine there is sex and sex-related scandals
in the rooms all around me.
that must be all there is.
i do what i must to not run into it.
i stay inside.

i stay alone.

i hear the footsteps of another
coming to the door

to find out if i made them an exception
to my no-touching policy today.

they turned off the light out there, even
went so far
as to turn off the television.

they let the dog out to let out his nightly leak
and let him back in.

i know if the dog resents my confusion,
the person as well
certainly resents my confusion.

they enter the room, giving
the top of my scalp a kiss.

it was intended for a cheek, probably.
i challenge myself and bow

my head forward.

"did i hurt you just now?"

it did not hurt.
it only seemed to contradict

whatever laws nature asserts through my
sense of touch.

it permeates everything that seems real.
i do not like it.

today,
nobody is a sweetie, or a cupcake,
a lovey-dovey, and certainly

not a honey bunny.

everybody is a person.
they are not allowed

to prey on my instincts.

they are there.
they too are alive.

a bird.

today is a lovely summer's day.
i stand before a sundial, shadow
right ahead of my zodiac-

the wildfire eating a zebra,
only to revert back to a quiet candle flame,

swallowing and swallowing only
after a small alarm has awakened me-

my hunger, my hunger, it is so angry-

quite introverted, quite intuitive, all the stuff
which comes without much give

as if the very building blocks
of a DNA strand,

the sundial decides
this is who i am.

perhaps i am just that.
i must claim this brand.

i stand stretched widely, the wind
measuring my wing span,

a bird of paradise, one that rises and rises
again-

separated from a mother far too
early in infantry

as i was bought by a newlywed couple,

only to stain up their home, yelled at
to shut-up.

i did squawk an awful lot.
not saying much, just stretching my voice

as long as my wing span,
as long as i could hear it.

i felt i was in the clear, as long
as i could make my voice happen.

set free, to the beach, like a violent child
to the streets, i roam alone.

the seagulls overhead
bob about like loose balloons

dangerous for the environment.
on a scavenging hunt,

they themselves also roam.
it is what they know.

they scratch the eyeball of tippi hedren
to loosen the grip of her freshly
manicured hand

to drop a fat hot dog
in its white-flour bun
merry and plump with ketchup.

like tippi hedren,
it is not my eye that matters,
nor is it the hot dog.

it is my story.
i save it for later.
i preserve it for a time

when i am sure i know
it is not a make-believe tale.
for if nobody is to believe me, their beliefs
will not influence my feelings

toward my own.

i am something to do with wildfire.
i am the unknown bird birthed
from that fire

captured once in national geographic
now marking my brains out

on this sundial.

this is my land, for i say so.
it is what i know.
it is what i have.

i thought i'd make sure you know.
a year ago i fell in love with sappho. it was sappho
who became my all time favorite poet.
i had lain myself down
with a book of sappho's poems
on my torso.

alongside my body, which was convinced
dying was a peaceful art
i was excelling- and happily, at that,

was a sad little note ("sorry, ma")
and a sad little will.
("take care of it all, ma," or something
to that effect).

what can i say? i didn't take the time
to map out my every move.
i only attended to making the moves
that meant anything to me-

that meant change existed.
they seemed to be the only moves
that needed attending to.

and the EMTs dragged my dead-weight body
across the floor
unto the stretcher. i wasn't a goner.

and i died but rose again.
you never really do stop rising

like a dull little loaf in the oven
at four hundred degrees

that keeps screwing around
with its ingredients
in order to rise, rise, rise

rise, a little higher
each and every time. surely, i ought

to rise.

today i am reading anne sexton. also
my favorite poet. anne sexton

fucked up a bunch, and conclusively
died of bipolar disorder
like how i almost did.

"it climbed into me.
it didn't mean to.
"

what can be forgiven
will always
be forgiven.

poem 02.

IIIII.

kiss a really deep dark desire.
however, one catch- never mention it.
get your guy to dump it in the river.
six dollars, sixty six cents. it exists.

and rule number two:
do not look behind you

no matter what your head tells you to do
under any circumstances.
resist. resist all of your strength.

hey-no cheating. that includes
not checking your phone compulsively

to see if so and so called you.
so and so isn't there anymore.

stop! stop looking behind you! you keep seeing
your life losing you! oh my god

you nation of idiots in one person!

hire an au pair
to behave on your childish behalf.

get your daddy to sleep with her.

what planet am i orbiting anyway?
how could this possibly be

the planet of me?

i just suddenly woke up today
and felt used to being an asteroid.
just a rock. that's all, and it's fine by me.

i prepare for a notion of acceptance.

i look at my body for what it is.
just an innocent old rock innocently
sitting around bullshitting about.

my body plays pretend
in its medieval behavior

to be used to its eyes circling it.

it isn't.

poem 01.

black lives matter
lives matter
matter matters
matter lives

matter feels like a deteriorated leaf except bloated

Friday, April 24, 2015

aesop's fables.

IIII.

dear goody-goody of technical ability
(the stuff that frustrates me),

my resentments are real
but they do not yet run so deep-

they are soundless and still.
still
as a stillborn baby.

still as a stillborn baby
that you will never see

because
you close your eyes, both
of them, and do everything in your power

to imagine some happy happy
joy joy shit

and for forever, afterward,
weep weep.

boo fucking boo hoo.

don't get yourself all sad. work yourself
up

some other way.

i know you can. don't make ambitious
promises. just take

my hand
and a running leap.
hopskip jump.

you are as long as a building, as long
as the river you were riding along

accustomed
until you were taken from its waves

and raised by people.

aesop's fables.

III. going against the grain.

there is a fish.

he is nibbling at the back of your feet
pushing you forward.
a step further

up to the surface of the coy pond.

upon inhalation i steal oxygen
i steal
all of the information

left unattended on the altar.

this is a dream. this whole time
this was seriously just a dream.

you got your point across
with your bitchy punishment, god out there.
i promise that i
will never sleep again! sorry!

i forever will walk open-eyed
until all bodhisatva.

and if a spiritual experience
is when you smile without force
despite afflictions,

i want to know what else
is out there.

if not,
resort to old ways.

ego's poetry.

composing a gorgeous poem
along the train of thought

then forgetting it.
composing a list
of things that are westernized instead

whether they are
things westernized 
or not.

the following will be made up
as i go along:

hoping without praying.
hoping without putting
too much effort
into seeing the light
at the other end of the tunnel.

quitting things for yourself
and no other reason
as you know yourself and yourself
alone.
wondering if you've ever
i mean truly
ever done that.
falling off wagons.
being addicted to alcohol
because of its accessibility.
being addicted to cigarettes
because at the age of sixteen
it seemed pretty cool.

losing everything
because your heart is on your sleeve
though you brag about how it clearly
is not.

not being lou reed.

catching fleas.
catching herpes.

throwing things away.
being stupid.
not knowing exactly what it was
that you did wrong
as you were compelled

and if you were compelled
you had a choice yes
but you would've gone insane

if you didn't go along with it.

doing insane things while being sane.
hoping if you do them
you will go insane

and then you can stop fighting all the time.

simply not getting it.
not getting shit.

freaking out.

seeking help.
not shutting the fuck up.

feeling incredibly selfish.

compensating for it.
de-compensating.

talking about the government and stuff.
my opinion
is a fact.

being insecure.

reading, but not well.
feeling stupid because you do not read well.

along the statistic bell curve,
having a probably low IQ

because you suck at tests and math too.

out with antiquity in with the absurd.
boring shit that feeds machines
that are addicted to being rich
is in fashion.

if i was rich i wouldn't know what to do
with myself
either.

growing old.
being ready. one day.
for anything.

please. anything. i'd love
for one day

to be ready
for fucking anything.

i will do anything it takes
to not be stuck anymore.

that's what i have been saying the whole time.

aesop's fables.

II.

i found the dirt and ate it. it is gross. it has germs.
it belonged to somebody else
before me.

it contradicts teachings.
now i have ticks.

anomalies allow themselves
to join the body.
oh, aren't we one. we sure are

one all right. don't call me shirley.

look over our shoulders-
slyly-
safety in excess

is my trick
that won't stop paying me.

all else that happens
is a response to a nerve
that sends some message
that you are habitable. if you are respected,

the welcome is politely declined.

aesop's fables.

I.

hey minority, this is
my bleeding heart. take it.
it is in your face.
i have other things.

i have nothing
against you. take anything
you want. eat me

before eating anyone else. i sacrifice
my body.
this waiting list
is making my ass go numb

from a loss of patience.
the only virtue:

gonegonegone powpow.
i don't know why.
perhaps it has died.

Thursday, April 23, 2015

you want to know who the fuck "they" are anyway aside from the people with more money
you want people to know you for who you are which is the sky and wanting but not needing it feels very disrespecting so you never find out who you are or that "who you are" is drunken-sounding
you observe it's de rigueur for people to have jobs and eat meals once you come to terms with your body feeling safe living in predictability yourself whether you repeat actions or not
you feel as if you completely get aspberger's once you study andy warhol's artworks very closely
you continue to second guess even when overdoing safety behaviors
you only experience nocebo effects if you're in tune with fear and your unconscious mind functions

yolo.

you only live as all is infinite and death is a lie used to scare children into biological cessation

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

breath.

"and i can't say how i love my people
and i can't tell my love how to leave our land without weeping
and i can't always love this land.
"

Monday, April 20, 2015

pacing.

victory, are you going to
correct me today? i can't remember

the beginning of your reign.
today- i do not forget it- steamroller, you remind me-

i do not have reasons.
i do not have reasons.

this makes me a serf. i get it. the new school
catches on quick.

i am left behind- icky icky tramp
to do what must be done-
to suck dick.

victory crusader- victory, ermines- the notion
of reason begins
as if it is all alone- the only one- as if
things can begin
only sprouted
as if if we were seeds
there is only one.

strange views of gods, clouds
that frustrate me- they will not form

into something i would've used to
have been able to see-
beautiful things.
today they refuse to cause a scene-

and this womb of imaginative hope
did not run in my family.

if something is to run in the family-it is
old fashioned-
when things were better in
a heyday spoken of. it all ought to be told-

times are rapidly changing-
war stories get old- aging

at the same gradual pace as all else-
as all of the other stories.

my name is so and so- rather,
allow me to introduce myself
in a way you will remember me-
forever and ever- you shall, you
shall-

hi it is i- i'm big on booze- i'm big
on tv- i'm big on homosexuality-

i'm big on something.
i demonstrate the human condition-

and yes, i do ask for forgiveness
from the infinite for this-

though i cannot help it- i'm not yet
accepting of it- this, the

same old shit-
and all the women do come and go- they speak
in whatever fucking tones
and fucking accents

of fucking michelangelo.

we must resurrect him- and the rest
of the dead-
and tell them the news.

nobody wants them anymore- not
even their monuments-

their stories which blow me around
on sidewalks along with
the wind

making me feel
as if yes, a reminder!- the world
is in movement-

no, no, no.
no women. none
of their tones or their accents.
no, 

no michelangelo.

come to my place and be laced.

motion feels its way
with its urgencies and between

several inches of fragilities- monuments.
motion

is the victory, triumphant crusader

requested to come in between, to

console the physicality.

the clouds have been allowed to let go-
as they come and go-in the dark

i look up and trust
as looked down on- lullaby hawk.

muscles championing- exchange
in the
violent ocean, kissing
every pair of lips they to
come across-

straightened spine- parasympathetic dive-
i remove and dunk the sky
into my reflection- old man river, poseidon-
or field of mice,

no matter who, no matter what conquest,
daddy, daddy, daddy

it is you i hear- chiming the bells
nevertheless.

without reason i am left to delve.
deeply you are

somehow parallel to
an idea of the infinite- however the clouds

choose not to represent themselves-
and

deep down
deep,

deep down, i love you.

dive- to the good side
of the carnivore
who- for some reason-
it doesn't take much to impress- already, he

nibbles dead skin off my palm-

that which was fabricated
is now being eclipsed.

this glacier you run

is experiencing thoughts and it's going
and going and it sinks a ship

sending all these
innocent people to their
unexpected ferryman-

hypothermia dragging his old
and festering
feet.

bring him to me
and let him keep up his
appearances.

i know how to let go
of appearances

all together

and how to say boo.

i know how to praise fears
but how to fight them

and move on to something else.

and just as well
i know how to sneak. boo!

in my process of documenting
nothing seems more exhausting.

you better forgive me
or i'll sneak up on you, too,
saying boo.

birth.

"i want to remember all the time why i should want to live. i am all pain and no memory. the lamp has ceased drinking me. i am too weary to move even towards the light, or to turn my head and look at the clock. inside of my body there are fires, there are bruises, the flesh is in pain. the child is not a child, it is a demon strangling me. the demon lies inert at the door of the womb, blocking life, and i cannot rid myself of it.
"

Saturday, April 18, 2015

meat and people.

i know what the forbidden is, and i know
where to find it.

it is in a vacant hotel room.

i go there for warmth.
it is where i dispose of bodies

and shred meat.
i shred the meat i appear to be.
the bodies keep me company.

i eat my meat as if it were a burger, as if
it were the fourth of july.

you bet your ass
that i depend on my forbidden shit
for dear life.

i wouldn't feel like i was in serious trouble
all the damned time
without it.

we evolve from hungry
hungry
caterpillars
into lovely butterflies

before

we get ravaged by songbirds
and die.

but, you know, i wonder
what if i screw around

and fall out of place? what's going to happen
to me if i pick my skin

and fall out of my cocoon?
so what if i do do that?
what's
going
to happen

to me

if i don't become a butterfly
before i die?

i'm touching my skin. i'm
entitled to touch my skin

wherever and however i want.
i can videotape myself doing it.

this is me
touching myself, life.

i'm thinking of you, you, my

number one target
on my shit list. i'm thinking of you
and i'm thinking of me
and we're doing lines
off of one anothers bodies

in a vacant sleazy motel room.
there's a noisy cockroach.

there's a tv.
could there possibly be more we need?

do you like it?

secretly, you like it.
are we not clearly enjoying ourselves?

i for one am not faking it.

it's happened before. you molested my body
without getting
what the hell you were doing that for.

you weren't thinking.
you forgot you're an animal

but i had already accepted i was
a long time ago. you have to know that

in order to survive.

when you deny
you get all shy and otherwise get
no where and then you

don't become a beautiful butterfly
and you fall off
the face of the earth

and you die.

unable to explain myself,
and letting go of an urge to,
i
dare to acknowledge

that i do enjoy myself.

i'm not so entitled
to protect myself from the truth,

or from anything guiding me
to it.

for decades, it had been yelling at me, somehow
still alive

buried at the bottom
of my hamburger meat grinder factory.

"this is real," it said, as if
i held a revolver to its head. "this is real,"
it continued to say
as if i continued to hold a revolver to its head.
"i cannot leave yet.
i'm running out of ideas for distress signals,"

it said.
it pissed me off
but i liked it. it was the only thing i knew

that wasn't a junky.

all the junkies hung around as if i was one of them.
they all had this
inventory
they were all so protective over

and i grew sick and tired
of stabbing at them all over the place

to see if there was much else.

it was too tricky.
it was too tricky trying to reach for their needs.

Thursday, April 16, 2015

"robot personality development". i see it everywhere
because it sells.

do i really want to go that far

or do i just not want to let go of my stuff?
i love my stuff. of course
i do. my stuff

provides instant gratification
and continues to

because it continues to innovate
its mechanisms.
do i really need my stuff?
do i really need drugs?

what ever happened to childhood
when i aimed to go live in the rainforest

with the fairies and exotic foliage?

turn back.
turn back now

go back to the rainforest
and do not leave.

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

under a glass bell.

"bonjour, napoleon, i must make a speech, and i don't know what to say."

song for unrequited teenage love.

in a dream you lived next door. the cannibal
the helen of troy the wifebeater
the whore. i said

if i was going to kill myself, i better see you first
and tell you everything
which you have missed out on.

i better tell you
how when love reaches its potential
it lives forever

just like everything else.

but i have been vaccinated
from all that could be caught.

i'm tough stuff. nothing
sticks to me

unless i want it to.

and here, look! see? see?
these are my opiates.
this is my fun.

would you like
to have some opiates? share

a bonding drug experience? or are you

the bigger man tonight? don't
be a chicken. be fun.
opiates, it is.
yes. opiates you would like.

so here's what went down
since i last saw your pretty boy face
all those years ago.

i have a pet dog. he came from the pound, like you,
like me. and like you,
he is a he.
i am a she. this

makes me the bitch in
the relationship.
my pet dog and i eat cat shit. we piss

over one another's piss

and hump each other. i lick my vagina

and chase squirrels. i swim across the
carpet
on my back
when i've got an itch.

and then i piss on it.
and then he pisses on it.

i beg for food from the people.

we both die young. we die
during puberty, when we just begin

to get along.
i die because i learned how to
make hand grenades

but not how to handle them
without exploding. one dumb bitch is right.

my pet dog dies of brain cancer.
natural causes

in a world
where what is all is nature.

we're owned by an alcoholic man
and his sagging alcoholic bitch. for a living,

they roll cigarettes.
neither of them
have any teeth left.

this is a consequence
of chasing after success. the american dream!

the man is a direct descendant of
real natives

so he has wisdom in him
and his trailer smells of sandalwood.

my pet dog and i are both chained.

our elbows are bald. we look tough and stuff.

show me
your clairvoyance! i bark to the drunks.
show me your fatalism!

i do tricks. i'll show you my wisdom.
i eat shit. i will show you

all the wisdom i have left
in a dumpster
in a paper bag.

the end.

i chose you of all people
who have come and gone

to tell about how my ass hurts-
little
aches

little
pains, baby.

you have been knighted. feel honored

friction

dilapidated orchestra pits

oxygen tank

morale

cigar burn

big chief

Monday, April 13, 2015

"dear sugar, the rumpus advice column no.39: the baby bird."

"My father’s father made me jack him off when I was three and four and five. I wasn’t any good at it. My hands were too small and I couldn’t get the rhythm right and I didn’t understand what I was doing. I only knew I didn’t want to do it. Knew that it made me feel miserable and anxious in a way so sickeningly particular that I can feel that same particular sickness rising this very minute in my throat. I hated having to rub my grandfather’s cock, but there was nothing I could do. I had to do it. My grandfather babysat my sister and me a couple times a week in that era of my life and most of the days that I was trapped in his house with him he would pull his already-getting-hard penis out of his pants and say come here and that was that.
I moved far away from him when I was nearly six and soon after that my parents split up and my father left my life and I never saw my grandfather again. He died of black lung disease when he was 66 and I was 15. When I learned he died, I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t happy either. He was no one to me and yet he was always there, the force of him and what he’d made me do moving through me like a dark river. For years, I didn’t say a word about it to anyone. I hoped silence would make it disappear or turn it into nothing more than an ugly invention of my nasty little mind. But it didn’t. It was there, this thing about which I’d wonder what the fuck was up with that?
There was nothing the fuck up with that and there never will be. I will die with there never being anything the fuck up with my grandfather making my hands do the things he made my hands do with his cock. But it took me years to figure that out. To hold the truth within me that some things are so sad and wrong and unanswerable that the question must simply stand alone like a spear in the mud.
So I railed against it, in search of the answer to what the fuck was up with my grandfather doing that to me. What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?
But I could never shake it. That particular fuck would not be shook. Asking what the fuck only brought it around. Around and around it went, my grandfather’s cock in my hands, the memory if it so vivid, so palpable, so very much a part of me. It came to me during sex and not during sex. It came to me in flashes and it came to me in dreams. It came to me one day when I found a baby bird, fallen from a tree.
I’d always heard that you’re not supposed to pick up baby birds; that once you touch them their mama won’t come back and get them, but it doesn’t matter if that’s true or not—this bird was a goner anyway. Its neck was broken. Its head lolling treacherously to the side. I cradled it as delicately as I could in my palms, cooing to soothe it, but each time I cooed, it only struggled piteously to get away, terrified by my voice.
The bird’s suffering would’ve been unbearable for me to witness at any time, but it was particularly unbearable at that moment in my life because my mother had just died. And because she was dead I was pretty much dead too. I was dead but alive. And I had a baby bird in my palms that was dead but alive as well. I knew there was only one humane thing to do, though it took me the better part of an hour to work up the courage to do it: I put the baby bird in a paper bag and smothered it with my hands.
Nothing that has died in my life has ever died easily and this bird was no exception. This bird did not go down without a fight. I could feel it through the paper bag, pulsing against my hand and rearing up, simultaneously flaccid and ferocious beneath its translucent sheen of skin, precisely as my grandfather’s cock had been.
There it was! There it was again. Right there in the paper bag. The ghost of that old man’s cock would always be in my hands. But I understood what I was doing this time. I understood that I had to press against it harder than I could bear. It had to die. Pressing harder was murder. It was mercy.
That’s what the fuck it was. The fuck was mine.
"

website waiting for a response...

hey barbara,

look i am so sure you are too busy for me, but i am reading origin of the species right now, and if i could feel connected to anything i would feel connected to it. 
i began writing this manuscript in october. a friend asked me to do it for her press but it didn't work because we're friends. i told my friend, and he told me to give it to him for his thing. i think we're not talking anymore or something, so although he granted me as much autonomy as long as my work kicked ass, i am handing the manuscript back to myself.
it is called "honey". it took me months and months to realize it was my reaction to sexual abuse. i entered my mind into it. it is so obvious to me now, and it is hypnotic, and i maintained that this wasn't going to be a project concerning virtuoso- that, in fact, it had nothing to do with it. to me, it's at once inchoate and fatalistic.
i find myself very interested in semiotext(e), which i looked up on google after reading most of your book. how can i convince them to pick up my manuscript? may i schmooze you?

it's not that i desire to sit in an idle socket, but i do not have many writer friends- i do not live in greenwich in the seventies, i am the bruce springsteen of [home island]. here's what i think of [said home island]: such an ugly body of a beach town. it really deserves to be thrown out far away into the ocean, to just sit there for eternity. maybe it'll become an exotic thing crawling with amazon women and guys....and me, continuing to write about everything except this environment, this garden of eden shit. this is probably it. think about it. it turned ugly. must have.
i do not want to work with myself. i'm stupid about commitment. check my purse. i own too many lipsticks. 
i know how to put a book together thus far, but i do not know how to sell or promote it (and i have mixed feelings concerning personal punk ethos but not being involved in the punk scene, all that), or to whom, and i do not want it to be perceived as cheap (in an unbeautiful way). these pay-on-demand books are so ugly, they have this lazy appearance- it just seems like a disrespect to the craft. unless it's supposed to be a statement on that kind of thing, which is cool, those books are sub par to my standards. but hell, i might wind up doing that.
i want to work with people who release cool shit. i am interested in many of the published works i saw on semiotext(e)'s site.
perhaps i am picky, but let me tell you- like all people, i skim past so many poems. they are not poems according to my perception of poems. i want to get bitchy at them. i want to be mean to the authors. and i have, but i've changed direction. i don't like it when experienced ideas are proposed in tone-deaf voices. once again, it's disrespect to the craft. i think the experiences of ideas are something that remind me i'm not really "me", not the ego i've gotten to know...but rather, a process. the experiences of ideas are not my possessions. if i said they were, that'd be my sense of pride speaking up. the narcissist. the giant tetris wall blocking my sense of purpose and direction toward totally purified enlightenment- pure, rich light very obviously worth tapping into. anyway, i feel like the word "poetry" is abused, mishandled, and doesn't always celebrate the constant of change. and i am protective over it and all of my values i don't let go of. all the causes. you know, reality as i perceive it in by-product formations.
i had to take action and contact you. i hope you can feel me on this. please tell me what steps i can take to get semiotext(e) to listen to me. at your earliest convenience.

love because i love your book,
peach

appearances conceal universal vibrations.

hurry with your life. hurry. there is time. make it
on time. make time. what is

time? if i screw

with numbers

it's my concept,
a concept as abstract as any.

i am an alcoholic today, because
i want it to be my identity-
identity is a choice
should you identify with identity.

and if you are anything like me, you do not
identify with identity, aside from

destruction, how it tricks
you and is overpowering, makes you
believe things about it

makes you throne it.

so aside from that, i can
pretend i identify with anything i want.
i don't have to
pretend i don't.

today, i identify
with whatever the fuck i want.

and i want you to know that is
probably something a nihilist would say

if a nihilist weren't behaving
as if life is a lucid dream.

i find sentimentality flat and rude. i could pass
on flattery.
i dislike some sciences. i dislike
the mechanical offerings
of money. i hate capitalism. capitalists

are weird people
that happen to be smart

so they probably believe in global warming
but only say so
to charm the hippies.

if they're not busy charming,
they hate themselves.

your faces
turn to norman bates'. you say mean

things then take them back. you act like
i do not know

that appearances are not everything.
i know just as well.

appearances get people in trouble.
appearance get trouble.
appearances associate

only with trouble.

appearances stop
when we pay the ferryman.

it costs two extra pennies

but we don't consider this might happen
in advance.
i sort through leaves and sticks
the leaves i crunch and lick
marrow to my bones- they peel

off my frame of movement,
which too peels.

this tree ought to die!
i see it and circumscribe, choking
sticks with their softened
roots; sticks

broken into splinters so i may lose;
tie my tree up and forget

peel a thing apart
unable to tell its age, and
give
it
away

the whole tree, the
family, and i
the thief- root-thief

yet still part of the family.

i snap around,
lover
to the machine gun spurts-

enthusiastic to be at one
with dirt
the whole tree
the
family

it is on fire. is it thrilled? it becomes
a light. beheld?
it is blinded. is it
on to something yet? it acts
wildly- a jungle? it is exposed,

proudly naked.

it feels pinched through stabbing bites.

pinned with red
silk, it learns to walk

as a bride to life.

rearranging nature.

i know this feeling well.
i give it unto myself.

it is not delight, nor is it a pleasure;


it is mine.
it is a simple obligation
to relieve, a measure

taken, a need fulfilled

attend to your duties at once
whether you want to

or not.

must keep in line.
must keep alive.

this is not death. this is not
a route to death.

this is life
to which i pay
respects; compensating for
change, as if change

is not already happening,

a whirling celebration
a static shock
a war
an elaborate operation

helix disintegration-

a threshold gone threadbare
gross

transparency, guppy-feel, depressed
after full realization.

i like to make up for
what's already there

i chop the real into bits

i eat it and find out it is human meat.
i like

offering myself
to the god in and of me.

Sunday, April 12, 2015

i know it is sickening and i know it is the heart

Friday, April 10, 2015

a few nights ago while boasting about a poem, i was told i ought to be careful. although my identity is relatively concealed, my blog does receive visits from friends and other people from life. the speaker of the poem discussed is a guy that hurt my feelings very incidentally about a year ago.
i stand by a belief that art is entirely amoral therefore i can say whatever the fuck i want in a poem. in fact, i cherish the amorality outlet. hell, i make love to it like a horn-dog several times a day. although i love this poem as it was quite a cathartic experience for me, it's vicious- a direct attack toward somebodies entire worth. i don't want to say that's okay or not okay, because i both care and don't care (welcome to me). i won't tell anybody what to do (aside from "use a condom", "don't share needles/straws/other instrumentation", and things of that elk) but i'll say i don't encourage sharing things like this unless you absolutely know you cannot be found on whatever forum. what if the person to whom the poem was directed toward read it? that sucks, because i make fun of their abusive childhood in it. they'd fucking die. they'd die and it would be entirely my bad, on top of it. and they might, in fact, have access to reading this blog. maybe a part of me, that dark resentful part of me, wants it to be read by anyone and everyone including that guy, it is horrifying nevertheless.

a year ago was pivotal. i was pretty disconnected. i overdosed on my medications on april twenty-sixth of last year, which is also my little sister's birthday, who i have not seen in several years. (because family.) her birthday on its own sort of hurts every year. i magically survived my overdose but not without severe repercussions and certainly not without resentments and all these blank spaces i had to fill in not just for myself, but for the people around me who turned out to love me all along, though i thought i was alone.
although i handle life more gracefully now, i am still working through a shit-ton. perhaps if i could quanitify the amount, "shit-ton" might be somewhere in the ballpark of the same amount of medication that i impulsively polluted my system with on the day i speak of. that's like a lot. the world was spinning as i was puking and manic but bed-ridden receiving several foley catheters for almost a week before transferred to a psychiatric unit elsewhere. furthermore, i continue to learn that a lot of what i experience turns out to be damned delusional. i slowly come out of the "schizo" closet. and it isn't fun. it actually really, really sucks.
the guy who the speaker was in the poem "bundy complex" was a major factor in my upset around that time. i felt abandoned. i was abandoned. but i understand it now. it wasn't a healthy relationship, but i could've figured this out, if only i hadn't still had the problem of chronically getting involved with people that abandoned me. this is something i have come to terms with. however, my suicide attempt anniversary is creeping up on me. his abandonment was a factor in my upset of that day. so a few days ago, i thought of him and wrote a sincerely personal, mean-ass poem. because he was a mean-ass dude and i don't like him.

i always say to myself when anniversaries come around that if i make a conscious effort to ignore them, then i won't revisit shit. not true. it has been creeping up on me in that familiar fashion which anniversaries do. and "bundy complex" was a by-product of that being true.

it reached its peak then transformed.

with a young lady on your arm looking for a kiss.

the guardian angel doesn't want me anymore.

i cried.
i laughed.
i cried and laughed.
i inhaled and exhaled slowly

while appearing ugly.
keep up appearances.

i was concerned over not
orchestrating something i had
never done before

beautifully,
and by the end it was a masterpiece.

but i cried.
because at the beginning
it was not a graceful thing

that i turned from with a half-pirouette
and a graceful lady hand.

i apologized for sucking.
i apologize because everyone has some
part of them that wants to kill me

and i have to look past it.
but i don't have it in me. not quite yet.

i cried and i freaked the fuck out.
i freaked the fuck out and freaked
the fuck out of everyone

around me
who are people
who care

i, a shrivelled thing.
i am married.
i wear grandmother's apron.

i question my shit. does it matter? does

drug addiction matter? does my life matter?
are you there, god? it's me, with long hair.

it's me, at age eighteen, with day-glo hair.

it's my tattoo.
it's every aspect about me that i
fail to see. you just get used to things, see?

are you nurturing my weak spots in their
idle-feel as i shelve them? do they matter?

i hate to be stubborn, but
they do not matter. they're the

only parts that don't hate themselves.

does it matter if i shower today
or any other day?
is it funny that i see myself

as a little shrimp baby
yet to exit a womb?

what does war do
if we all think our opinions are right
though our opinions are never facts?

i see hummingbirds.
i dream of being attacked by lions.
maybe we've never been free, not

in the savanna, not in the jungle, not
on mdma.
have you ever been a wild thing?

in an unhappy marriage,
i wear an apron.
it was grandmother's apron.
grandmother was pollinated

and birthed children.
some of them died and some of them lived.
some of them are depressed.

some of them show the way.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

leave it to the woods
for a squirrel or a raccoon

that would otherwise be hit by a car
to go and die.

they are mad at me.

it is the insidious life.
it is the tiger lily.
hark, tiger tiger, with your

powder on the skin of my cheeks.
i am the great indian chief.
the medicine man.

i make your problems disappear.
i tell you the truth.
orbit the oak, the mother

who i don't know is the stronghold
i refuse to lean against.

did you grow up
with a mighty, mighty tree

in your backyard? did it

stare at you? trees have eyes, you know,
and not just
according to the beatniks.

i don't know. i really do not know
if there was really a tree

in my backyard.

i am only ten years old.
i make it up as i go along.

the love song of j. alfred prufrock.

"let us go then, you and i,
when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherised upon a table;
let us go, through half-deserted streets,
the muttering retreats
of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
streets that follow like a tedious argument
of insidious intent
to lead you to an overwhelming question...
oh, do not ask, 'what is it?'
let us go and make our visit.
"

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Urban Dictionary - punk was not published

Thanks for your definition of punk!

A few volunteer editors read your definition and decided to not publish it. Don't take it personally!

To understand what definitions we publish and reject, check out this blog post: http://blog.urbandictionary.com/post/49469679426

Try rewriting your definition so that it's easier for others to understand, then try again.

Thanks,

Urban Dictionary

-----

punk

(noun) anti-establishmenty.

person 01: hey, i'm going to tag the eff out of the brick wall over there. it's the punk rock energy overcoming my physicality!
person 02: okay, but you're supposed to explain your principles, as well.

the silent birth.

are you a particle? oh, forgive me. you
could have fooled me. excuse me!
enjoy
your evening.

are you silent
because your story is something deep?

are those assumptions you pierce through me
with something only appearing
to be an arrow?

i feel the bruise. oh, i feel it, all right.
i feel the bruise
like a growth in my belly.

i feel bruises when i talk
to people. they do not know whether

they poke their bruises or not. at some point,
they have lived until they dropped
dead and became mighty trees

with eyes
all the same. (so live, live.)

not all sets of eyes blink or
butterfly kiss. you cannot

always see. stare me down
when i know i ought

to be ashamed of myself. i've so
disappointed you!

look at me. i close my eyes
and wonder if i just blacked out.
these eyes go somewhere to
look

look
are you not on the lookout? well, goodness.
i'll direct you. hey, look. i'll

huddle under the table

and grab people by their ankles.
i am taken by the beauty of the
shuffle. good god,

this beauty, it screams
cosmogony. yes? i listen to the non-thought,

a silent wiggle. vibrations

ripple away
backing out of the known.

the more they get used to it, the
more awkward it feels.

all recedes, i recede, ophelia recedes
zeroing in on
white-disks, the inside out
of the heaviest yanks of gravity-

where i go to escape notions of peace
i made up during spare time.

i made you a narrative,
feast.
i offer a twist in the narrative, without
disturbing the infrastructure.
feast. it's rude

according to culture
this far, far away culture

if you decline to feast.

feast.
feast.
look.
look,

a clause
contained in the law of physics allows this.

i do my part-
your experiment of chaos, the blue

green
cloud-swirling, crawling
with vermin, mischievous pro-war cannonball-

the head that spins
to complement an orderly king. i am little,

and okay with this- no sphere

ever quite so humbled.
i must pray.
it seems fucking easy today, is why.

queen! queen! she looked at the stars and
did not feel touched. she only ever looks

at the stars
in an attempt to feel touched by them.

she'd like to have to be breathtaken
knowing she came down

from the stars.
as did ophelia. as did you.

perhaps there is something obvious to say
about how we coast

and perhaps things become obvious
because we gloss over their definiteness.

you will always be there for me.
and here i am, too, waiting

for a sort of lunar fruition.

all the children have been sent
straight to the guillotine, engendered or not.
she has been ordered to kill you.
she has been ordered to be killed.
she has been killed.
she has been killing.

she follows orders blindfolded.
she follows orders laying in bed.

decompose. fall
apart and die.
go among the deceased. do not save the relics.

there is no need for
evidence. reliable

evidence
not allowed.
these relics would be passed, back and forth,

twixt the free market

until eroded into a handful of pebbles.

my stature sinks, eating the ground, involved
in its formality.
it refuses to scream.
it is joan of arc

behaving
as if she knows me.

paint me as the lost girl, just like
you, joan of arc, so weird
and confused. paint me

as if enforced by a medieval,
power-tripping army,

their ability to discern controlling them-
a power trip i hope to never
be infected with.

global scale to whom i devote love and care,
i am going to cheat on you now.
it's high time, for i am old.

it's time i drop dead.

i cannot unlock the divisions
to which my life has turned into.
the math is enormous

and i'd prefer to cut myself some slack
in my floral, deadlock blue.

paint me as a wavelength that doesn't slowly go,
but hides until it dies
at the sight of changes

in the barometric pressure.
rise and die and rise again.

is this matter?

dangerous blood flow, rapid mission,

do i interpret you
as turbulent, or do i interpret you
as driven? and who is it that i may offend

in my own mind, and there alone,
today?

my mind is bigger than any
old star, any

cluster of them little lights
forming a mythological effigy

long expired, but denied burials. it is the stars
who believe that they may wish
all they want

in their dreamless sleep, not
the people. certainly

not me. my mind bears the crest
of an emblematic rush, the
biggest tattoo
whose inking never ends.

little sewing needle,
stab. little sewing needle, stab!

stab!
at first i bled and bled. it had to
stop, for
i wanted to to redeem myself

and get back all of that blood
which i had lost track of,

so i left my house and searched.

in the presence of others i danced, as
my thinking whispered

at a frequency i refused to
open myself to. i sacrifice my fertility
in an effort

to deny
that that whispering can be heard

at all.

this altar i impose my body on
is matter. i too

am matter? matter is
matter
and matter alone? does it scare god

that god is matter, and god is matter
and
matter alone? all the matter-

i swallow it,
unable to expunge otherwise.

oh my god. oh god you are mine. oh
god
i am of you. i am you.

is it okay to be
in love with yourself

when others
disagree? is that their own problem,

a denial not of mine? allow
us to swallow, being
swallowed, using the lord's name in

vain, without any
afterlife repercussions. allow me all of that.

let me come. let me
come while screaming at god

and to god
oh my god, this

is for you. i feel close to you.
i feel closer to you now

than how i was supposed to
during childhood.

and look at me now. look
at how it is i

relate to you. i want to be a motherfucker,
for crying out loud.

cure. god. oh god. oh god.
i want to be just like kerouac,

the voice of the friend
who would refuse to hear me out.

kerouac, cure. god. god. oh my god.
if it is not my god you are here for, i still
will remind you

somehow
god is you. we mold

that flexible movement of
matter, the

potential energy that
never dies after

waking up,

weaving into colorlessness- the

bastard children buried under the ground.
the bastard children
buried under the ground

who learn to move on
as little worms

with their synthesis of worms, not
cold or alone.

i hang around inside of the dirt

separated into billions of atoms who

observe one another

as in how parakeets interact.


god, i know how i am free. how is it

that i get a kick

out of selling myself? you just have to 

laugh sometimes, i guess. you just

have to
get a kick out of yourself, too.

we should all sell ourselves.
we could all use a little company, you know.


we sell ourselves

until someone else is in charge-

a deliverer of shitty advice.


i’m your defunct human
being, your
comic relief. your pride and joy that 

plays dead

once someone that you do not know
comes to ask me

how much for something like a fuck

from the body that is composed of me.

i say to them

you ask the other person, the person
in charge of this aspect

of my being

which i placed on the market. ask them
instead. i am of theirs, never

my own. my vocal chords
have been chopped out

re-wired

to something you can switch between
off and on.

you know, in some cultures, that is okay

to do.
it's a custom to do that

sometimes
without second-guessing it.

i am naked without this weapon

convincing myself

that i must be transparent,

and that what is me is nothing. i need a gun.
a big gun. a machine gun.

something genuinely fucked up

and made by humans. something
very, very fun.

give me all your money. i need


to buy all sorts of weapons.

let me swallow you whole

with the force of a snake that slithers,
swallowing whatever they want.

run. run. i want us all to be stallions.
i want my stallion friends

to be released from their prisons, to

never learn, to

be purified of personal confusion, as


learning is not something

that will take place

as the body of a stallion

never sticks to one place,

running running running

until shot

to prevent he or she

from growing up.

i wade, giving into the body of

a river washing
the guts of my stallion folk.

i even find fool's gold

and mining remnants- that whose search
was languid

and very quickly given up on. the people
grew listless; grew

without affection.

they speak of l'ennui
with some sort of satisfaction.

twilight,
inviolable
twilight. you are me. i choose not to fight.