Monday, August 31, 2015

the kind of dead that's so alive
that it's wanted. access to admiration

remains a restriction
solely for others- for the self, the effort

remains either unconscious and incapable of escape
or just plain weak. christ isn't home. christ sacrificed for everyone

except you. if only they all knew

how death is the only solid matter.
and also, if they knew, you

are, in spite of yourself, leading
only yourself on.

the mantis blending in the orchid
waiting to kill- even he

would say you only do it in cowardice, you know, though
you kill all the time.

you seem to lack confidence, he'd say next.
you're all alone and fighting

for hopelessness. this tattoo

doesn't have permission to be anywhere.

western body.

disbelief holds still, suspended
in mid-air, in front of people. the crowd goes wild.

(this is the story of the showgirl's lifestyle.)

it's the closest they will

get to know a stranger
whose story they've already fabricated. they like it.
the voice of our generation

is spoon-fed. it will air on television, after

it sucked
as a movie. as a movie it was earth and you had to pay attention

to know what you were doing. it was turned into

either a portal of hell, or hell itself. but definitely,
somebody here

is the anti-christ (protection
against reality, which is clearly
a nightmare).
and anything not for it is totally medieval

and probably didn't have enough of a
tortured upbringing. suppose

this borderline society is an offering of my soul,
the thing that happens

to be there; the only thing not damned.

although i'm not connected
to anything, i still have memories

to inspire my dreams.

i remember once walking into this produce store.
it has since
gone out of business. aligned along the right wall of

this establishment were

varying herbs you could use to relieve yourself
from aches and pains.

i recognized the names of all of them...yes, they

rang bells, however, i couldn't remember
what any of them were for. not a single damned
herb. knowledge is an earth-thing-

it has never stuck to me
not even when i like it, only when it's stupid shit,
even though i'm not stupid. but anyway,

this day, particularly,
it hurt.

when i arrived home
after this anxiety attack in a public place, i looked up
everything ever
in my encyclopedia of herbology and pressured myself

into remembering it all; into staying connected
to whatever there was to learn. there
wasn't much i remembered after this military-effort
at studying.

over time, you expect to get used to this kind of thing.
you expect relief. it has only proceeded

to hurt more. i'm beginning to sort of turn grey though- i mean,
i'm getting a little jaded. so being hurt
is becoming okay. it's like totally blah, but

it's okay.

the skin-trap ossifying; old fossils roam, along with
the smell of burning hair
and
the smell of burning plastic. a forever-deal. this is grief defined,

the sum
of its stages, played by the rules-
which one must not ever

ever

acknowledge
is an awful lot of pressure. and if you fuck up,

and miss a step, it's because you suck,

clumsy behind a knife in the
observable universe, and the

avoidance of such.

walls.
walls offer paper thin discernment. take them. they're free,

symptom relief.

what it is i desire most, when i reflect on it, is for an angel to watch over me- but to also be an angel. partly, i am kept alive driven by this desire.
it's not that i'm not interested in "trying" at life. i want to feel better. this is my cheerleader statement for myself i validate. i totally do want to feel better. but i've got devil issues.
i need patience. my head is dizzy. i don't understand most of my own minds language, or that which it "externalizes". i don't want to hear the interpretations of most people, nor do i want to interpret the world- merely, i'd like to find a translator for my own. i might not trust them. whatever trust is.
so whenever i experience an intervening sensation- something that has a language- i thank it, and document it. this is my job. it is a real job. it is a means of survival. there is evidence: i am alive. and there is the future, founded on evidence, but fully invested in everything aside from evidence.
let it be forever. it means a lot to me.

Sunday, August 30, 2015

the song that keeps me going without falling apart midway.

previous level of functioning.

i suppose waking up every day is
better than death. we can give this a try and pretend

yesterday never happened, is what
we all say

when we wake up
every day. it's practically

my alarm clock. i love it so much.

i'm sure people not being in front of me at all times is
better than death- i'm sure, i remind myself,

they are around, out there- in the world. it's me really
who is hiding. they are there.

i'm sure not even trying to trust reality is
better than death. i've

only seen the sun rise a few times but sometimes
maybe

i'd rather it not.
i'm not alone, just the only one

around.

and i'm sure my room getting messy is
better than death. it's just a

case of the fuck-its, as i

like to call it. it takes a lot of effort but i still
shower whenever

and eat whenever
and paint whenever

whether it comes to me or not, it's
ultimately up to me

and i reassure these reminders that i will
come around. i'll come around; i always do.

frog and toad and the sensible human being with better feelings.

two frogs are in a backyard in a little suburban town. let's name this little
suburban town something weird

that i've heard in phone commercials before. we'll name it massapequa.
the two frogs are both named jeremiah. they're getting to know each

other slowly, which is great, but it's taking fucking forever.

ribbit, one says.
ribbit, the other replies, fifteen minutes later.

the woman whose backyard this is is in her house trying to sleep. she can't,
because she's fixated on the frogs not hurrying the fuck up

with their alien process. after this last round of shared "ribbits", she thinks

she might finally achieve some rest. but no...

ribbit, is what the other frog replies to the other one, five minutes later.

ribbit, age/sex/location?
ribbit, single white female.

ribbit? oh, yes? may i buy you a drink?
ribbit. sure. let's sleep together.

ribbit.
ribbit.

they've been on opposing sides of the restless woman's coy pond. they're getting
a few stones closer to one another.

ribbit.






ribbit.


that's boring.




oh. oh. i'm convincing you this orgasm is real.



oh. oh. i don't care whether or not your orgasm is real.


ribbit. i expect you'd like some tea?

ribbit. just beer and my guitar. weed. tv.

ribbit. okay, dear. i'll be over here restraining myself from calling you daddy. it's too soon! much too soon!

ribbit. i'm popping the question.

ribbit. i'm pregnant so this is great!

ribbit. i figured. happens to the best of us.

ribbit. yes! yes! but you must vow to eat parsley twice daily!

ribbit. i'll google that later.

ribbit!

ribbit!

the woman inside can't believe frogs fall for this bullshit. she opens her bedroom window facing the backyard in which they've been taking up precious space. she opens it

with haste. her head pops out.

ribbit! a cat burglar!

ribbit! no- a person with sensibilities!

FUCK ALREADY AND MAKE A MOVE ON IT! she screams until she bleeds.

the two frogs divorce and leave their tadpoles, which, i'm sure you figured, happened. they developed little legs and stuff. i'm sure they'll be fine. everyone goes through the grieving process, which is predictable. the tadpoles become little whores with one another but decompose soon after. a life of issues developed too early is a ruined life.

"fuck you mom and dad," were their last words before they all spread little amphibian aids to one another and died.
irrevocable empty-place- all else a hideout from
it, no matter how scary.
(that is, except, the fear of "what" one
really "is".) safety words don't exist.
(they do when a man and his lover take

the concept of the soul out on one other).
even existence doesn't exist.

and the depth of it goes on forever, but is an

illusion- so no, even
"stop" doesn't exist. at varying points

during the day we think, "co-exist! co-exist

with yourself
and all the other shit!" but no- 

the end-of-the-day hypothesis
is the one thing that counts ("is this
schizophrenia? i know, it's stupid that i care"), accompanied

by attempts of communication- all,

barely disguised cries for help: usually capricious

bastardizing which seems bold and fun
during the present state

of consciousness (might exist). the escape from this truth

is
a
sore
loser
and
an
asshole;

the sole character trait
identified with. the a-ha moment- brilliant, gleaming. i

fuck him all day, in the backseat

of a car in mid daylight, without protection,
without a safety word (thus without conceptualized
love), without mercy, without stopping

until death in ecstasy. it's pretty straightforward

that i am not his flower, and he is not my honey bee.

no narcissism allowed;
no pretense. i don't want a big house.

i don't want a bed of roses. i

am not into good memories, nor
hopes for the future- nor do i
wish to give up on gaining up on them. what it is

is we are hunters. i am after eating my own heart,

then throwing it up on the silver screen, and saying "there".
in the script, i don't die from this. rather, i'm
re-born; puke-aversion all bye-bye.

"i am bulimic again," beloved born-again, at long last, cries the toxins
that are supposed to expel themselves
when one cries

until clouds form beneath
on a day when i can't interpret them.

but the tears are tears of fucking joy. happily ever after we are, because
at last
a suitable

life story. i hunted and got it.

Saturday, August 29, 2015

gothfuckers, inc.

sometimes i wonder if i'm a metaphor but for what i'm not sure- something to be forgotten. a lot of frantic, devout effort has been put into filling the voids. once my insulation is removed, i have no desire but the urge to fill said "voids". i seem unable to lose myself in anything except this act alone. and if i am to lose myself, i mustn't part from my sense of guilt. it must eat me painfully and slowly.
loneliness is a really deep hole. there probably is no bottom to it...perhaps it's just a loose particle of anti-matter floating astray in deep space. but it's who i am and all i care about. i want to co-exist with it, and peacefully- really, i do. but at the same time, i don't. this is my blindness. and being blind doesn't go away. there is no matter to it.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

tears cave in.

daydreams of mud: cheap commerce, i see
no use in protest....
everyone is into cultivating habits. it's okay if i am, too.

it's called having a plague, and flopping about in it, like i'm
caught in a fucking gadfly infestation.

some guy is watching. his legs are apart. i'm looking up at him.
he is twenty-five years older and rich.
he makes me wear pigtails.
the plague i'm flopping about in is a sandbox

which is proportionate to my size. we enable the need for
attention, acknowledging it. there's

always something being thought of. that mind

is dirty, always
on the hunt for fulfilling needs, desires, or weighing the use
of one over the other. perception

is lazy- on the sidelines, watching change happen. prey-drive
is important, though. critically important.

i defend my wounds. my tourniquets
are handmade. it's pretty cool. i do not want my wounds

to be tended to any other way-

i do not want to regress- furthermore,
be left hanging in the middle

of a regression. now what? adolescence
again? tear gas controls the crowd- views become

ostensible cultural
impositions. we mold into the cookie-cutter shapes
real easily. did i notice, sweet grandchild? no. i didn't even notice.

it's all about angle.

I. PHYSICAL THERAPY

however many stages of life:
you learn how to crip walk before you surf punk. babies never skip crip walking. they just don't.
then, for approximately eight years, you develop grandma hearing. following this, for the lion's share of your adult life, your dancing is offbeat. that's cool, i like it. it turns me on. afterward is when you sit on a porch and talk about all the many times your physical embodiment contributed to the creation of a weird song...

...during which, one day, rage filled to my eyes when i heard this one say, "some [air plants] look pretty generic." consider i'm the earth mother and i'm on fire as is. i have aloe on for now to soothe the burn, but i need my five hundred dollar cruelty-free oatmeal exfoliant back in my life. [texts from mom: "is it a rash? are you sure it's not a rash???"]

just rage pure rage filled to my eyes.

it had been a bad day; a bad weekend. whatever bad is. (all i know is that at many points in our lives, things seem pretty "bad" to us and they seek us out too much.) i was just shrinking and bursting at once, you know? sunday morning, i don't remember what happened, except yelling at myself for not convalescing "enough", probably, knowing myself. sunday afternoon, my brother's smelly work-shoe was in the middle of the living room.
i kicked it with my bad foot, muttered something that didn't offer catharsis (which my brother mimicked), muttered something more direct that also didn't offer catharsis (which my brother again mimicked), then went after him with my poor, skeletal little fists that didn't know how to go after a guy that's a thousand times the size of me, until he sat on me because i wouldn't stop attacking him. and i screamed rape a lot while under the gravity of his stupid and probably disgusting asshole. that is, until my mother came running into the house, saw this, told him to get up and told me to stop. the behavior was inappropriate.

i crawled to my bedroom sobbing, feeling yes violated but also exiled from my family somehow, screaming DON'T TOUCH ME every time my mother gave me an encouraging kick.

it's on and off, but as a rule of thumb i don't like to be touched.
plants wilted everywhere that day. my spider plant who hangs over my bed and ruthlessly reflects the heft of my depression- but only to me- seemed particularly saddened. i perhaps trimmed her brown parts, checked her soil's moisture, and continued believing i need to re-pot her, though i totally don't.

i attended formal physical therapy. i really liked being complimented on my beautiful form, and the surprise expressed by the physical therapists when i told them that i never have, in fact, practiced ballet.

i stopped going.

the last time i went, i was imperfect at a new exercise at first until my last few "reps". being perfect is top priority for me.
after i finished (with a perfect fucking ten scoring in my horrific mind), i giggled nervously, then proceeded to sob while politely ask my physical therapist if i may use the bathroom, please. i then hurried off with composure, like the disgruntled ballerina i became to myself while at physical therapy, curled up in the corner of the bathroom, cried hardcore, washed my face and came out smiling, pretending nothing happened and that they totally weren't talking about what the fuck was wrong with me while i was in the bathroom.

and never looked back.


II. FUTURE OF THE SPACE OCCUPYING THE SACRIFICIAL WOMB

i don't care much about you- i saw
a radiant light-

i believe that ought to be discussed-
i believe that ought to be discussed- it is

important to me. it is important to me- there's a snake

slithering around my hips. i don't know his sex.
i am not scared.

nine months later i flower a hellraiser. i'm talking to the cops about it...they're into it. their wives stories are so different from the mythical fantasies of their wildest dreams. although- having wild dreams is a result of several genomic functions, as well as a regular intake of an anti-depressant medication- not "being imaginative". nobody knows what that is. god doesn't even bother mentioning it in the bible, i'm sure.
and as far as writing the wives of cops off as having stories that are nothing like the mythical stories of their wildest dreams, i have no idea. the truth is, i vacuum more than any of them, all of them put together, and every person that doesn't shut the fuck up about the "good ol' days". *and* i vacuum with baking soda because i want my house (which isn't even mine) to smell clean. i clean like the june cleavers of the good ol' days and i fucking like it.

something about cops, or perhaps about their authority or whatever, might always get me wondering...are they upset because they don't know what they're doing but they're trained to know what they're doing? must be rough. control tricks us into believing we're in control. control is faceless, so it could get us to do that- we never recognize it is always controlling us. we don't have control over much, obviously.
i want to know: do married men like their wives? do their wives like them? are they just into that whole being together forever thing- like, they like the idea of having a person? co-dependency? were they just in it to have a wedding and say they had a wedding once?
i have a teddy bear named george. i named him after george h. bush when i was real little. he lets me do anything to him because he doesn't really have any rights, but i pretend he does when i hug him for dear life. i make sure he's comfortable and near me. i make sure he falls asleep in my arms at night, on my bed, where i envision myself as a sleeping beauty woman. all primped and ready for prom. all date raped. (a really weak fuck giving itself inside me by a really weak fuck).

III. THE APPLE OF KIM GORDON'S EYES.

dear kim gordon, and everyone ever, take everything that belongs to me. obviously, you're fucking starving. maybe you don't even know it.
my everything is for the everyworld. my hard work belongs to itself alone. i like sharing.
a lot of you disappoint me. i know it's none of my business. but like, i just want to put it out there that putting on an indifferent front is not enough for me to like your work. it's crumpled paper fueled by an indifferent front. that's not a lot of fuel.

so if half-assing is what's going to be cool about art in this world, i'm going to continue to just say "no" every damned time someone asks me to sell my paintings. no, dammit. just no.

unless changes are made in the outside world, it's going to continue to not be my thing.

IV. MICROCOSM-DEPENDENCY.

let's face it. we're totally in a cloud.

the NSA may be watching over you, but so are their arch enemies- the tooth fairy & co.:

i turned one real thing [x] into a role suited for my play-pretend world. i love x.
i love this thing [y] for the same reason....no. i love x and y and z, too, because they make me laugh, they make me feel ticklish inside, they give me stuff....as they say, if you can only come up with reasons all about yourself concerning why you love another, then you don't really love your "other". you're othering. so resort like so: "they make me hot. they make it past my cervical wall. i'm not at that point when i know only i can make myself hot is the thing, inspired or not. for now, they replace myself. they fill the voids. i need it. i feel great about myself when fucking them." so? yeah no, i obviously don't know what love *feels* like, though i've tried convincing myself over and over again that i do. who hasn't? of course i'm going to try to find love. life is shit without it. of course i wind up resorting to explaining myself and sucking at it big-time instead.

real girls, heroes they are, don't cum- in some ways, they're monk-like. nor do real girls spell come like "cum". for them, it's "reach coitus", "climax", "escalate", "ORGASM" and so forth. real girls aren't in junior high school with their cum and their disintegrated toilet paper suffocating their clitorises anymore, unlike me. real girls don't keep up with what's going on in the world and dispel their activist-y assertions of it on the net, they watch the news and keep it tucked in their garter belts. they want to know what's going on in the world and that's that. they're into noticing subtleties and effortlessly maintaining "sanity", without questioning whether sanity exists or not- it's all about training the mind to convince itself it's totally okay. "train your brain," a-holes will say- the real girls don't have to. they've already got that going on.
sex is a defense; an escapism. real girls don't use the internet, do drugs; don't self-medicate with music, nor do they care what others think of them. it's not important to them- they're tough. they are perfectly fine with life. for them, there's nothing to escape.

full sunlight. watering, twice weekly. with all due respect, overriding misleading directions; gauging their own ways. seeing the double, triple, or however many they wish a rainbow to be.
you, real girls, are the only girls around who i will never silently compete with. for you are the saints- punk, the religious experience, will never be dead to you. a gun will be held to your head. "do you believe in punk?" the gunman will say. "yes," you'll look him dead in his eyes, regretting he's about to kill a real girl, "though i stopped trying to grasp at its meaning for some time. i stood back and just allowed it to be."
branch of the government, you have some soul searching to do-
but only if you ask me
others may disagree

you make me want to drink coffee around you
and that's the only thing i want to do
i feel like a piece of fresh shit
i feel like i don't care enough

my head hurts the sky hurts it weighs down on my head
the back of my neck is sore
from all the pills i took for my head

i want to go to bed i tell you so but you don't care
you go off on a tangent about laws concerning bed

"no BJs in this state no anal either
i'd have it neither in every state," you say
if you had it your way

let's send you to a culturally shocking part of the world
and either kill you or give you PTSD, you say
let's not attend to your needs
get off your butt and deserve like me

i like to play gold
i like to wear serial killer sneakers as i play golf
i like to wear shirts with alligator logos on them
i like to wear visors
i like grass to be fake

Monday, August 24, 2015

death of the cool.

it was time to face the separation- the separation of the hook in the eye; of the beliefs and my attachments to them. the ego considers this uproarious and stands up for itself- the sun growing to absorb the solar system, all the things i have imagined but disconnected from...allow the sun its hunger. i am either incapacitated or discombobulated because beliefs confuse me but i have them. my beliefs are invested in reality, and this awareness is the closest i'll get to them.

my beliefs will not rescue me, and i am still a source of light without them.

i. POST.

...i don't want to be alone with life ever again. i need those beliefs to accompany me- i need to assert them; to apply them to my life.
today i woke up. i felt great exhaustion and pain, and continue to. i ate cereal, laid down on the couch, accomplished a few small goals, sprinkled baking soda over my shag and then laid down on my bed. i "popped" my PRN downer that i've been treating less like a PRN and more like a regular dreamy drug, so i could sleep. i masturbated in my bed, but i hated it. i feel like a bad person with unresolved problems when i masturbate. the thought of sexual abuse- did it or did it not happen? it did not happen- attends to itself, bringing my attention to it in my head. additionally, i am angry that i cannot focus on my fantasies. i hate these stupid pornographic fantasies. i might as well be a sex worker, so it seems. i already feel like a whore about myself- branding myself, unable to distinguish what's my private life and what are the performances....i think i am trying to separate my sense of self from my performances, which i am far more intimate with then my privacies. it is sad. feeling like a prostitute to take care of oneself is sad. i might as well jack off to myself being murdered and liking it.
sometimes, masturbating helps me sleep.
i have not been able to sleep yet though because i am so afraid of missing my appointment with my therapist hours and hours from now. i've only missed a handful appointments, due to migraines, but called ahead of time to cancel. in therapy....

ii. MADONNA TAKES OVER AND DANCES.

i sow many seeds that one could easily romanticize. i don't know how to describe how i feel in therapy because i've never really taken the time to describe it before. i can say i dislike how i feel. i dislike how i look at myself, i dislike how i think. this is normal for me, but it intensifies. i hate therapy.
"am i malingering?" i need a lot of reassurance about this. "are you sure i'm not just malingering?
"have i disappointed you? are you sure i'm not disappointing you?"

i never believe my therapist. i believe she is judging me. the core of my persona- the hidden content- i believe fully reveals itself in therapy. this is who i really "am". fearing of judgement, awkward, awkward-voiced, stealing of personalities, plagiarizing of the words others have used, pretentious, fake-voiced, judgmental, mean and rude and manipulative, and i look like a sickly rat. a little thing. insecure. always hiding something, no matter how little, no matter what it is i do reveal- which is often a lot. a shrinking violet.

i leave therapy, agitated and freaking the fuck out.

iii.

....i'll say, "i'm not sure i know how to love." is the preconception of love another cultural imposition, one we open our arms to the invasion of....or am i just writing it off? i know what we are all composed of- pure light- is love. the real love. are we too far removed?
i imagine this will be thwarted. obviously, love is relevant. however, it is still an inchoate concept- a fixation. i'm voracious for searching for the mr right in every man i meet. ...it's for my well-being. it must be attended to. this i know is past the point of being a concept. is this the stuff that kills me, makes me small? am i blaming my smallness, my killed parts on my suffering?

yes, suffering is clearly alive. it has been since the beginning of the multiverse. it has steadied itself- perhaps the only source of energy that has found purpose.
we search throughout suffering as it permeates every atom in the air- which i can see (they are all quite social), and sometimes taste the smells and feel the prickly songs of. i can interrupt every reverie to be with this humbling constant- to submit myself. submitting to its power, grieving over the loss of my own illusory willfulness...this is survivor's guilt. i feel less humbled by suffering and more guilty for suffering.
survivor's guilt has an impregnated perfume...the spell of weight. it is with survivor's guilt i learn that i do not know where i live, that survival expires, what i do not care about weighs as much as what i do care about- which is much less. damned if i do and damned if i don't, exhausted, facing repercussions of the immobility of guilt. little do i know that there is an end to guilt. little do i know there is a point where i can easily drift into knowing what love feels like without meaning to- even while pressed under the weight of the guilt. i cannot accept it until i separate myself from the guilt. i cannot love. such a cost exists.

life is all about fairness. oh, come on....sex and jobs and going to school do not equate fairness; "fair economy". selling your stuff, showering everyday, being unhappy with the heat of the summer and the cold during the winter time is not fairness. wanting to be well when you're sick and not holding gratitude for wellness is not fairness. craving but not knowing what for is not fairness.
purity is fairness. and i am pure, perhaps inchoate and out of contact. the birth is difficult. but it is a process i am involved in.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

search party.

the strange man
who looked at the sun and wondered about a past he had
never believed he had? it was his sun, and this sun

was his past. a long time ago:

lured from a sanctuary, holding the hand
of a stranger from a subway train. obviously, this could be about
you, me, or anyone. it is about king arthur.

the stranger from the subway shot the strange man with
poisonous darts, then dragged his head from the scene and ran.

the strange man's bodies decomposed into its
skeletal frame within hours. he wondered
if this was because it was in the sun. his great roar searched
and searched for his head so he could eat the sun.
because he was blind
and falling apart into gelatinous inkiness, his giant strides

killed everyone in his path. he did not care. he did not
believe in anything other than tension anymore-

deceits. eventually he was caught and put down
with a special recipe kept in a special place, reserved
for if this were to ever happen.

his head was never found. it was believed it was sold
on the black market trade with the goods of the
many cheap bodies of
trafficked girls, and political protesters buried in hills. their

fates all seemed to be...mangy. like it could be
that way one day- like mine and like yours.

the buying and selling of these goods were
useful for filling the mysterious and unaccepted voids of mean people
who were used to helping structure their
makeshift economical systems. otherwise, they only suffered

from information overload, money, and the hearts on their sleeves. well,
i guess that's a lot of suffering, though, suffering

cannot be measured- it is suffering, nevertheless. however,
there is no justice.
it remains unclear who is responsible for justice.

i may not have found my own justice, either, or have even
learned to justify without feeling like my intentions were
ignoble in the first place- my fate is mangy. but i'm still going to love this earth.

io.

talk invites me to listen to it, so i interact
with it, melting into it.
silence, too, invites me

to listen to it, but it doesn't seem to exist,

so i move somehow else- my body feeling lame.

now is the time when i invite myself to listen to
whatever comes to mind. china

comes to mind. i know it is there- i know its silence well,
i know it's on
the opposing pole of the world. kills me

i haven't gotten there yet. no
directions to it that make sense really have been

invented yet. a reiteration to myself- i once

was lost, and continue to be lost- earth-mother
looking to give.

china scares the shit out of me. longing for it,

it wants something from me- everything always wants
something- but
i didn't know what it was it wanted. something

that wasn't money, sex, acceptance, entertaining....

it doesn't even seem to exist, after all.

i had enough of the china shit; had enough of wondering, panicking,
and feeling shitty. plans

were being pieced together.
i refuse to let china acquiesce loneliness, though, nevertheless,
you already have- and you cannot

be saved by another soul from it, only unsucked
from your own black hole-

loneliness is a star that'll die soon after

you sell your soul to it, and
leave you hanging. loneliness is a fury.

even if its your own blood on your hands, its blood
all the same.

you must get away from being lonely.

you must take what it is you need for your hive.
one day, it'll all fall into place, and the sky

will reflect more than broken-mirror sensibilities-.

that day will be when
my blindfold will be taken off. the tail

will be no place near the donkey, which i'm sure
must be so fucking embarrassing, but
i might like

being able to see, anyway. as is, there's too much fucking dew
under my feet. they feel like

pin-prickling. i'm too in touch

with all of my senses disorganizing themselves.

there's only one thing left to do. what is it, sir? may
i sleep? no, little one. of course not. you must dig to china,

show up, and let china happen to you.

find out if this is a rescue mission or a fairy tale.
this black forest

is up to you.

just write a poem about it or something.


assholes in every cloud. every cloud resembles an asshole spreading itself wide open
for elimination. well fucking eliminate, assholes.

Friday, August 21, 2015

imhotep.

fragmented and re-arranging in formation.
stars wandering, from star to star-

sir, how long before we die? how long before
we conceive meaning for life? my womb

is pure scar-tissue, baby. i'll birth you a military fuck-up.

one day, i looked forward to the day. i was to see a new doctor.
a dog came to me that morning. i followed him through a suffocating, mud-dripping tunnel under the trees with a candlestick. nice dog. at the end of the tunnel, before an apparent light, i pet him on the head and ate him.

the new doctor was one of the smartest people i'd ever met, as well as one of the warmest. perhaps because of these traits, i didn't trust my perception of him. i figured it was an uncontrollably upsetting, father-fixated matter of transference. daddy? tear
the hem of my good-person dress and call it out on its bullshit. tell me what anarchy is, really. i want to please you.

it had been right before my entering the tunnel, after the decomposition of a former life whose memories still
held weight, that i had begun rekindling my very obvious interest in "being pleasing". for some time before the tunnel, i had given all of that (as if it were my heart) to an abuser- because i was
convinced his abuse was love, i was convinced- and still am a little bit- that he never abused me;
never laid a finger on me. only i would know. (he's dead).
the truth is i think the abuser liked me at first, but it changed. i hadn't wanted it to, so i denied it. i began to lose significant amounts of weight in sporadic intervals, because i became more and more ashamed of having an appetite. i've gotten better, but this still happens to me every time i eat.
throughout my being pleasing to the abuser, i froze- less like a deer in headlights, which was
how i had been before, but more like i took my astronaut helmet off in space, just to be
willful.

i was halfway naive, but halfway running away from life and disguising it.
naivety is one of my favorite defenses. it's a pathology, almost. it makes a person appear
entirely ignorant of not only their own misgivings, but the misgivings of their relationships
with the world. people whose number one defense is naivety are very sad looking cute people.
i really want to let them know they're great, but i don't want my own naivety to surface. i
understand pride is something worth balancing, that is, if you have pride. i personally
think i'm both prideful and lacking entirely of pride.

within our fragmented, broken-hearted culture in our fragmented, broken-hearted world,
such is possible. anything is possible these days. a fragmented, broken-hearted
upbringing is the most possible thing of all.

the abuser had dumped me over the phone because i finally stood up for myself, kind of...
the night before i called him out on his problem with heroin upsetting me, his behavior
changing since he started abusing it again, and how i felt our relationship had been
overridden by his obsession with heroin. i didn't really know how to speak though,
particularly his language, so it didn't go well. he dumped me the next day- i
wouldn't let him and his drug buddy hot-wire my brother's car. afterward, i was
confused, relieved, and ashamed over my relief. it took a handful of weeks for the
grief to set in- the stab of betrayal to be felt. i think if i didn't ever feel it though, as
painful as it was, that i might have killed myself from the guilt over the grieflessness.

the new doctor asked me what my culture was. who has culture? culture has us and we
don't even recognize it. truly, we only recognize it through that which repels us, and one
must be quite perceptive to be mindful of such.

that which repels us within our cultures are reminders of unresolved, personal resentments;
that which doesn't end without an epic effort at a defeat. and then it goes on. it must go on-
resentments are incredibly gifted, omnipresent teachers. i'm still coming to terms with
this. for me, because of this, i think it's culture itself which i resent.

i was born of cultural ineptitude. my behavior has always been "inappropriate". i hate
being polite. i only do it to be pleasing.

i resent being compelled to be pleasing. it's an automatism- my number one
defense mechanism- my way of achieving discernment. it's very transparent.

there's nothing wrong with transparency really, except that there's nothing to signal, and
nothing to signal to me. one transparent is a walking ghost. you don't know what cause
you're sacrificing to, really. you don't know what it is you're trying to compensate for
so you wind up overcompensating.

i think i shook my head when the new doctor asked me about "my" culture. i think throughout
my first appointment with him, i shook my head to at least half of his inquiries. keep in mind,
i had just put my astronaut helmet back on. i had just begun adjusting to the intake of
oxygen again- and oxygen, at this point, was overwhelming on its own- as it usually
continues to be.
i hardly wanted to be known. i just wanted to get high and know other parts of myself
that i could keep secret.

"you have to teach me how to recover my memory," is all i really remember saying to him, aside from, "i've always been this way, i think. i think i've always been this way."

i continue to find new highs. they continue to be quick fixes that do not extend themselves-
you must go toward them with an uncertain conscience. it knows about its sense
of what is right and what is wrong, but it's also interfered by absolute amorality. it doesn't
give a fuck enough.

hunt of the pirates.






for a tulip head. : )



the "real or perceived" thing really freaks me out. here's your opportunity for your dialectical reasoning to be okay, but it freaks you out instead. how the hell am i supposed to know whether an experience is "real or perceived"? isn't reality relative? and isn't what is relative what is within my perceptive range?
my terrorizing thinking is my choice, my fault; i'm not doing anything to change it. my behavior is an expression of whatever my attitude is toward it during the moment. it doesn't feel like these are beliefs. it seems like they are answers. everything is terrifying. it has always been this way.
my feelings are deceptive. i get that.
i am afraid to see my psychiatrist because i don't want to reveal to him that i'm still disappointing. i am afraid to see my therapist because i don't want to reveal to her that i'm still disappointing. i am afraid to talk to people at all, though i mostly override it with "courage"...i act out on my agitation. i get pissed off. i get envious and very competitive.
in my life, i have experienced several devotions. it always feels like i'm fooling myself when mixing myself up with them, making mad attempts at diverting my attention, to gaslight myself, in a sense. it only hurts worse. at the end of the day, i think, all i want from life is to "self destruct".

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

EVERYONE COME TOGETHER AND SHOUT "WE'RE TOO GOOD FOR THE INTERNET!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

a precursor.

@NATASHAKHAN YOU'RE TOO GOOD FOR INSTAGRAM

a rose by any other name.

http://oddstuffmagazine.com/17-most-beautiful-jellyfish-species-on-earth.html

it hit me dreamcatchers are more jellyfish than they are dreamcatcher.

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

i keep learning phones are feds

10 gallon tank water has been dechlorinated. I'll need more bowls because there's too many fish at once and not enough nitrogen eating bacteria which is only generated by increasing the amount of fish gradually. I thinkin have more around the house. some of them are on icu status, but honestly if worse comes to worst for them i think dying with a sense of hope which i believe every little thing needs as it is a rule of natural survival is better than being dumped in the trash. and you know what's even funnier. is the dbt program i tried to get into before this, they rejected me, though it was decided by their team that dbt was would be beneficial to my well-being -and they wouldn't let me into the bipolar group, bc their opinion was that would NOT be beneficial. dbt would. they referred me to hofstra. and their opinion is the opposite. i hid in the closet for sometime. but first i scratched myself very barely with my scissors, oblivious to their faint rustiness. then stopped bc i noticed my device was fucking RUSTED.
then i locked my closet door. it occured to me that it's not that i want to die, but the idea of clawing onto a ledge everyday for a life seems useless. so i thought i'd suffocate myself by taking my clothes and stuffing them at the bottom of the door and upward at the sides. i forget why now, but i stopped, and got out of my closet. and am working myself out of this spot. on my own. as usual.
 not that i need intensive therapy or anything. watching a conference from charleston police. so what happened was terrible, but i don't think someone would intrude a bible study and shoot up the place just bc they're "a terrible person". unfortunately, when people commit heinous crimes like this, it's generally bc they think they're being attacked by external sources themselves. oooh river phoenix how bohemiany ;D dude i just went to my phone to announce to idk who that i totally had a dream i was on a space mission last night, and we were finally returning to earth, and it was my older sister and i like fifteen years ago, and we found out we never finished all these chores and fell back into our earthly habits immediately. t if you tilt your phone to the left, it's an anthropomorphic mohawked puffin discovering a starfish with this tiger-tailed coneheaded parasite on his back, riding him like how a three year old rides a mastiff, sticking his arm into the back of the puffin's head- THAT'S who is making a face at me : "kill yourself", but i'm certain it's because i think of suicide, even just from a philosophical vantage point (suicide poses a major discrepancy on philosophy). but when i get "kill yourself" to the tune of (e.g) britney spears in my head, i know that that isn't right, and i wonder about it objectively.  i'm sure it's quite deranged, just one of those things i wondered if i'm alone on or not river dreamer let yourself be a leaf on the stream the tremendously horizontal landscape and the flow will have you it is its own. :d that's interesting- what are your dreams like right now? it sounds mixed 'episode' like to me. me seem so fascinating. but, i don't have a former-self to compare myself to.
people can go through their whole lives without awareness of a present condition, mental or not. we all have something. the brain is a complicated machine!
what matters more is, what do we do when our conditions are ruining us? my psychiatrist refers to my personality as "psychodynamic", which is a many-spangled title- another way to say a lot of people are just born into the mentally ill life. we don't have a former-self to compare ourselves to.
people can go through their whole lives without awareness of a present condition, mental or not. we all have something. the brain is a complicated machine!
what matters more is, wh diablo is an attitude thing. fighting is proof of reasonlessness- why fight the conplications? i want to leaen what it is they've to signal. the complications are their own, paralleling our sense of selves, which are also their own thing. these are all beams of light. should a beam of light hit another beam of light, a reflection is that. jumping jehovah do i totally have there he is in the meadows one day as a wind passed him : D

somehow within my battered, anarchic ennui, in which i learn everything i experience is motivated to nurture that very "ennui", a sense of humility is kicking in. i am not anything i think i am, want to be, or need to be. my values are choking me because i cannot live up to them. i will never be empathic no matter how hard i strive. i'll always only be interested in appearing perfect, accordingly.
and today i lay down with my rage that i've already shut down from today, interested in conceiving the belief that life *is* a living hell. i forgive myself for laying down for hours. i feel halfway safe in my bedroom. i forgive myself for beginning many sentences with the word "i", not that i know what "i" even means. considering i don't experience in the first person.  i forgive myself for not attending to all the things i tried to not promise myself i was going to attend to today. my paranoia is being really weird.....it feels like everyone ever is attacking me from an unconscious place. and hypothetically, if they are, it's unconscious- henceforth, totally forgivable.
i thank myself for what i have given. even what i have held onto is a gift, you know...change is the sole constant. holding onto things forever is way illusory.

Monday, August 17, 2015

developmental psychology.

my peaceful love life, my
peaceful teddy bear, he without daydream left in him. i hadn't
nurtured his, only mine.

a force of habit is a rapist

is why you should just say no to your forces
of habit.

be cool, they'll say to you,

shit out your stuffing and shut the fuck up-
make room for my sustenance

but also
unconscious attacks of emotional attachments

turning the chipped sedimentary world back into a
super-continent,

one that's an ocean. one, that proves you were

a volcano after all these years. tree of the devil.
blessed anchor- it too has feelings.

job's warehouse.

the underdeveloped pink-heart- reckless, but not
ignorant. merely
ignoring friction.

memories of church haunt- haunt, haunt, haunt. it's the ghost
of the mantra:
i am a bad person. i am a bad person.

no man is winning. the woman
fails to get him to win. i have a good heart deep down,

but it's inaccessible to the surface-seekers.
the needy cunt, that which is delightfully indulgent
in orgasm-wish, is what's stealing

the whole damned show.

the seat of the spine is worthless
without a dick to keep it upright.

this really was somebodies home once. someone really was
subjected to living conditions like this.

happy new year.

************. ****88888888888888888. iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.

i do not like holidays or their full moons. i only like the wolves- of course,

i'm no where near them.
i do not like anything. i do not like contributing. sometimes,
you don't have to. i don't have to do anything.
i don't want to. i'm not going to,

asshole.

i do not
care for being a productive member of society. i do not

like the words "productive", "member", or "society". do i

look square as fuck?

do i look like my ass doesn't hurt? because it does.
my asshole itself
burns.
i could never get a hang

of how to do anything but burn.

i like to melt down. i like to do it
in unassuming places, where any sane bit of me left

is so sure the manager is "going to have to ask [me] to leave".
proceeding, i like to saunter to the

highway right there, and stare at it.
suck my dick. i am staring at that fucking highway,

and i'm thinking about running into it, arms
flailing and stuff. shitting my pants.

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii*ii*jiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii*********************i   i.

when you live on a desert island, you're allowed three things.
for me, one day, a genie appeared. oogey boogie surprise! said he. and, of a sudden,

my emotions were normal-people emotions.
i asked him
if he'd care to fuck. (not that i was horny; my womb was lonely). he realized this could be
constituted as sexual harassment, but i since it's been made clear
i don't believe in sanity or insanity, it's okay.
he let it pass.

what is it that you wish? well, of course, things to survive with.
i'd like a pair of scissors, instructions on how to use them, and a drill sergeant
to get me to read the instructions on how to use the scissors..

very well.

but it turned out i had matches leftover from the plane crash which
preceded this and i lit the instructions on fire.

the drill sergeant, of course, screamed his head off at me: you're not
allowed to have that! give me that! give me the scissors too!

but there was a dog too. firmly, i said 'come'. the dog came, and ate
the drill sergeant.

then it was just me, my dog, our weak memories, our scissors, and
our matches. we went to explore the forest beyond the shore.

pretty flowers were everywhere. one was the cure for leukemia. every flower
was a cure for something as pure as themselves.

one flower was
zeus' father trapped in a beautiful flower. thumbelina was inside

fucking him. she was zeus' mother.
i chose
to tolerate it. we mustn't ask for tolerance- we must choose tolerance

and
we must do whatever comes to mind
and violate our personal values

because people from other parts of the world are so ashamed and feel
guilty for stuff they can't help either but they have it

so much worse
than me. anything
in order to tolerate.

if there's a scent of something not being present,

bring them my falsities
and feed them these falsities.

disguise my demands in the form of little angel wings that seem pretty
to persuade them

and bring them to me with apples in their mouths.

i am all of the rainforest
and all of its cities being microscopic

at once, and i need help getting things for myself. your soul

will move on. it's your head. your mantis head

while we're mantis-fucking. give me your head
i'll get sick of myself while it's that which i feast on.

sucking.

i want to do things slowly. i want to get my point across
to my process, suggesting itself-

slug slime-
in the sweat is heat-

coming together, must see humanity in clouds
they, appendages of god, protecting solely eternity- the sole lover

and the thunder
is the punishment for devil worship

song birds hold tightly to teaching, songs
memorized, memorized incidentally

never to be grieved over.

listen up number one. these are all gifts. gifts
are the least translated offerings out there
but not an endangered species.
people like gifts all sorts of ways.

they often trump my values. i feel like a dick sucking away
at itself. i hope my dick falls off

because i feel bad about being spoiled by gifts.

it does not
make
a
difference

if

my life falls apart
or
not.

listen up number two. the oldest flower in the world

is the same age as all the children ever.

misfortune is an unheard-of concept
karma being anything
but a smack in the face about amorality
is also a new concept

you've got bad karma! bad! bad! you ought to be spanked,
whipped, and plagued by memories of fucked up
fantasies!

love is from the sky. not meat, but contributes
to it. meat
yelled timber
and broke every bone in its body. his unconscious mind

is being tricked into a parasitic, false fulfillment
to write itself

into a bullshit getaway car

Sunday, August 16, 2015

mother prays for me in the room next door.

when will i learn? i pray to anything
that crosses my way.

hey, you.
hey, you.
hey, you.
well
i'll say

whatever culture is
is what it is not-

we all romanticize
those parts in our minds

at least in my culture

that we carry around
like little doggies
in shopping carts

little pet secrets
that love you when they're naked
that love you when they sing the blues
that love you until they go to school
to learn to be
such a good little thinker

they look at you as they walk away
waving
and you cry and say goodbye

as you release them from the nest
remaining attached.

they go to school
to develop formations
of pet secrets of their own
counterdependent

against anything they've been taught.
they speak about it

when they fuck.

something about us all
will always remain in tune
with the hearts on our sleeves.

yes i will always be a mother
to someone else
who is also a mother
to someone else

vocabulary lesson.

stop.
19841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984
19841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984
19841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984
calling all hacktivists 19841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419
84198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419
today equates mission 1984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841
984198419841984198419841984 think 19841984198419841984198419841984198
41984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198
crime 198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198
198419841984 anonymity 1984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419
an anti-tragedy:
romeo, juliet? you've made it clear
you'll do what you must to get wh
at you want. what is it you need?
tinctures are expensive. guns are
expensive
life is expensive
death is cheap 1984198419841984198419841984198419841984198419841984198
we're sorry 198419841984 bellyfeel 198419841984 think from your conscious dre
am state 198419841984 taking space inside 1984198419841984198419841984198
empty breathless armchair 198419841984 we do not know any better 1984198419
suckered by duality, we
the money-people

are ignorant in our own defective way
as are you.

a sex worker
a crime

a luxury
a reconnaissance

months of hard work
for five cents

please
please

thirsty

water

second chance
third chance
fourth
five
sixth

just
another
chance

everything
is messed
the fuck
up

i can't even deal with it

sonogram, furnaces, wild hounds, wrongdoings

arrow

to the stars
to the stars

absorb light
porous dealer,

i will need you
to make the sky dark

and me a sun

in orbit, it's all wrong

hydrogen
nuclear
gas
elemental

submarine
solar
fire
streaks
soundless
body-forming
orbited
superb fire
thinkless

light
i need that

i'm being tailgated
my lights are out
i'm busted
i'm hungry
i'm dead in a jail cell
nobody knows why

please, water.
please, water.

in the desert
thirsty
thirsty

planet of steel
trying to join

the other solar bodies
the lovely sand babies
all unique
under a microscope

my feet are cold
on steel planet

arrow
arrow

cling to the stars
root a vine
form a shape
something

and
bring yourself back to me
learn courage

i will know
when you have
allow me to play:

i. gasoline tank
ii. dollhouse
iii. solitare
iiii. landmine
iiiii. tug of war
iiiiii. helium balloon
iiiiiii. make-believe
iiiiiiii. house
iiiiiiiii. dedicated surrogate mother
iiiiiiiiii. holy union
iiiiiiiiiii. christ's mary

dumped purse contents
where is
everything else

fucking each other? hallelujah.

let us eliminate the word rape from the akashic language
and let us all fuck each other however we please

all day long.

i'll make you sunny side up eggs.
you'll fix cars.

fire doesn't show.
fire only reveals feelings.

wild, wild, feelings. whipped stallions. my horse-legs
bleed. they fucked up. they surrender.
suddenly a leaf on my foot

an owl looking at me with "turn back now" eyes
sometimes when the guides don't

speak with my native tongue, i expect them

to eventually start to.
my native tongue is not my only one.

suddenly a spider under my skin
suddenly my teeth falling out
suddenly the calendar is supreme
suddenly dust collects and i'm only a body

suddenly
so suddenly, always quite so

suddenly
suddenly
movement continues
people ain't nice. people just bein' polite
to existence 'kuz that's how they get through in life.

under the river, concealed ugliness. god, i'm so
goddamned fucking in love with it. it's okay.

i hand it my fear.

what the river erodes
may not ever return

history,
but always
historical interpretations

Saturday, August 15, 2015

enormous mouth of never-ending ocean,
an undiscovered flower in the jungle

whose lips destroy themselves
they must

destroy themselves-

you must be first to do it, it said.

your son will die in the war
if you are not first

you've got to get yourself together, girl
and
do what it takes

to win your love back.

these are your abandonments. present them.
fit into place, into

the backward emotion

marry
your abandonments

undress,
dress.

fully cover body. shame. shame.
there is an anarchist devotion-
cactus-spine

and soon, you too....

the parasite
under your skin

it wants your tongue.
it's a pretty tongue.
say things.

be on top.
you look great.
sheep

count
backwards

sheep two
sheep one
sheep two

sheep backtrack
sheep
sheep

boo
hoo

boo fucking hoo.

sheep, sheep, i lost you. who were you, anyway? who? who?
what is forlorn

without hope? it isn't. it is one.

the suicide. the homicide.

you strike me
as a suicide bomb type of girl

five minutes of martyr afterlife
fame

this certainly, more so than
the type of girl
who weasels her way
around a rival's knife.

think forward. be forward-thinking.
the knife will do without you.

allow the knife to part you. so much
is expected of you.

be independent.

put down the knife.
the knife will make it through.

give the knife its space.

fool. fool.

fool one
fool two

fool
fool

who?
who?

ariel revisited.

two. of course there are two. if i've killed one man
i've killed two.
you do not do. neither of you do, you

of your similar variations of eye color-
the monochrome is a hazel-green, brimming

with i can't tell what. i don't know. i'm smuggling
the fear of the unknown

from my country to my other countries.

it sees so we can spend our time
doing other things. let us ask it:
what do you see? what is it that we see?

we make it bleed and hope it dies
in order to get our point across that we want to see
what it sees. today is the origin.

that's not good enough.

we

soar past the tall mature trees.
all the same color (confusing
the color of currency with lush plant life), morbid
death-dealers,

who are you? who are you?
shall i find you all unassuming
in a game of guess who?

this is my rifle, for what it's worth: fuck you. fuck you.
i'm sorry. so sorry for your loss, alma mater.
now go continue to be alma mater, without
explanations needed

to back up clause after clause.

envious thrill seeking snake-apple
for yourself and your limitations

against freedom alone. i don't picture

my future.
i picture my freedom. it speaks to me

through the you who is not me.

do deep breathing. plan propaganda. smell
the meat- the cute little eighteen year old

whose parents aren't made of national currency.
you be a soldier, be with the

blood on your hands. that i did not dare
infect myself with. you and me. we
are a good fit. me. you. boom. boom. worm through.

pay respects. paraffin candle, make use of yourself
burn. respect,

pay respects on behalf of us,

nazi lover jew honey. i am your soul. pray.
pray to me.

this sickness is death, and death is how
i see it. everyone can tell; that's what
they'll begin to say

after we are through. and here i just thought
of myself as screwed.
the whole time they knew it was you.

daddy, daddy, you bastard, i'm through.

i never turned out to be made of meat.
fingers slipping

entranced
entranced
entranced

wrists of eternity. honestly, they were dug into. a secret
place was in great need of being found, rescued,

raped, kidnapped, and colonized,

until only the pulse was felt.
when it was all that was left, it hit the people
with the entranced slipping fingers

that they never felt it before.

it was a pulse indeed. there wasn't anything wrong with it.
it spoke with the beating heart of the earth forest.

your primate descendant forgot again, and now

remembers- allow them to pray (however the fuck
a prayer doesn't feel awkward).

on heaven and earth, daily bread, in jesus' name.

i dare to live the dreams older than jesus. i dare
to live the dreams of the oldest primates

ever. ever
fucking
ever.

i dare to be afraid of myself. i'm too
in love with the falsity of my face- it is a beautiful face. 

i've been hunting on my own. my parents
died a while ago. this behavior

is unacceptable. rape. rape. don't touch me. rape.
help me.

no, rape me. no, don't. help me.

the bark to bare- twisting veins,
adapting with sun movements.

storm-allowance, heave heave heave, throw. a 
sedimentary erosion. storm.
the storm is the storm. it's about

the chances of getting hit by lightning; the chances
of winning the lottery. there are chances

of the chicken crossing the road. anything
is possible,

comforting my blood-flow, that

of the canopy- my body. it digs holes
and cools off in them.

buildings. square-shaped houses. square-shaped
people. their
square-shaped faces. their commonalities.

their crops, bountiful or not. rainbows
strolling among clouds.

clouds give into the needs
of any old animal.
the sickness that everyone hates. it is mine. i hate it more. than you hate yours
i can do anything better.

the wolves the chickens the sheep the flowers.
the person the mountain cat.
the forlorn the hope the grinding of the bodies.

this is a hole in my chest.
may peace be with you.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

dear people who are trying to contact me,
please send e-mails and such metallic-intergalactic geometrical-tasting dimension-manipulation. i don't do lol facebook or lol twitter and this is where i go to contact humans on the internet, second to my e-mail. i have magically moved past being on the receiving end of getting acidic witch-cunt juice sprayed all over me.

please donate to my "campaign" listed in how many entries i don't know below this personality-lacking box thing my words show up on or directly to MSF.org .

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

https://life.indiegogo.com/fundraisers/doctors-without-borders-msf-international/x/11731513

i started a campaign to raise funds for the doctors without borders to get my mind off this bullshit. time to get sucked back into the beauty of reality. please consider donating and spreading the word.

Sunday, August 9, 2015

the heart wants to float far away to where nobody knows.

sinking beneath the canopy, my head
on a pillow, pillow

on a bed, okay with having four walls around me,
a roof over my head,

but too windows-
make up my mind, make my bed, it's

telling me to, so that i may rest. because
in dreams
i can be reminded that inside of me

remains vitality- there is my true love, walking
into me.

where is the great pain?

Friday, August 7, 2015

kite.

nameless anthem, it's up to you
to call on yourself. dream of the day. it might feel

awkward but perhaps

with a title
you will be understood.

this whole time, glory
cannot be reached. it doesn't work

like that.
and if you fall on your face, nobody will
notice this descent.

scientific evidence
doesn't back up failure. and if you succeed

nobody will care more than you.

further away
from the canopy

far from being paralyzed with fear
the friendlier i am to it.

speaking with the trees and
the traffic, replicating how i expect myself to be

i am all i see. they
are me

and not my expectations, not the anger i feel
because expectations are not meant

to be lived up to.

if it is the present moment, it is a miracle-
i am dancing to it

jaws of life.

rules are making themselves and
coming after me

then giving up

when they see it's me they've been sent to
check up on. "hey, hopeless," they say. i tell them

i've been thinking a lot about roman candles
recently.

they walk away and i know deep inside

i'm still in love with them, as they are
with me, as we all are

with each other. the soul

is not many many things- the collective force.

i like to make love even when i don't know
i'm doing it. but i know

it speaks to me.

i'm looking in the mirror, having
territory, and staring at myself for food.

let me go

into
the jaws of life.

i love you guys, you whose

songs soothe. magic is
innate and evolutionary. somehow you know.

i'm giving medicine through visions

without knowing that's what's happening. the innocence
drives me wild.

if drifters have places in the world,

it's to know every member of the family
without torturing them into positions.

knowing
is half the battle. this isn't reality shimmering

around you. the almighty
diversion. reality is coming from

inside, and has long been

a pool there. the
infinite room.

Thursday, August 6, 2015

soundless tree branch, a secret that seems still
and ageless

the devil's milk.

i remember falling,

breeze of the fountain
pushing itself toward
mid-november leaves.
i did not
make a sound. the leaves did.

others

were around, as were
my hazardous
interpretations of them. and i saw myself:

third-world human being

in the telescope, peeked at
through shades, in
the windows- in the light of clouds, yet also

a distorted reflection. memory

without entrance, but too
without exit-
forever has always been here. this

is home we nurture. if you relate to

being, then you
be sweet, nectar- you stomach-keeper, lockets

keeping us unlost-
war distanced. walk through a tour
of disintegration- the soft sighing. the

silent respecting.

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

powerful shades of pink.

nourishing drug- irregular web
of a spider
i'd never seen before

licking the skin
of dangerous frogs
swimming naked, directionless

through the amazon
with dolphins

stung by bees, hundreds
at once
i do not run. this part of fear

is of depth and height
being inseparable.

a sensation that is
unhurt by expectations

of what i consider
sensations to be
sweat, swan, soon be- a readiness opened, warmfriendly
tigerslionsbears. soon, soon, join.
golden fountain of youth; untouched light. madonna

of the grottos calls the lambs in. shadows retrieve
without going. warmth migrates

here,

burrowed in friendly- warmth is pleasant, tingly
and fuzzy. wild excitement, wild

calmness- steadied, and present. allow it, spiritual

relationship with being. today,
i am dancing. i am trying.
throaty currents- electricity. i hold it
never against, but

pressed into, melted into- and now
surrounds us an orb. seasons of the year

and their sentiments do not matter, but
they are here for us. old souls.

mountains. old souls.

dare not dig this dirt to find knowledge-
we take pleasure, yes, but

without knowing why. pleasure

is without life or death.

tough love.

i am a tall building, barred from being any shape
that is not a square. this is concrete. must
assign voices:

sniper-people shooting, all
following a beat

of a song that belongs to a womb
they are afraid of- but no, these are not

the voices i want to give to. they are merely
the arrows pointing to the voices

i wonder about. how did they get into such a mess?

they could not afford what was to
betray,

ignorant they were
of the betrayal they married- insulation for the void.

but in my womb, the accumulated
dust that congregates are the voices who learn

they do not need names. oh, family in
a house-
a house being space between

walls where you go to get away
from the galaxy

spying on you.

aren't we

all blind and in wheelchairs our whole lives? ripples
are all which ruffle our feathers. ripples

is how it's been. as far as the galaxy goes,

stars communicate. it is not my knowing
what it is they say.
at most, i feel their yellowness

reminiscent of the godhead- also, a yellow star.
waving to and fro- "light hello" and
"light goodnight."

it has released

thousands of moths, attracted

to other sources of light. warmth is sensual
for these messengers, who come and go

spasmodically. it is how they were built. something

about illumination that convinces the moths
they are home again, that

it is not prison.

the roof is nice.
the electricity works. the roof is nice. the
electricity works. now the moth

must wave hello to somewhere else. goodbye light, goodbye.

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

the seventh elegy.

"don't think that i'm wooing,
angel, and even if i were, you would not come. for my call
is always filled with departure; against such a powerful
current you cannot move. like an outstretched arm
is my call. and its hand, held open and reaching up
to seize, remains in front of you, open
as if in defense and warning,
ungraspable one, far above.
"

could this possibly be?

Sunday, August 2, 2015

biases.

oh, these fingers are lonely; ending-day
docking from private world

to private world. whatever listens. wooden boat

calls to me- and i surrender

listening.

and i strip it- and i feed it-
and i call it a toad-

training tears to feel unwelcome
about themselves. i love shame.

i love its source-

some place
that's a quiet place- and i'm there,

facing no-forgive, giving proof that i know

how to pay attention.

sealing
the past, with my blood, on my hands,

i never want to face it again,
sleeping with the furies- who i tell

this is not going to happen again,
empowerment? getting used to it

in my home, looking
at honesty. learning

to like it,

what would i do

without returning my love to

the judging people- my own face
blocking light. the vanished come back

without an okay- they never hatched

in the first place. i'm hugging nobody

but a story

with my wild imagination.
house of the soul, in the clouds
deep reticence my

dear

watching things from
up there,

true eyes from there,

been through it before, know
what

i'm doing- letting it
take me, true-course never

bursts

today i bob today i

bob
bob over the seven seas