Tuesday, June 30, 2015

deacon- being among saints, who do not have
a home- they are austere, they are not

grateful for roofs over their heads. and if i have
been dreamed about, i am among, assisting
with commitments- that
plasma predetermined, weaved into my helix-
the genetic happenstance. you run
according to the runniness of the family.

if reality turns out to be scientifically proven...
"evidence" is not enough. i can make up that shit.
pride is in the way is why,
pride is always in the way. that's its job. i kind of

had to bow to it in order to realize
it is hurt. my poor damaged *pride* is
what is hurt beyond all my other
internal experiences. there doesn't need to be

a scale to prove this. i want to live, but
i don't want to live like this:

how i've got to be so careful because
everything has danger-potential. are they traps?
all. that is, but love. but like,
don't even let the, so to speak, "guard" down

even with that, because i'll flip out
and believe i'm being attacked
and tell everything ever to fuck off. they will,

because they don't understand you mean that-
but *at the same time mean just as much*:
"please don't ever fuck off." referring to opposite action

is hard and really annoying, especially
when you're not in the therapy program wherein
they teach you that kinda thing.

but really, love doesn't
have it in or of itself to be mean- it's all uncoiled

started that way, slightly awake because
kinda startled, and slithered
in a way that feels good

and is still doing that because it is still
curious- that which never gives up- nor

gives, gives back, gives into- just doesn't

hey little choo choo that could- story
of love....i'm totally chasing you through the woods.

the humane thing to do.

now if you can play an instrument...cool, because my fingers
can't figure out chopsticks to this day.
i don't believe in myself.
i don't believe in much.

and i don't want anything to have to do with figuring out
refining motor dexterity.
concerning my gifts and talents, and those of others,
i know all it means is we are instruments....

something not born of man or earth but god
like the lavender and the mint, the road signs...

and let me just put this out there: i'm not nurturing anything except
my cerebral hemispheres with my nonstop philosophy shit.
i'm a self imposed academic. not someone who went to school
and happened upon it.
so it's safe for me to say that philosophy is pretty absentminded.
it's all about dissections. compulsive operating.

and yes, suicide really is a problem- but, everything else
since anything can wind up in the wrong hands and
be philosophized
also make philosophizing look stupid.

the clever tongue, the line up of saints-
action figures.
plains, prairies,
the anarchist refines their distaste or is shocked
by taste- i don't know. you

tell some difference. symphonic gluttony of the persona
who is constipated- i owe all my vouchers
of meaning to it. it looks effortless; but it isn't.
it does not want attention but also it does

and the inner glimmer
is either sexless altogether
or hermaphroditic. goes both ways or neither but
genitals remain gross all the same.

*i'll say that for humanity so they don't have to say it*.
something about proportions freaks me out. this is me-

grieving over the loss of someone other than myself
for the first time in my life. my best friend. my dog.
i read so much about buddhism and the tao and the upanishads....
so i figured i was just good at death because i know

death doesn't exist- i mean, if it doesn't equate biological cessation. egoic
attachments exist, which are bound to happen, but we can go beyond
that as we do that, too.

today it turns out i have the "beyond", which is pure love, and
the ego-attachment thing going on. i'm translating the breeze

as my dog soothing me.
i keep reminding myself as i feel hurt- hurt that i was the ringleader
in this pro-euthanasia thing and swayed my family
into agreeing with it- does that mean i'm fucked up and lazy?- no,
he had a fucking death rattle for crying out loud-
and hurt that i'm all out of sorts because *he* *was* *always* *there*.

he has been there since i was right out of high school.
we were brave. somehow i wound up the backbone again.
he died peacefully, his head in my hands. we said a prayer and
said goodbye.

i felt like i was abandoning either him or his body
which is probably now nurturing the earth with other
dead non-human animal bodies.

it's been a painful day but in a weird way. i keep reaching the
verge of hysterical crying than stopping, and it fades

into a fuzzy background thought.
the memories are a flipbook thing.

but me....i'm separated into several puzzle pieces in
a black place- not warm or cold or anything-
just naked of elements... i know i am all these pieces

and even the blackness itself. it's a kind
of spinning fish-eye vision thing

that has something to do with science
not figuring itself out yet.

it's like watching gravity
give up the notion of control- which is a notion and nothing more.
to elaborate, it's like watching gravity take care of itself-

and letting itself watch *us* learn how to take care
of ourselves
without it taking care of every goddamn step we're up to.

this is no longer a story of roots but something
concerning rest-
cucumbereyes, sitting back and

not telling everyone what i think is right
or is wrong. first of all,
the egalitarian thing is a dead giveaway as is, so i don't care-
it's a part of me. i'd go so far to say

it's like half of my personality and all my beliefs
match up to this equality for all thing.

but i'm not interested
in bothering with that, although

it has been made clear to me we- i mean, us people- know
very little
and much of what we know
is made up-

this too poses a problem, as this means action
must be violent, at all times.
now, look what we've done. we're just as

endangered as the bees.
the only explanation is the "soul image" of violence
is a limpwristed vagina-monologue that's smart but

totally neglected. it's an anima! it's
(this is the only reason why women need to rule the world.)

now we have to hold a seance to bring it forth
like how seances are operated upon me.

i love these values- without

the transmission from me to them, i would not
have them.
the transmission is a neurochemical autonomous one
that's been biopsied over and over into
fucking obscurity and that's not what i meant to happen.
now i say this:
"my brain is a little schizophrenic."

joy to the world otherwise, because
there's unknowing yes, but to unhave

the hyperfocus and lack thereof at once-

the hypercerebral and artistic fluency- no

the extreme-hopping
inability to identify mood swings, or identify
as one moody son of a fuck in the first place

somehow grants me a little balance,
and knowing the stuff i do about life will
save my heart from bursting. in fact, it is growing.

Monday, June 29, 2015

recanting "my asshole burns", a short story i still haven't finished because it's not a poem.

penguin with a cunt
keep up with a reputation. reputations are everything. don't chang
e the channel if you want to watch the show about the reputation.
don't kill your dog, have a reputation. william shakespeare has o
ne son of a fuck of a reputation. just soak your reputation and pr
esto. the name of my stalker is reputation. i'm a reputationphob
ic. i'm currently studying the works of reputation. my favorite c
olor is reputation. i know stuff about tibetan reputation. let's hit
the clubs and maintain reputations. i drink eight cups of black re
putation a day. it helps me get through the painful reputation. if
you're not keeping up with the reputations- honey, you are not
well. have a reputation. defeat the reputation in order to level u
p to the next reputation. honey it's up to you to build yourself a
reputation. go to ikea and get a reputation for cheaper than other
reputations on the market. it is deceiving but it looks just as sle
ek. spill some change and african voodoo on the reputation. clip
the fingernails of the one you love- the bitch move. marry them.
pacify. shit on the reputation. due to this, change reputations in
to ice. tap implanted fingernails on stovetop twice turn world in
to ice. my favorite band is reputation bizkit. i felt sad when my
reputation died.

penguin with a cunt
penguin with a cunt
look at you aren't you a sweet little nothing. i totally see "x" factor
prowess in your cheeky white girl ass. they tore britney spears fro
m mississippi but that is not where i am. they will keep me in the
bubble suffocating forever with panic disorder.

puh puh puh puh puh
ppppare nothing. create a reputation. if it weren't
ppppwe wouldn't
ppppgrab attention. flop about

eh eh eh eh en guin with a cunt eh eh eh he he hehe

penguin with a cunt one
penguin with a cunt two
penguin with a cunt one
penguin with a cunt two

parties are stupid but dancing is cool. you are loved. this one time
i wanted to die. this one time i wanted to live. i am tired of throw
ing all the contents of my underwear drawer out looking for any
underwear that isn't period underwear in an angry fit. how did all
my grandmother's slips get in here? that's quite *ephemeral*. beh
old my childlike idealism- my favorite novel IS
THE LITTLE PRINCE. the love of my life is the little prince.
the most romantic moment of my life was when he sped off repu
tation highway after i screamed in pain from the worst shit-cramp
of my life, even though i screwed up the gps system because i do
n't know where i live by now. he had a very serious face and sped
down some really long road in a residential neighborhood. i thou
ght at first perhaps he was scared i was going to shit myself in hi
s jeep, but than he pulled over next to a runner girl and told me to
ask her where the nearest bathroom is. (really?)
i asked her where the nearest stores were.
she told me at the end of the road is a king kullen.
the road was approximately five hundred more miles. the face of
my true love grew more tightly with seriousness. he pulled in fro
nt of the king kullen.
just drop me off here! just drop me off! i frantically told him to do.
i went in hyperconscious of my butt, terrified that i looked like i
really had to poop and everyone was staring at me like that was tot
ally happening, but they would stare at me anyway- in my experien
ces with lifelong social phobia, they do- especially when you put
your "guard" down. (a lesson in survival: just like don't get to a
point where you wind up doing that. you'll fuck up and freak out.)
so i put my swagger on, unclenched my asscheeks, and did not
shit everywhere.
the bathrooms were in the employees only lounge. it was labyrinthine,
to say the least- and i didn't know i wasn't allowed to be in there, beca
use this dude with tots magoats body modz directed me there. i opene
d one door on a guys face which i did not look at because i just really
wanted to shit. he said, "this is weird!" i had nothing to say, so i ign
ored him and headed past the conference table to the ladies room.
one thing i hate about supermarket bathrooms is the stalls never have
toilet paper. after i shat, i heard the little prince calling "peach! peach!"
from the weird labyrinth in which david bowie was not.
"yeah?" said i.
after i wondered if i was going to get raped by the guy who told me
where the bathrooms were, switched stalls, wiped, washed my hand
s, dried them and le ft, i found the little prince waiting for me.
"wow, that was nice of you." it occurred to me soon after an employ
ee must've told him where the bathrooms in which i now presumed
we weren't allowed to be in were. he's really chivalrous like that.
"a kid with snakebites and sleeves was waiting for you too, at
the conference table."
"what the fuck? that's the guy that told me where the bathrooms
it was weird, because that was the person i had imagined i was
doomed to be raped by. you know, stuff like that really gets me
hoping that we're really *not* all psychic.
i thought i'd check out if he had rapist eyes or not by finding him
in the aisles. i did.
"pssssst!" i whispered, blowing flower petals nowhere. his eyes
were not rapey in the least. "thanks!"
he nodded. or whatever. i don't remember much else except that
his eyes weren't rapey, and that it isn't fair that king kullen let
*him* expose his body mods, but my old job in customer servi
ce wouldn't let me expose my unshaved armpits, let alone my
punk rock reputation. *or* snakebite piercings.

outside were dyed lilies. i sniffed one. "it's, it's beautiful!"
when we reached the dream jeep, the little prince laughed
at me and told me to study my reflection. i didn't know w
hat i was looking for.
"look closer!"
a smear of what i believed was either a nose bleed or poop
was under my nose and on my upper lip. since i've never
had a nose bleed, i compulsively sniffed my upper lip over
and over, terrified of the possibility that it was poop, even
though after the first sniff it was clear this was *not* poop.
"it was the flower. it was THE FLOWER."
this didn't make any sense to me, and i was pretty sure the
prince was just trying to make me feel better about having
somehow gotten poop on my philtrum-y area. i didn't kno
w what in the world it was, and just decided to drop it af
ter i wiped it off. later my mother would tell me the flow
er was dyed.
we sped down the service road in the direction the gps
told us to. the prince was very serious so i mostly gave
him space. a while ago this jiminey douchenugget used
to beat me. ever since, without discrimination, i've bee
n very afraid that guys are going to beat me for being a
pain in their asses. the little prince *did not beat me*. it
was magical.
the next day i texted him, thanking him for granting me
the most romantic half hour of my life. and that i "love
him as a friend". (i love him as a prince).

mr. dog.

narcissus- dowser of reflection- marry you? marry

deep-dark-sad-lonely me. the best i can do
is be hurt knowing
my life depends on the opinions of others- the new
science. out with the old- it went

on a diet and died.

and when

i say "my life", i mean my well-being- which is
what i am nothing without.
that means i am nothing, nothing
without my neurochemical


fucking up. the dowser

for meaning in dreams that fail never
my memory.
what do i learn from you

besides everything about the life i'm not
yet living?
my mouth is being a cave blindly
dripping darkness and

other unfashionable things. kiss it.

i remind you of something-

plasma anomaly, unforgivably
self-researching. that
straggling, extra chromosome, floating
the learned way. the microscope yields;
for i give a shit.

growing not growing
opposition- that which screws
with the process of

decomposition. the soul of violence

is a high-pitched helium voice.
this constitutes the anima- which is


the outward gender
which is the very big dick of violence.

this dick is so big, that further growth
is not permitted.
i'm getting it to remain
illegal forever-
i'm only interested in the thrill of things
and that which is a thrill

is illegal.

take the ground, dump it
off the face of the earth. if the good mother

is all that is nature, we can
separate ourselves. let us reject our cells.

Sunday, June 28, 2015

mr. dog.

hi, i'm worming my way through the dirt
and eating all i can see.
i am in the middle of the street.

what bird dropped me? a night bird.
the sun doesn't shine when he's around- a hawk
with red wings and quartz eyes.
it was i who taught him to fly.

it was he i took for his walks. now,

we work at two different speeds.
and shame on me.
i do not grieve.

you bastard. you bastard. i didn't say i was through.

tarot pack.

who are you? what do you want? am i
made of coal? are you going to tell me yet?
why do i have to live like this?
i demand spotlessness. die, die, die. get your
rapist hands off my kind heart.

there is nothing worth shutting up about.
no organism left behind? oh,
but it seems the worth

has been determined in each.
is the worth dormant and growing?

the expression of god-give, ignorant
of the clock of the wrist- the thing

that knows it goes back, back
way back in history

to primordial man, the motherfuck of the wheel.
if only i could slay.
and if i were to propagate,
it would be heard. the stars are supposed to be
sage. this beautiful sky

is killing me with its vitality. it's upsetting
how beauty does not touch me-

the virgin- that which does not register. that
sun is watching,
the moon

keeps changing, being with light, letting it go-
is it possible there is a point
when it can be so easy?

magic trick

Friday, June 26, 2015

secret messages.

there is a snake i maintain
a correspondence with.
i want to know what it wants. i'm confident

this is for survival.

once a week, the snake and i meet

inner-sufferings. it swallows the mistakes
of survival: asking for help,

admitting there is no self-imposed
light. i just can't wait until i keep dying

until i return to the original form,
the embodiment of light-

a condition of beyond and all:
of it, what is born and made from such-

that which the people see past
voyeurisms into of each other-

the obvious knowings
and their
frenetic unveiling of discoveries.
it is compost.
compost has been waiting,

being a miracle, personally expanding
free will, but only

denting into a surface, feathers touching
softly at most, light and lively.

but i do not like that. i'm
unable to be touched by such frivolities.

all bets are off. i am the devil.
it is not a big deal.
i am the devil

returning to the original embodiment of light.

secret messages.

terrific cloud, close to
dominating the sky, allowing the lightening
to scream its frustration

this place heavenly- gift of the magi.
wisps picking themselves upward
the stratosphere- that which is my bride

and all my space
who i unfortunately terrify,

who questions my existence, then
ceases to, then

thinks of what an explosion might feel like.

please endow this shock a birth,
a place to sit-
both molecular and universal at once. two
reflect one another

when one and one face. all the spores
speak over each other

becoming a reaching star.
do not questions the genius. stay quiet,

you, gratuitous,
who do not find appeal in royalty.

i am home.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

a beautiful sky out.

pores set
fat sets
muscle sets
bone sets
blood sets,
et al.

beam it to me.

the law.

culturally imposing rules are not laws. they are indoctrinations of subservience.
don't bother pawning off your values for anything. they are what you love.
everything is out there because there is nothing inside.
i've learned i move through the bottom of the ocean while nobody else even lives here. so of course they're not going to feel the same way i do- given this depth; and of course i'm going to feel detached. i am the only one who lives in the ocean.
a personality disorder is an oft-learned and neuro-chemical condition in which such bullies the personality into overriding itself with symptoms. it looks like an inky yellow snake.
if we are human beings we are philosophizers.
chronic illusionary delusions of accusations are common. we all react to them differently. any reaction that seems irrational to you is not a way you react (unless you're experiencing a hypocrite-moment). since reaction is not really measured, it doesn't matter how we react. it matters that we all react. it especially matters that reactions are the only thing we can change.
humanity is god's experiment on order. if you think this from a scientific perspective, that means my disorder is not my "fault" (faults don't exist. fault is another culturally imposed word used for hurt.)
"hate" doesn't exist. hate is sort of like a body rejecting its parts. it's just contradictory to survival. i know a lot, so i'm allowed to say i know hate has a very bitter and slimy taste. humanity would have nothing to do with the concept of hate if they weren't as innocent in their universal ignorance and confusion. think for a sec. hate is a bunch of blown out of proportion bullshit that feels surface and powerless to me. i'd prefer to reject it from my reality.
my dog's penis infection is extremely smelly. and i think cancer has some fucking nerve.
other times seem so small compared to the largeness of now. this is the problem with the culturally imposing rule of time...it fucks with our perception because it's mathematically inconcievable. all that is is eternity. which is the collective consciousness as experienced during the present moment, which is why it seems so omnipresent.

secret messages.

a vegetative likeness. everything looks
opposite of
how i appear to myself. it stays seated,

this ghost of the present.

oh i want danger not. danger be not mine.
there is no room for such.

i want the ocean to remain
its uninhibited blue. if rays of light

sink, i might understand it one day. so i
help. i help it

to compensate for my selfishness.

is love relevant?

Monday, June 22, 2015


i stretch my arms forward. they dip
into some kind of bow. there he is, rescuing me
from being that bow.

must i explain myself? is that something
i would care to do?

bless for it. bless for it.

now is eternity. eternity is forever.
is a kind of pseudoscience.

i am not so reliant
but what is it on which i rely

did i
did i ever try to not rely

and in the birth of venus,
i am with you. you are ancient.
i am ancient, but too

mother of flora. flora, i give to reach you

toward earth-mother sun. look there.
eternity. do not believe in time.

only the farmers these days
abide by such.
the kiss of the glow-worm.
up it goes as the rain pours before
the sun, the sun

daughter of the corner i know
as a bough radiates prismatic fleet,

to plant itself into the soaked earth,

how i hope i enjoy my stay here.
into the dirt, the roots
are every vein

sending intrepid messages.
sending intrepid messages.

come along.
first bird sing-song of the day
it's one fifteen in the morning
sleeptalking solo
of the nightingale

if black magic stung me in the head,
plenty of room for roses- that
which stinks. that lighthearted fragrance does not

sway me. i choose not to swoon.
there's nothing to mix with. i am starving, you know-
starving as a starving child in africa.

it is time for supper. supper
is going to get cold. all this hard work

must be appreciated. if not, give me that knife
to give to that throat.

secret messages.

solace from vine to vine, point a
to point b.
for someone that is all wrong
i've sure got this survival thing down pat.

"you be my ally."

secret messages.

flies and flies-
these kisses are of venus.
i turn not away
the yielding of amber,

this goblet will do.
flies and flies.

secret messages.

the very particular pathology
that represents the committee- all of this is ad hoc knowledge.

it is calloused and so is some part of me.

i think that's god
i think that's god that i love infinitely
i must love god so much,

there is perception, and then
there is the infinite

secret messages.

i see the trees, not the forest; dammit,
i try to bind the matter together

but i am not so superdimensional; though omnipotent
i'd rather be as little
as the trees-

stubborn little things living fast asleep.

secret messages.

on one side are people wearing muzzles, and honor
to their subservience. on the other side are missiles.
what they do
is inevitable. what sides they are on is questionable.

i say they are opposing directions across a body of water.
in that body of water is an insomniac shark
obsessed with survival;
obsessed with chances for the future.

the insomniac shark is old and wise
the insomniac shark is old and wise

secret messages.

an endangered species is a species
that imposes upon itself, diminishing
as the colors change.

by midnight, this kingdom
is to fall to sleep. it's the comatose

kind of sleep- dreamless
and that's it.

all in the way

is ourselves and our dragons.
i have a zoo of them, of firebreath, staying

nocturnal- as in awake
when i sleep. they're mischievous; they'd do anything

for the thrill of being without
being tamed.

they wake with the lively. dreamlessly i lay cold and bared.

let us beach ourselves upon this land, declaring
ourselves an encroachment.
our faces are really the solidity of the air
disguising the mush of ourselves-

parts we do not share. you have to be greedy
every so often.

the northern star blindly guides the direction of
in the kingdom.

secret messages.

things naked, baring themselves as an
act of bravery,
i have a migraine. i am
at home.
but the walls strip themselves and
the cloud over my head, tumultuous
as ever,

spurts its yellow, exacting electricity.
i've never been one for umbrellas.

in the face of royalty, i am; i am inside
of myself,

a blank landscape, unoccupied;
something unborn.

something to become a desert-
that mouth of sand.

secret messages.

if i rename something that
does not change
its independent aspirations to change-

it may not have any.
and it was already given a name.

i read the books and do
the stuff
that keeps me nice and clean, keeps
me in shape and smiling willingly. the things i do
get shuffled as though a deck of cards.

the thing that shuffles is a thing of an evil sort.
he's unearthly and laughing maniacally.

all my clean sheets fall in the dirt.

the dirt is poisoned if its nectar
is not mine.

secret messages.

pandora's box
controlling the experience. very big things,
all things. and the winds of
all echoes are dangerous, dangerous

i can see the magma under the quaked ground.
this feature is dreamed
as if dreamed ritualistically by
all the ghosts.

secret messages.

and sixteen

learning to play the recorder
oscillating with or without rhythm

i am going to be the madonna when i grow up,
all historically relevant, worshiped

knowing of the language of the saints.
i am your designated driver.
i am behind the wheel, insisting

you buckle up. never forget me. hail me.
hail, hail mary.

secret messages.

any vision experienced is a dream. because we are so eager to experience, we give in. it is a sign our bodies are functioning quite well, biologically, we're not out of place. i need to hear everything they tell me. it's sort of the task god assigned through me to be executed. without me, my physical matter is not holding me down. hold me. hold me, jungian analysis.

secret messages.

scenes from an ultrasound- how do you see me
i see intermittently-

i like to fracture. this is the hypocrite.
this is the chain to
the hypocrite.

my ball and chain, i am deranged.
understand me
not practicing what i preach.
understand my thick veil of shame
as i do not confess my sins.

strangers and strangers between
civilization, and me, myself-
my own lover.
i have no shame in admitting i plan on listen to depeche mode all day, and this alone.

secret messages.

toward backward- an underdeveloped spine,
sidewinding, developing

vertebrae- inclined, happy

small parts floating, all too difficult to understand. all too apart.
information is what they have.

implanted. the landscape is pure

and a black hole

surround us all

Saturday, June 20, 2015

can we get something fucking taken care of about gun-control please
and whatever the fuck with money distribution

i'm tired of this versailles shit

Thursday, June 18, 2015

thoughts and prayers.

again, i find my egalitarianism compromised. but it is totally distracting me from my personal perceptions of my own life, and my feelings and my grip onto "sanity".
i thank president obama for presenting a logical statement, that validates the invariable grieving of the loss of life, wherein a spectrum of reaction is wide enough that we separate from one another, ignorant of this happening, lost in our emotions. once again.
before anything else, we all need help because life is absurd. but we don't always get help. a lot of the time we can't even get the help we need. so we live, starving for our needs to be met. we take action to detach ourselves from it. we are all deeply wounded.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

i am definitely concerned about myself. i wish i had a resource- one that, no matter how scared and sad i feel, i know i can trust. a resource that will tell me "everything is going to be okay". am i going insane because i just have a knack for that, or am i going insane because i'm not registering "external absurdities" well? am i insane already? what the fuck is insane anyway? stupid word. i guess it means pertaining to either a thought disorder or affect disorder. how come i cannot get a safety net no matter how hard i try? why, according to myself, do i fail so horribly and pathetically when i'm actually succeeding? why do i feel completely alone and as if nobody wants to help me, and if they do, i believe i am just hogging attention and just malingering because i'm lazy? what the fuck are you supposed to do when there's nothing left to turn to? (and don't tell me religion. *i've tried that too. it looks ridiculous on me".) don't tell me anything unless it is the truth. if you tell me anything other than the truth, you're just appearing awkward. "when people don't know what to say but feel they have to say something they say something stupid*.

oh baby baby.

so when i realize getting a song -multiple songs- stuck in my head, and they all start singing "kill yourself" over and over, but i totally *realize* that's happening, it's totally not psychotic depression, right? because i think "kill yourself" might just be common in my vernacular, and thus if some bubblegum pop leaps from the seemingly useless depths of my pre-conscious, and plays itself on loop, any old words that seem intriguing for half a sec can get stuck in the mix as well. it is *bubblegum* pop, after all.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

king arthur speaks.

meet me. i am an eccentric human being, old with stories. there is the mire with the alligators twisting around it. since they smile, they laugh. all who cross the path have not happened yet. i have cancer. come, shake my hand.
this is the best part of my life. i see very clearly.
real life is when i work all day and come home upset.
real life is when i drink until i black out with all my friends.
real life is about raising a child. you don't know what you're doing. you just do it.
real life is knowing all about spirituality. there's not much

you need to know. it's just
one thing. god. pick a higher power, and you are cured.
you make friends. you hold beliefs

which hold you like a mother
holding you back.

i obscure all the sky behind the clouds like fictions
that my eyes follow but feel somewhere else. i'm the same as them,
but uncomfortable and adamant about it. clearly,
i do not have cancer. if i did, i'd have a little humility. shame. shame.

real life is sweating on a hot day and smelling as much as
the others do in their real lives
covering it up if it seems necessary; if it alerts me.

feel. hark.
remember me. hear about real life as i decide it.
real life is having cancer but smiling through it. laugh a little.
make friends. be a saint. win awards.
real life is being involved in talents i have, willingly
bowing down to them. serpents winning saints and saints
winning serpents. they eat each other up
and never shut-up about it. real life is also knowing about my battles,

being so brave throughout the whole of it.
but bravery is not a feeling. it's something people see
in fictional people- we, the people made from paper.
where would we be
without our battles? would we be? we simply

would not settle. we'd sit at our empty dinner plates, banging
on the table with our forks and our knives.
more food, more food, more food. we'd yell at our mothers.
real life is about chewing and swallowing food and liking it.
sometimes you can taste it.

real life sometimes does have to have cancer. it multiplies. it wants

real life is all about that brave smile.
real life.

there's not much to it.
just be real and not stop to confront the reality of it.


goodnight moon, often howling a
blue-ish color. are
the gods laughing at us? is that

what i hear, or is it
the fan in the neighboring room? is there
a difference?
i've lost my other voice-angels

who would tell me the truth; keep me in line.

i let you know, moon, how i
feel about lint and shit, incapable of much
other than getting in the way of things.

i talk to you all night, moon, my therapist.
as you say, this
is a place without judgement.

i am not feeling well, moon. be a crescent
now. cradle me. i've drowned. i am a garden
of mushrooms.

hear me speak, moon.
hear therein my hypnotizing you.
this speech is something beautiful, blink. blink.

this speech will serve well for me
during my next life.
this speech will get me somewhere.
off to sleep with your medicine dreams. from here on,

it is up to you. know. dream.

my fists clench in cold sweat. the squeamish mind
sorts out
what i decide is confusing. some sort of nightmarish
labyrinthine painting. i always

get lost in these things. the gods are laughing.
i get lost no matter what. that is my thing.

enter, i see the rising sun, i greet it. hello, asshole.
are you going to stay stubborn in your sky
or will you fall

as stars do? all of them, but you? you don't have roots.
do you feel
pressured yet? is this

procrastination of yours my
responsibility to see you through? i really must

repeat to you
"don't leave me; you have a job to do"?

if it is true that you have a heart
to worm through, forgive me
for my cruelties.
i hadn't known.
the sake of humanity! the sake of humanity!

what about them?

the people shrink with their blah-blah. they want
to be onto something at all times, as if
they were born with claws,
the moment they realize they've escaped indifference.

something about you, sun, spits on them. something
about us
spits on one another. it keeps us together.

realistically, sun, you're getting old.
i watch you between the trees, bending

their branches. i see you being violent to yourself.
oh there you are moon, you say
during the day, to my friend i care about.

my life is as palpable as yours
and the people are beginning to get that, you say
to my friend the moon.

you continue: i share
the spotlight with no other celestial body.

you order the moon:
you. you be a triangle- the primary red, yellow,
and blue- a spectrum of
the conscious head. i've stared at it too long.

it's boring.
it has expands past that chalkboard of
einstein's, imposing itself to teach itself

through the spit of the people
they spit on one another.

the atlas is astronomical. fascinated, i forget it
and it is deplorable.

i forget it. think deeply, i say to me- some other star

not as romantic as its milky counterpart
is in there.

from its central park bench with its birdseed
it speaks.

if things ever take shape
you better catch up with them
before they polish themselves
into solid things
because they become stubborn
when they reach a mastery.

i refuse to look back at this as something special.
something about indifference certainly excites me.

holding it in.

you give yourself to a ship

would you be okay
if i brought cargo with us

along for our trip
and the cargo was i-

not daughter of the moon
not daughter of the sun

-but daughter of the eye

or do you believe
i'm only a shade of red, clinging to a pair of lips
that do not exist
i seduced you with bullshit, perhaps
an aphrodisiac
perhaps sadness, as it seems
beautiful at first
anything else but sadness

you know
nothing can be so irritating to me
but all those things

yet i identify
with all those things

perhaps i should shower my body
close the window, and the curtain
close the door
and lock it as well

and observe what i am thinking about

it all goes back
to what i am thinking about

Saturday, June 13, 2015

for sale.

i know
this could all very well be a dream, and everything
in the dream represents me- a parade of elephants.

wise and kind- would never hurt a fly.
mind over matter.

i know
i could very well be  me being five, wondering
if this is all a dream.

no, honey. this is really happening.
mind over matter.

i think
i'm an oscillating string of mind-activity-
kinda like domestic violence-
kinda like prison rape-
the inhibitory and the excitatory
keeping each other cuffed to

bedposts, calling each other
ugly-fucking secrets, refusing

to reveal them to the
light of day, refusing
to ever even introduce one another

to their respective families.

they are kept this way
for so long, in fact,
that there comes a point that it doesn't seem that bad.

it seems okay. the clinical
and the intuitive
are supposed to fuck each other like mad.

they complement like peanut butter
and jelly.
and i lean away, uninterested

in the shadows of truth- that
whole riddle

and its confounding appearances. past

the sphinx-
who, by the way, could go fuck her homicidal self-
that bitch left me all legless-
never had to crawl to
some mark in life

that gave you reassurance
that lasted more than a half a second
that was something you could grasp onto, remember.

you sit everywhere
trying to figure out riddles
until you're bored shitless, knowing somehow
that a lot of these experiences

are actually totally by-products of denial.

i wonder
if you betray the sphinx lady, does it matter
if it it is all the
same self in the same dream?
is it all about being five years old

asking the questions
a five year old asks? i understand.

i'm not five
and all i do is say shit.


is a very biological defense,

god, god, in everything, god, see, see
see, see- another
does not




baseball bat



Friday, June 12, 2015

upon investigating familiarities.

time travel is released through me. it wasn't ready
but it likes to fail, because
you learn the most by failing. in a cannon,
with a single-pointed beak- it directs

its weight upward. magic.

look at that one star out there- it's very
bright, it must be kidding me. it's probably


and so i
travel through time- travelling
through me-

leafing through pages, saying hello

to the ghost of the past and now and what's to be, in between
growing roots without noticing
and being
nothing more or less than a spine, and its

zillions of vertebrae. halfway down a long-road-

both itself and myself sizzle-
easily, we are confused
for rattle snakes.

it's a red sunset. it is red because it is bloodied.

i know it's nice and miserable other places. but

i had to say goodbye
to all that. to the sand, to the beach. to the calming

folk songs about the way shit
used to be, and how it still exists

if you just say no to the new shit.

i discovered the old, laid eggs there and
buried them thereafter. paid
my dues

and made it out without being caught
or fucked with.

i made it out alive. now i'm over it, because

i was in love with that story
and i already know that it's so quaint to
be in love.
however, being in love
feels a bit like being afraid of dying; being

the dirt; having
a hard time nourishing the earth.

isn't it true, isn't it true
that the ground is not always established? it's always trying
to sneak up on me
with spooky ghost stories, bullshit

about the burial grounds of the indigenous
which i mowed the fuck over with my gentrifying caucasian ass.

that ground we step into the territory of
continues to be eroded. i know this: always seeing
streams of water
being embodied on the floor of the planet, i never consider

they could be anywhere else. they could be in the sky,
they could be in the dresser draws.
they could be in my pet dog's dreams,
they could be in mine. (that's when i piss the bed.)

they could be in my body. they are
in my body. they are my body. it's just that, deep down inside,

there is an oven. it's for blood
to simmer in a pan like olive oil, ready

for the next step. throw into it. but no. we will
not go there. this will stay

the way it is- a surface to
have fun with friction on. i know about friction:

i see it between me and every other person.

but hey. i am going to heaven one day:
i am loyal to my values. i wouldn't trade what drives them

for anything. if wishes came true, and i wished
i wasn't so sensitive anymore,
i'd be so lost, and blind, and deaf, and dumb, and i'd wish

one more time, this time to be sensitive,
so i can have the stuff i care about back.

do whatever you're into. but for myself, selling
my soul to the devil is totally
out of the question.

are you drooping your blossomed, fragrant
head, morning glory?

wake up. rise and shine
because i'm not ready to get over you

like a stump in the woods nobody else notices
but parks their asses upon all the time. perhaps
that is what this is about,

and you are my stump, and i am the stump

to many others
and life is all about playing hopscotch with all these
giving-tree tree-stumps, except
it's more like russian roulette, so we can get the hang

of grieving
before the time we die. we must prepare. life

is legendary. it's rumored

life is in paradise somewhere with other lives
rumored to be those of the dead

but if you believe- really, really believe- that there's a chance
conspiracies can be

then life is ripe and totally a berry whose juice
is pink. life

is paradise except you learn from it.

open letter to medicare.

dude your treatment toward me is totally discriminatory. as if i can't tell people are wondering why the fuck someone under the age of sixty-something is on medicare when i hand them my insurance "card". i just have to deal with your shit on top of it.
listen up. i may be hooked to government money just so i can say "haha my life is easier than yours" to people with real jobs, and also so i can lay on my ass eating pringles all day playing video games, but i'm also a responsible and productive member of man/woman/other kind. i pay all of my bills, out-of-pocket expenses, and co-payments on time. yet you continue to send me mail containing pages upon pages of wasted paper/claims you reject for reasons that i'm pretty sure a computer came up with. because now that every person alive now suffers from computer dependency, i totally know you're not throwing darts at random ideas to tell people why people "may be billed" large sums of money by numerous providers. yes, being a professional patient with more than one disability is totally fun. yes, i love seeing doctors so often that "SEEING DOCTORS ALL THE TIME" makes me fucking sick and is probably a disability in itself. but then, i get mail from medicare, telling me my karma is fucked for now due to my luxurious lifestyle, reminding me i am a waste of space that just sees doctors all the goddamn time. and that you, medicare, aren't going to pay shit. you know that you're just jealous, right?
i blame you, medicare, and your computers who clearly came up with the idea of mankind, for my daily hope to god that i don't receive mail. and when i do, my heart races, and i say "oh boy, here we go". i also blame you for cancer, aids, war, and everything black-hearted and shitty. i'm totally putting coal in your next christmas stocking. or canadian geese shit. (not that we ever did the stocking thing before in my upbringing.)
i actually even blame you for hell, and you probably birthed lucifer and placed him in heaven because you're so fucking disorganized.

sincerely, peach.
ps. you're fucking retarded and i'm tired of your shit. although i'm grateful to live in a country where i'm granted healthcare that's only ~$105.00 a month, you seriously piss me off sometimes...when you act like big brother or whatever. i'm so unhappy i need you as badly as i do.
i don't see anything wrong with nudity
i don't see anything wrong with nudity on sacred mountains
i don't see anything wrong with cultural ignorance
i don't see anything wrong with sacred mountains
i don't see anything wrong with superstitions
i don't see anything wrong with listening to cultural ignorance
i don't see anything wrong with imposing cultural ignorance on cultural ignorance
i don't see anything wrong with blaming deadly earthquakes on nude people
i don't see anything wrong with herd mentalities
i don't see anything wrong with grieving
i don't see anything wrong

i am a sacred mountain

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

as basically copied word for word from an actual text.

despite my oft sensible choices in life i still have a fucking headache [that's clearly going to try to kill me any minute now, and i did the thing i do where i dismissed my auras as 'just me being stupid' as fucking usual], and i'm pretty sure this migraine thing is something i will eventually give the same buddhistic regard [to] as i do with the rest of my [oft ignored] logic, [like you're supposed to] with [all] parts of life you [feel like are all about] learn[ing] to deal with- but NOT THIS ONE QUITE YET. [because i have to develop patience, which will happen after i deal with this god-fugly perfectionist problem that i inherited from my grandmother and her mother whose visage i bear an eerily uncanny resemblance to, and she also suffered from the grammatically fucked up condition called "chronic migraine", as if it just is always there but sometimes dormant, waiting to strike whenever, and i really feel the perfectionist thing has everything to do with being the source of my chronic migraine i has thing. [i mean, come on, i cut a fucking sentence on my thigh and i hate it because the "handwriting" is not only un-stunning, but it's completely sloppy, like serial killer handwriting. I WAS BLEEDING, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW. I KEEP WISHING IT WAS OKAY TO CUT SO I COULD JUST FIX IT. i'm really glad i didn't stab myself with india ink this time, because that would be more apparent and way more annoying to explain to whoever sees my thigh and actually asks why i have "THE EYE WOULD PREFER TO LOOK AWAY" tattooed to my poor unfortunate skin. over a scar, they'd probably assume i was an angsty teenager with a penchant for linguistics.]

i don't hope your phone explodes diarrhea or anything, but my texts are long, languid and devastatingly articulate by default, and could never pass as tweets. and this one is off the radar due to surviving my newest claim to fame: holding the guinness book of world records award for "LONGEST PSYCH-RELATED INTAKE EVER....furthermore, i didn't even cry, because that's exactly all my anti-depressant seems to do- SUPPRESS TEARS.....and furthermore, the guy giving the intake was like my age and exactly fucking like me.

by the way, my brother is exploding the diarrhea for you right now, complete with post-diarrhea moan. now a sigh. lol. be glad it isn't you.]


(okay two actual texts)

DUDE i'm being dead serious- MTV PRESENTS: THE GREAT GATSBY, PART TWO. WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK [zelda fitzgerald is still alive!?!?!?!?!? that must be really hard for her.]

monkey mating song.

that is one dangerous hike, while on
a winding trail, which you
wind up
giving up on. if ever you wanted to

up, you've sure as hell

got that in the bag now.

have a seat.
open your mind. your mind is a zoo. see
the animals? they are hungry. neglect to

feed them. leave the zoo. leave
the friendly animal friends for dead-
because you don't want to go home.

you'd prefer to sit on a mountain and look
at the other mountains. look

at the sunset. look at the sun rise.

the poet's lyre. forget the poet's lute. it is time

to remember home.
you're out of money. you cannot
acquire more fruit- the sunny sugar-

thing of the earth- that taught man how to
love it- the goddess of fertility. you're out of fruit, as well as
toothpaste, gas, laundry detergent. you're out of gold.
you're totally fucking out of it.

go home, because you're sad about life. leave home
because you find yourself bored. a part of you

will always go back home and leave home, the betrayal
executed with a steak knife-

like how you're going to miss me- when you leave me for dead-

when i'm drunk- and you started it- first
on a bench, then

on a subway train, felt up by the cops

reverberating the slap of a billy stick side to side.

you ought to miss me as you leave me for dead.
we better miss each other

when we're both fucking dead.

the electrician.

i can't believe you- really?- i mean, you're
reading a gossip magazine. ----
----------------i can't believe you

don't know me, don't know
me by now- the shock- the pull of the shock
the kite and the lightning, the

defibrillator. who is that next person in orgasm, in it

for a quick fix- ?- ??- ???- (is this fire ?- if this

is fire, then do not put it out. it drives me
to new places.

with vague knowledge of how
to successfully execute some crimes (you know,

going black market
is the most lucrative way to go about life, these days)

like how to killkillkill-
all you've got to do- is pour

draino- thick-honey draino- into
the bathtub- with

the body in it-
i went for it. what ever would

the people say about it? and the families. i just
wonder so much about the families.

alas some murders
never leave. the possibility of life

in prison

does not escape
a single body
within me- you're born with your mind. it's true

you do
have that at first

then, strikes the needle to the balloon, at once
your plans for the future burst.

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

split ends.

"not to get a restraining order" it's all my fault. i'd like to believe it's not actually happening. this is too weird. i don't want to deal with cops anyway. it's not nearly a big deal as it's made out to be in the movies. i'm fucked up anyway. i can't trust my perception so this probably isn't happening. i like the attention probably whether i tell myself i don't or not. unbridled attention? unbridled joy.

-----and you ask me questions that
oppose one another-

very strong yes and very strong no
to all the yes or no questions.

is all about
no-------------------i beg of you to beg of me.
----------------------on my tippy-toes, i creep
----------------------at night. with your throat
----------------------near mine, you hold a knife.
----------------------i beg of you to beg of me, oh,
----------------------do hold me tight.
------------------------------------------i deserved it. i dressed like
------------------------------------------however i dressed.
------------------------------------------clearly, i wanted it.
------------------------------------------fishing for compliments? unbridled joy
------------------------------------------when my mating call is returned.
------------------------------------------and you ask me- and it breaks and molds-
------------------------------------------oppose one another- fight- know
------------------------------------------about the possibility
------------------------------------------of one another.

moonlight sonata.

if you want to make it, you have to realize a couple of things. you have to really fucking think about some shit. the first thing you need to get out of the way is that "making", "it", and i failed to mention that ever elusive "they" are all the same thing. and they're all control freaks.
they're whatever relates to everything else- not like brothers and sisters, but like really sly and cunning networkers. it's subject to change, for it wears many masks.

by the way, money is always involved. money kisses you. just speaking from personal experience, it's clear to me money is totally chemical and was a test-tube baby. it's also a sloppy kisser. and sloppy kisses are not based on the spiritual idealisms you were brought up with- you know, spiritual idealisms- the climate that affects emotional growth and it's as loud as a fucking dishwasher? that. it does not balance your parasympathetic and sympathetic systems, which is a realistic goal to reach for in life...

...but anyway, all those sloppy kisses and transparent intimacy money gives you means nothing to money as money buries you alive. the whole time.

in short, money is a total fucking sociopath.


in order to make it in the world, you need some reason that has scientific evidence to back up its plausibility. the first thing you learn to make is legs, arms...eyelids. toes. nipples. teeth. ouchies! all reaching out and bending and twisting because space permits that.


it's often said it's the little things in life that make meaning. i personally get it, seeing how neurons, trees, people, god, nebulas, galaxies all share an uncanny resemblance to one another. we're all universes of one another.

learning how to make babies is not important. (that's why "they" teach you about the reproductive system in fifth grade.)
learning how to make babies with the person that is totally the wrong choice for you, in the sense that the "little things" they do completely piss you off, is the next step. they fill some voids, sure, but they piss the fuck off of whatever in life has nothing to do with voids. you can kiss your fantasy of your sympathetic and parasympathetic systems peacefully working their shit out together goodbye. you already abandoned them, anyway. and you can forget about further goals, such as pushing your ego into your unconscious mind.
so like at this point, when we realize we made a mistake making babies after having babies, we regress into total baby-dom ourselves. we are a world composed of one element, one element not in our blindspot, but holy shit, how we wish it was there. there is no name for this element. it's probably "god", considering we're all god which is so powerful that it's beyond human capacity to be beyond human capacity.
i know, however, there is no scientific evidence to this. i'm just a dirty hippie trying to convert you.

i just fucked 1977.

punk rock is like "sasquatch" which is really some wolverine in the sense that it simply will not die.

i just skull-fucked the living shit out of a window pane.

end of grammatical structure.

(copyright yoko ono 1977, except asianer.)

i just fucked misti rainwater-lites' "awesome playlist" on youtube.

honest to marbles, this isn't unusual. (i'm still fucking it, but i didn't want to break the theme of repeated grammatical structure that i've got going on for me in life. lol self-depricating)

i just fucked the living shit out of someone with an uncircumsised penis in public.

done it plenty of times before. people seem to shame uncircumcised penises, and i don't really get it. if anything, why the hell are you chopping your babies foreskin off? oh, it's cultural? okay, i respect that.

j/k ("respect" was also invented by hallmark.)

i just had sex with mr hanky as a ghost, who resembled a condom.

so i was going to use a condom, but because he resembled a condom so much, it seemed useless- like putting two condoms on at once. (and if you ever read teen magazines- do they still make those since phones?- you learn that it is, indeed, pointless.)

i just had sex with some fucktard.

although i carry condoms, i haven't used them on this spree yet.

i just had sex with my father to contradict myself concerning the point of incest being a non-laughing matter.


i just had sex with michael jackson.

not bad.

i just had sex with jim bob duggar.

i'm not caught up with the gossip. don't get me wrong, i like celebrity shockeroonies as much as the next guy. however, molestation is no laughing matter. furthermore, incest is even more so a non-laughing matter.

i'm being dead fucking serious as a practicing non-denominational non-christian who was about to call themselves a christian to put the cherry on the pie. dead as fucking elvis, tupac, and michael jackson.

i just had sex.

that was so beautiful. i never want to think about anything else ever again.


by a guy and a guy that walked into a bar and nothing was fucking funny about it:

my resentments visited me last night. resentments always come in the form of an unreliable person i know i cannot count on from the long-lost past- which no longer exists. they drove to me because shit was hitting the fan in their lives and they needed someone to help them out, as i was fucking up my own life by screwing up other peoples lives but making it out to be their faults.

and i kept losing track of resentment-girl. so i said, you know what, fuck resentment-girl, until the next time they drive back. and they kept doing that. then disappearing.

there is one singular memory i totally forgot about it until yesterday. and i was like, "whooooaaaaa, total blast from the past." it's something seriously indignant about itself- which shows what a do-gooder i am at heart, because if morals were universal which would be really scary, i would probably be acquitted immediately. it's just the weight of carrying around a secret that's awful.
the secret: *seducing and kissing a guy i didn't even like while i was dating someone* (who i, at the time, still believed was perfect and celestial). this act of "cheating" might as well have been cheating on an algebra exam or cheating at a game of cards.
while we're at it, at that point in my life, i actually seduced several dudes just because i could, without discrimination, as i personally slurped myself into a downward spiral, dreaming incessantly of curly straws.
i've done a lot of that- so much, in fact, that *these days* confessing that no, i DON'T rub alcohol on open wounds after i cut myself in spite of the possibility of staph infections, or that i smoked weed once in the past month or something, is a really big deal, even if i know i will always continue healing.
when i was younger, i didn't believe in the process of healing. so everything way pretty surface-deep. my relationships with people, especially, were treated as if superficial. you can always tell a relationship is surface-deep when you liken it to the montagues and capulets.

within the first few appointments of seeing my now long-term psychologist, i said something to the effect- if not exactly this: "i want therapy from now on to be like a complete fucking confession." which it has been- the more i learned i am capable of trusting her [said psychologist]. my psychologist has been the one constant source of non-absurdity in my life. my sanctuary.
when i had said that i wanted to confess shit- at the time, because i felt like a horrible person in a transistional period, trying to make up for everything- i realize now it was because secrets are burdens and that sucks.
this one secret- about seducing and kissing a guy i didn't even like while i was dating my former abuser to whom i was hopelessly devoted- was the first thing i wanted to get off my chest. (which i still i haven't told her, because i forgot it until yesterday, and honestly she would probably shrug at this rate.)
and it happened in a psych ward. a really small, stupid one, where they wouldn't let you wander back and forth in the very short hallway, because that's just *such a weird thing to do*. my assigned psychiatrist was a dickhead that laughed at me. he told me he believed i was only there because i snuck my way in to see what kind of pills i could get (which there will always be a hint of truth to, of course- but i mean, WTF?), and it's very obious to him i have fucking munchausen syndrome...
...which could possibly be the least sensitive thing anyone has ever said to me in my life.

i don't know where the munchausen thing came into play, unless i'm just the most dramatic and underrated actor of all time. like, of all time. i had come into the hospital a disaster. a few days prior, i had seen my father for what would be the last time. at one point, i overdosed on anti-histamines, just to see what would happen. (that's the problem with impulse.) i even pissed myself several times without noticing. i pissed myself in my sleep, in bed with two other people. my piss was not only on myself but two other people.
all i wanted to do was sleep. i punched and kicked several holes in the walls of my bedroom, screamed a lot, did not know why, did it in public as well as during my time in the comfort of my own home. very plainly, an entity from the spirit world was working very hard trying to intervene in my life and tell me whatever it was that i did not want to know- so it strangled the shit out of me, as a last resort. ultimately, everything i was doing, except when i told my dad to go to hell and kicked him out of my house, seemed to be a really terrible decision.
after crying for days, if not weeks, if not MONTHS, except when asleep- my mother brought me to the hospital. the psychiatrist told me while laughing that it is clear to him that all of this was self sabotage because i'm addicted to attention, and particularly in the safety of hospitals.

these words never left my fucking head. and during that time, i seduced and slipped the tongue to a guy that fell in love with me. after *he* was released, he called my house several times reciting poetry about me to my mother. i insisted on pretending this didn't happen, nothing ever happened.

that was the condition i was in when i went into that hospital: fucking up and having something to show for it.

i went home shortly after my stay there. i did not feel right. i felt even worse; definitely out of control.

and i continue to feel this out-of-control sensation- not being in it, or near a storm, or that i hear thunder in the distance- but i AM earthquakes, tornados, other disasters- in the sense that it's bound to happen, i have always been this way. but i refuse to be this way passively any longer. i can seduce guys all day long and make sure nothing is to become of it, but passivity is what is unacceptable to me. i am not driven by the same things anymore. i am nature because i am nature.

Monday, June 8, 2015

just add water.

antibodies- i compare the narrow hallway- of this, this..."mixed episode" business
to claustrophobia. i hear people say that "mixed episodes" are

just the fucking worst, THEY HATE THEM. and i'm like, wow, is my
condition that undesirable?
well watch me sail and watch me walk and watch me wander. i do it all
better than anyone. i have to. it is a means of survival.

and one day
because i've learned so much that i've exploded after seeing the light- which is to say
that i've learned i don't need to learn anything anymore,
my old self is going to be so jealous of my new self,

which is an edamame bean.

the truth is, i started doing drugs in college, just like everyone else.
that was a lie. i didn't go through the rites of that typical college experience, although i wish i did sometimes, because it seems pretty fucking well-adjusted to me, and an appropriate time to do lsd and whatever else is on the table. also, i consider college an exception to the "a drug is a drug" rule, because college is just too fucking weird of a drug to me. there is only one weirder drug: wall street, and therein cocaine.
the truth is...people who snuff drugs wind up with holes in their noses. and it happens right away because cocaine is a great teacher of the lesson about how humans are endangered- basically due to their own karma. 
i have seen these hole-y noses, when my friends would press the bottoms of their noses back, with their thumbs, and with the other hand, hold a lighter in front of their nostrils, so i could examine FUCKING HOLES EATING AWAY AT THE INSIDES OF MY FRIENDS NOSES AND PROBABLY THEIR BRAINS.

the truth is....i'm too cool for school.
the truth is, although i am too cool for school, especially homework, i tried school twice. 
01: i backed out after three weeks, although i played hookey several times already. i was eighteen and it was a shitty fashion program that was one room at the local community college. i went because i felt pressured to go to school during my senior year of high school.
during my trial at the program, i felt so stressed out and detached and fucked for life because of this god awful decision i made, that i self sabotaged and stopped taking my medications i was prescribed at the time, cold turkey. (which were risperidone, and lexapro). i eventually told my mother "i couldn't find the pill bottles" in my teenager-mess, and started taking the meds again. proceeded to focus on other stuff, and never looked back at the fashion-program mess.
02: after my suicide attempt i felt with urgency that i owed it to everyone (if you ever attempt suicide, you find out people love you or just don't want you to go and stuff) except myself that i make up for trying to kill myself by doing everything it took to make my life meaningful in that very standard way. such as signing up and spending over one thousand dollars one a non-metriculating summer class on art history.
although i passed with an A, and i probably would've gotten at LEAST anything but a failing grade because my professor was so clearly either demented or stoned on um omg ykw idk lol, and i found myself very passionate about art history which i still don't shutup about, i was still demented myself. so i broke the fuck down due to obsessive-compulsiveness, winning hardcore gold-metal at the "doing everything fucking possible to be the purest form of perfect" olympics, withdrawing from benzodiazapines, migraines, recovering from one eating disorder, not admitting a lot of things to myself, and overcoming that i just tried to fucking kill myself, on top of my usual out of control mental shits. 
i also could NOT stop being astounded at how everyone else i saw at the campus seemed to normalize this lifestyle. amazing. i got lost each time i tried to locate the counseling building, with a map in my hands, and i did not make friends or anything like that.
i broke down. really bad.

eventually i would like to go back to school, but like, not without accepting myself a lot more before doing it. because this seems to be my utmost struggle.

(i would say "but like, not at the risk of bombing the fuck out of what sanity i have", but i don't believe in insanity anymore. how IN SANITY can a person get? sounds comfortable. if i believe that something is happening than that TOTALLY IS my experience...anyway, since reality is relative, you know. and if i'm going to call someone "insane", i'm clearly declining the opportunity to analyze their psychology, because i'm busy judging them and embarassing myself in front of god.

....the truth is i am an oxygen tank.

the truth is the bass guitar is an instrument used to broadcast quantum mechanics, melodically.

the truth is my hopesanddreams to take in an older, emotionally wounded orphan, and do what i can to attend to their needs and tailor my life to the benefit of their well-being- one day, when i feel a little better about myself and everything- was inspired. i ripped it off of my friend and her friend who both expressed to one another that that's what they wanted to do.

hopes and dreams, and apologizies, and regrets, and reasons, and omg almost everything were invented by fucking hallmark to GENTRIFY. hallmark is an ancient civilization used to invent money and use it to make paper airplanes, and to abuse the fuck out of the very obvious exactitude of discernment to make people have jobs and hate each other. (but not to make them miserable, which is the next part- that's just a reprecussion of this particular absurdity of life.) i mean, even reality doesn't exist outside of our own so-called perceptions.

as far as dreams go, you know damn well what a dream REALLy is. it's when you are spying under the bathroom stalls to make sure the people you know are doing whatever they would typically do in a bathroom [stall], NOT working out plans on how they are going to fuck up your life and you're just making sure they're not doing that.

and you see penises and get pee on you and stuff and the bathroom is gross.

waking up seeming okay.

sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet-daffodils, daffodils,
i've come back from the dead, that
anal-retentive thing i was going through-
and the airline has lost my luggage, but i

am totally okay with that. today, i am a buddhist.

love, i adore you-

i dispossess you. no longer am i going
to hold you captive, and call you mine, healed
butterfly -
you, on the window sill, go

to where you are propelled. go. go. go. go.
i cheer you forth. go.
i adore you is why. and do not die for love, thus

ossifying love into an object- don't
prove me to be an ego-to-ego
longing. don't

perpetuate the vicious cycle
unless you don't know this is what you're doing.

this is man's worst tragedy.
don't listen to me- telling you what- to do-
unless you feel compelled to. do- whatever it is-
that you want- unless you don't

want to.
light- gives birth- to

other beams of light- anyway-


do you have car insurance? do you pay for it every month? do you wish
you had a lower amount of money you had to give to pay for car insurance?
get the car insurance you deserve!
call the car insurance helpline now! it's free!

our main news today:

tiny open mouth, afford. i need to get stoned. bring me
fruit, seedy seedy
fruit. i'd like to prosper-

when i say prosper, i mean
feast on unadulterated happiness- maybe
have a baby, maybe be set free-

at that- at that? at that?

shame on you. applause.
there is a gun to your head. you're so attached to your head
that you applause

even when it isn't a spectacular moment
worthy of applause
according to your head, which is both

great and terrible.

shame on you. you are totally suffering
from blowing the bigwigs

and you blind yourself in the cool, velvet-black cloak
that denial sheds its skin of

onto his receptors- your reaction
because it's just the darkest thing ever.

not that it captivates you.
it's more like it had itself in you, was always there-

lurking, like a responsibility
unattended to-

pissed off sharks that may or may not eat you.

my expressions join each other
without love.
it's a line-up in jail. these are

mug shots i speak of, you know. and

even in mug shots
my proportion is off. legs look

like hay-rides and torsos are developed
with tits dripping milk. face

is way more familiar than usual.
joy to the world. i'm gentrifying this shit-hole

and totally afraid

all the other people getting mug shots
are going to hate me for it.
"i was born into it," i want to say, but everything

we've been wanting to say to each other
has been indirect-

we read each others minds, sizing
each other up.

'you know you're totally composed of pure genius, pure
light,' i imagine myself the revolutionary

on the fucking-stupid soapbox, 'but we judge
each other.

stop it.'

"gurrrrduh, you're so naive." they'd all say to me.

who stole whose station wagon?
whose illegitimate child happened to be in
the backseat of whose stolen

station wagon?
who crashed into whose station wagon while
under the influence of DUI, who gasped and sped off

into the horizon feeling totally awful afterward?
who flew out of the sky in some other station wagon
and took all these people under their wings

being deceivingly grandmotherly
until they bonded in the face of tragedy
digging their way

out of station wagon hell? canada, dumbass.

i continue to escape to canada as i go along, not manipulating
the destination.

i am the traffic.

nobody can make you happy
except yourself, which is canada, because i'm changing my
fucking name to "canada".

nobody can love you
if you don't love yourself. isn't that fucking awful??????

no, no, do not react strongly- do not bleed-
bleeding is not allowed----you bleed? are you not high on life?

stay strong. i know
you can do this because i believe in you. your heart will totally go on.

Thursday, June 4, 2015

reach out and fuck me.

*personal update***********************
*i'm being serious**********************
i'm being***deadseri**8ous**************

i know i recently told myself here that my mommy thinks i'm doing well. my mommy now thinks i'm not doing well and she cancelled her trip that she didn't want to go on anyway because she worries about me ET AL.

the binge and the purge.

alas, alas- "it is- formative," so they say- as if
a fact- as if not a conviction. nature

doesn't know the difference- forgive it, my
many-lunged- not hungry but still searching-
little one-
out, out you go- whatever would you do-
if the people saw you weep
on the streets?"- i wept on the streets-
there was nothing to replace words with-
other than- the breathing- which i've grown
from a sense of gratitude for-
though it was never there-
they don't raise us like that here-
us free-range-
us crazy-
we are so fucking brave- to drop

this being-
homeless- in a city alleyway- i face today-

what it had all led to. the
leper man- once drank. now- has he
a taste- only for meat- as if- a very scary
hammerhead shark-he's in it
for the thrill:
he casts spells- for meat- seduces for meat-
works jobs for meat- works the streets
for meat- would kill for meat.
with a belly- is the best meat of all- nay, do not crown it. not yet.

will settle- for less- will explore-
slurping meat- choking on meat- defying meat- controlling
meat- burying meat- recovery from meat-
remission from meat- feeling empty and like life
is meaningless and worthless without meat-

do not taste the meat. you might like it. i bet
you like it.-
i am a leper because of meat. you start off

suckling a breast. within
eight weeks- you are cut off

before you believe you are ready- always fooled-
as we do not even know
what ready means-

(moving past burden)- that heart

is torn from the lungs
as both are torn from the breast
which is torn from the lips.
?things are apart and you look.
?you're not supposed to love meat, but you do.
?i bet you don't even treat your meat good.
?you call your meat bad meat,
?you call it daddies little masturbating girl
?tossed from the fridge-
?then- thinking
?perhaps a misgiving
!perhaps a nefarious misgiving
!unacceptable meat- shamemeat-guiltmeat
!what's the difference between shame and guilt meat-
!"perhaps i should turn my life around?"
!gee, the good old days
!all whitewashed and full of shit
!sure have a lot of sentimental value
!and as we all know
!sentiment totally distracts absolutely everyone
!and anyone who is anyone
!is bitter about the present day in age
!if anyone is home
!never shut-up about them good old days
!!!!!you think you've got death row, think you've
got prison, and you think you've got cancer and it's
really painful because you're not all trim and neat; not
on top of your shit- until you meet someone who
has learned from their mistakes;
with a big grin- toothpaste commercial;
these people who've been through that hell but
don't talk about it- them

with big-time spirituality going on.
idmeat-stupidmeat-stupidmeat, i'm un
able to taste you but i cannot resist you
and i resent that.

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

ode to explaining.

my life was taken- it was a breath slowly
knocked out of me- like it

was the soul itself- guess it was all that i knew.
several blinks. several more blinks.
these surroundings! i visit

this incarnation of gravity- of loss-
several times a day-

i am braided along with it-
i've never tried going a day
without inviting it-

it's because i feel ashamed,
it's because i feel guilty:

everything is ugly- everything
is dripping thickly toward the earth- 
my hands are limp. let? let.

i will never be learned of again, not this time.
i believe in it this time.

"And when, abruptly,
the god put out his hand to stop her, saying,
with sorrow in his voice: He has turned around —,
she could not understand, and softly answered


the water tastes like chlorine. i know
pain has it in for me today. it rains outside. something
against me- i press
my hands against those inner-thighs- an act of 

frantic control-wish - this is called "hope"-

like something romantic and gentle, something
pre-raphaelite only i can see

aside from my invisible audience.  in all light
which is simple light-

the invisible audience
keeps me going. at night- i usually sleep
as it embarrasses me that they keep me going-
i go to sleep to forget it. i do dream-

yes, yes, o, me -but anyway- you think i'm perfect-


Monday, June 1, 2015

a single sky.

oh, the waves- waves of the ocean- waves of sound-
heatwave- waves
that taste like the salty sea- which is
the ocean- oh,
the spiral, in the sky- in the shells- the spiral
i draw with my eyes- and the eye-
it keeps its sight- envisions- flips out- needs
a nightlight-
and the star- the heart- the helix- ellipse-
square- circle- triangle- rectangle- and
the snow, and the ice, and the coat, the

coat's lining- and the summer- the sun- the spring-
the things i have to do- the fall- which

is the poetic season- the leaves
fall without bitching- i hear it's fun when you go back

to square one- as either a straight- or
a squiggled line again-

and you are small- small- small- weight
of a leaf from the fall

the sons and daughters.

new york entertainment- i read
the newspaper today-

soon, you won't have to leave your house
to see anymore, to see


the unborn chill awaits.

you can always learn to
stumble around- like how
the rest of us do- clumsy humans, clumsy

believing in the necessity
of knowing-
two trees wake up because they hear a sound. they
open their eyes with dreamless alertness and find out

the sound came from a bike vroom-vrooming within sight. the
two tall and old trees watch
the monk move past them.

peeping tom one, peeping tom two-

between trees, there isn't a difference between right and wrong- "all
bullshit to me," they say- nor
is there ever heard of the ability
to discern- between trees, or
in heaven.
also in heaven and to trees, we are all of the colors
at once. the color
of all the colors at once is the color "pink".
and another thing- to trees and in heaven, there is no need to worry
about what time is- unless it
is proven to be beneficial for your well-being, but you can still

always be late. (if you want to.) in heaven, to trees.
perhaps to trees they are in heaven. perhaps
between trees is heaven, where

if death happens we say goodbye to the past- but mean it-
and lightning is fun to look at.
spending money is no longer an emotionally miscalculated math. in fact,
there isn't money anymore.
in heaven,

it is confirmed that what is all is indeed
a spiritual experience

and that the universe is as faceted as humans feel
they are themselves- which of course
we do-
the sons and daughters of the stars, after all.

the entertainment of new york city sure means a lot
to me.

milky broken rainbow.

in the opal castle- is a tribunal-
a court- stones in the wind- and

also in my mind.
the tribunal finds me to be guilty-

and i am open- to the possibility
of anything-
so very well may i be guilty

of an act that wasn't
soft to humanity.

i am cuffed, walking slowly-
down a long hallway-

it is narrow-
it is narrow- and too a blurrier light-

the further i walk down- and upon
facing- the end,
it's a mouthful-
i start coughing, coughing, coughing.

from the bottom of the ocean- where rest
was given to me-
i float upward- upward- loosening
my heaving skirt's

of rocks- i float upward- i float
upward- angelically-
and things- are always- worth seeing


mother, mother, listen-
to earth- the planet that is a garden-
if sins are fruit
they are nourishing-

feel free to raise them- feel free-
to fulfill- that belly-
feel free to raise trees- and show them-
let them be-

feel free- to let them go into
the world- feel free, feel free
to open them to discussion

morning star.

the morning is proud of day- the morning
is proud of rain- the morning is proud of
the night and proud
of everything- that's why she is my star.

she plays the recorder near, she plays
the recorder far-

she became my star. entangled between
one another's fates and our histories,
without any room for in-betweens,

that's how morning star and i became
and are to forever be.

on the highway.

i hope that going around the globe will make my life complete.
i hope that carrying mountains around
in balancing acts
will make my life complete.

i know how to cook, and i know
how to wash- for a half of a second, life

seems complete-

maybe i've already developed- completely- and
am preparing- for a true ending-

maybe i'll never stop developing-like in a dream-
when i am little- i start the car- and it speeds down
the street-

and i cannot stop it- i cannot
stop driving- so i scream, too.

in certain ways- i'm sure that appearances- are all that
continue to
exist- and are fully formed-

can you see yourself dying- can you
see yourself
being attacked by a werewolf? don't you know
it happened? no? you don't even

remember something
from not that many moons ago? my friend,

more or less, you've done this before- it's
high time we
scrape off the paint of the faces
of every house we ever met- back

into the womb- and further and further
backward- back

into being trees from the past lives- to
the beginning- the conception of time-

two thousand years ago- and furthermore,
to the start of a perceived start-
the golden egg-

the golden egg we spent all of our lives-
trying to figure out- rather than

insisting on saying "maybe it's just fucking cool."

can you see yourself admitting- the most difficult
lesson- is to learn from the most painful
experiences- ?-

you don't have to bow down- you don't
have to do anything- but listen
to corners of the universe- the ones that

incite courage- because you feel compelled
to live- the corners of the universe-
that aren't out to get you- nor do you judge-
that they are judging you.

you'll only learn so much- so much- so
very much-

all alone sometimes gets me thinking.
i feel all alone easily-