Sunday, December 18, 2016

a dream of eating shit.

sticky film, a gas problem- even
a gas leak

fungus excretion

protesting any more
small hints at rejection, which mean

nothing and
are too small for interpretation, until the day
you wake up, and
molecular studies are your only friends.

no known cause for the slow thought.

swallowing semen- plainly
following narrative, is all- nothing so innocuous
as following assigned protocol
of asceticism
among asceticisms, many who literally
dig their bones
into the top of one's head- "i am

your spiritual teacher," they remind you; 
"i am god choosing you.
"i am
preparing you for your fate

of exposing as many discrepancies
of the heavens
as you can sleep on.
"yes, it's totally going to be lonely.
"

etc., it's time

to be as asleep as possible; make substance
of shadow
to become repulsed
by shadow. vision quest

for those infected by parasites, us
breeding grounds. major depressive
disorder. recurrent. ongoing.

that upward cast light
from far below
making the sky feel bad- source
of the storms-

young suns dying young
after winter passes, when it's no longer normal

to be the poster child of defeat
and all the masks that once were
have been given away

so there's no soul left, either. just so you know.

we are the same wild boar
until suddenly, we are not- spring

bursts from the ground. i watch you
make way to the
horizon

fooling around with others and shit.

i remain where i am, repeating, "life or death, isn't this?
life or death
life or death.
"

the pinnacle of poignant
as reviving imagination
past romanticism is out of the question.

i've lost patience waiting for it to be okay
to try
a seance for the living. i'm picking
my skin off again, looking

to becoming a parasite myself.

pure white.

the hypnosis starts
once a gun is fired into the open sky

doves in a panic leave their nests. the birds that are pure white.
this is a place
nobody has been to before.

a series

of rhythmic currents introduce themselves
to one another, evading me.

a seduction distances
after unexpectedly
spilling its guts

into the center of vision
where it meets god who says yes to everything.

punch between the eyes.
good old punch between
the eyes. whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

cartoon stars result
more than anything
you're not supposed to need to learn about

stuff whose knowledge you don't know what to do with except say you love life. it will count one day.

the dream i've been assigned to call
has no name
so i say anything. producing heat.
my iceberg drifts in the northern oceans with me stacey on it. here we are being together, heading toward

my only child, heaven, who is also hell,
resentful of being named,

as it was their bared hands who'd molded me from mineral
and fat of the earth. i am what i am made of. the sum of all evil is a safe guess.
to fight against it
is to lose touch.

in my lap many feathers i didn't notice had gathered.
this is a place nobody has been to before.

Friday, December 16, 2016

power politics.

"[...]once you've seen it, keeping quiet, saying nothing, becomes as political an act as speaking out. there is no innocence. either way, you're accountable.
"

Thursday, December 15, 2016

in the morning you always come back.


predator's cowardice.

that gate
giant old gate

remains open forever. ready
for everyone. embracing.
anyone can handle these vibrations

if they'd let themselves.

crossing over
requires only little tokens-

keep up
with what's going on in the world, for
instance. don't

you care about that?

this is the father, the
great duty

i'm referring to. mr. easy-peasy.
if you can't be cavalier

than that's your ignorance
you're mishandling,

and you've got a lot of learning to do

as soon as you stop suiciding.
bad life as per
bad karma- you've offended

atman, duh. this is your fault.

typical human. selfish.
no ancestry; absence of youth

on our hands. ne'er do well. had a chance, and denied it.
shithead from hell. the ancient dead.

giant stomach and little mouth.

we must work our way up, says
king kong of the tribe. prison mentality.
all "let's sell drugs," or whatever.

worms until
we are worms lined up, in it

for dirt and the sounds we make
under the earth

until the beak meets us

and that's what you get, for turning
the grandmother
into a body of antigens. for missing the forest

for the trees.
there are no secrets left. oh,

how transparent our negligence is; does seem to be
the root of it all

wouldn't you agree
that a good example of this would be

how we give our shit away
to anyone

that doesn't resemble ourselves
but always is us exactly
at the end

of every fucking day?

yes, how endearing, our desperate plea
considering
we've robbed ourselves
for ourselves-

the intimacy is all thrown off,
pornography omnipresent;

permenantly fried
from miseducation of dimensionality

and
if there's any true bareness left
then that's a glimmer of hope
we ought to surrender

to the good people-

the owls

very old souls

threats
to that which seems evil in ourselves (though
is only naive)

that only we
reject.

and if we surrender
just this once
than the good people will forgive us

and
we can all start over again
start from scratch-

wouldn't that be nice
at least considering

how nice we'd consider ourselves
and how we'd feel all rewarded
which matters

considering how obsessed with rewards
we are?

it would be the logical thing
to do, anyway

considering
what we give is worth
how much it saves us

as we equate worth
to our being saved

for half a second.

how quiet the voice is without this crying
for help. never
have i known silence so well

now that i abuse it, so
afraid of it. practically asking for
the swoop of the owl

to ambush me.

and soul is now a feather, a keepsake
of a betrayed dream

that really ought to cross over
is the point i meant to make

not that i'm an authority
on the subject.

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

baptism.

little monkey removes his hat
hinting to the queen

to trim her claws into
this hat-

a black hole nobody knows about
except that which goes
into it. even then

the truth remains a spectrum of
alternatives;
sanctuary in which
we may change beliefs whenever.

the queen does not see herself in this.

"you are not to hide anything," demands the
revolution we walk
(so goes what our compensations

evolve from
)

so we'll go for a walk, and be satisfied
with why. "why" hasn't even crossed

our minds.
i have more in me today than
doggedly pursuing a drifter, for it is the day
of worship-

swelling stomach to introduce
to the light of day

on our walk we take
for the being in love i carry.

we must worship the planet inside
and all her moons
who keep us alive.

where do you want to walk
to today?

to parts of the world
without birthdays, depraved
as the motes that surround

our expectations

to satisfy our generosity.
to be charitable.

yes, that is why

i remain

examining my face in a mirror, who
i do not see myself in; that is why

i remain offended.

before you are ready
to leave my belly, the same spirits

look at me- afterimages

with baby eyes they've always had.
checking up on me, terrorizing

the little steps forward

i learn to take, by pushing me back
to the ground i
resist befriending.

you'd imagine an enigmatical would, singing
for the sake

of singing. song

you'll never hear again
that will leave with your heart.

consorts. free spirits fuck around.

Monday, December 12, 2016

pipeline.

i take cover
under those palm trees

the experts say
they resort to

every once in a while
as is standard-
only i believe in them, is what's different.

i assign them a wisdom
i give mine to
so theirs will be greater than mine

to exorcise my atrophies
and grant me a sort of
passage

passage past nihilism
personifying a meaning

which i may rest under
and tell a story about later.

i call onto air.
call onto the rhythm of air.
air,

rustle the leaves of trees
tall trees

sending down stars
not imitations of stars one falls for
to
centerpiece-

it's some place
for tourists-

some place maps lead to, that is.

breathing is up to this, too. straight lines strangling
each other- that's how they grow
big and strong, hard to bend.

i go home, stand
under the trees. asking the trees
when i will be ready.
asking for patience.
teach me meditation. give a demonstration. tell me
if i'm doing that already.

rustling
under the trees
about how these are all giving trees in the end.
giving trees are what the mother has left.

asking the trees
if i've done this to them.

gunpoint.

i hold
a gun
not because

i don't know who
to shoot
and not because

i don't know how to shoot

but because
i wonder- this crime
is not one i fear.


if it must find me, than
must be awakening,

true love- beast or not.

there is much to see and i
will myself to-

so that the trees will talk
and tell me
all that they know

and so there will be
light. i've been convinced

it has not come yet, and that
this,
so far, is

a desert we walk
of sonic force
that prevents light

from coming true.

i suspect i am
being held in place
by force

and that force rules the world
which dislocates me

from nature. and i feel angry
that i might trust this; angry

that i know how to trust.
angry that i have a vague idea
of what trust is.

i will do something in pursuit
of the choir of sirens.
put out

the myths
who i surprise from under the waves

today.

we change places
as i demand it,
and they are the addict now- work

of the devil.
wrongdoing. love of the city.
slave to the fog.

i am singing.
song about light.

the evil hand.

dreams of
that isolated paris, all the stuff

that brings crescendo
to any impression

that our heads
are heads in the clouds- whatever kingdom
was the kingdom meant for us
at the time.

this
is not a darkness, not a death thing

for the magic is either lost
or underwhelming

though not cursed. i am the grandmother
and our chemicals

are not something my tastes have
matured for yet.

there's vague memory
of runaway castle, leader of life

i have not called on
the powers of.
disappointment

is often more like grief
over a parent

who hadn't the chance
of teaching me

one must seperate
and how

one must seperate

if i may be given a choice here
and recognize

the choice in it
the architecture of this

if it can wave off my transgressions
in favor

of my caring
see

what responsibility i have taken

and yes, i do continue
to hope, nevertheless. we humans

have valid reasons
for our statelessness.
we're all about

the miles of ocean
that have constituted us

generally for
the manipulation of

the illusory

whose doorstep
i still dissolve on.

the great mother
takes your hand, with hers,

underdeveloped.
things that are parts

lift into waves
through the ether.

the dressing of our sorrows
having something to do

with oppression. tough love, i guess.
wounding and healing

being up to interpretation advantageous.

seducing waters to draw near
for those who see it fit

to crawl ashore.

hear me, mistress.

i embrace
dormancy today. called by shadow

to silence. wisdom
doesn't need a voice, don't

we all know. fire

takes my eyes
to see
for its cruel longing

what it can gather. in return,

i'm given protection
of its shortcomings
when liberation

is a foreign dream, foreign
as in
never known it before; maybe

read of it in stories.

i face the west of the sky, waiting
for the sun

to drop- a weapon of wind,

like myself, though i

am one joined
with weapon

of earth- a stray web, haunted

by spider, whose love
walks its fate toward

my barely wiggling, narrow
vacancy; toward

the vibrations i send
from my limited
struggle

who calls
to entertain.
my will floats away- a ghost

to become within those foreign dreams, maybe.

be they the devils.
the poverty of the nation.
of a dying childs.
a neglected houseplant.
an animal being prepared

for sacrificing, slaughter, extinction.
be the image
i have not yet embraced feeling yet.

atman, hear this.
may my suffering be made clear.
my degenerations
have been repurposed

for the greater good;
upkeeping
the essence of fertility.
giving

as to show devotion.

stars of the dirt. stories, millions
of the trees.

at times, i did my best.
may

the next life be spared
from a black fate, from
a replication of its former.

hear me, without
flattery, and

without execution.
hear me address you

as an equal.

it is now
that the sky
is a calm place. cloud

wrapping around my body. white forest.
freedom introduces itself

at strange times.

Sunday, December 11, 2016

story, from a distance: i'm searching for a source of relation to plagiarize into a self. it's not that i'm any less obsessed with writing or anything. being a wormhole and shit, i need to become embodied by energies in order to commit to a gravity of my own. there needs to be friction.
it's possible a matrix has formed from which i now begin to grow. isn't that sweet? i imagine it's because of the therapy work i've been invested in. this past year has been like going through the motions of detoxing as much as it's been like waking up for the first time. the existentialism of it all is more prohibiting than anything when i go to write. i feel like a traitor to religion. it's like i've been relinquished of my duty to send messages.
i entertain the idea of adopting a zen attitude about this and many things that i worry are pure consequence, though i'm still trying to wrap my head around the role of "consequence". and it's not fucking funny!
my faith seems totally wishful right now. i worry i've committed a betrayal. i am hoping that none of this is true, of course, and that putting this out there will be like shattering a fucking curse- curse 'kuz i'm resentful of this "block" (or "death", if we're going to use language to appropriate feeling), and then i'll just start writing with focus and esteem that brings me peace again.

Thursday, December 8, 2016

if life is still believed to be about hope, then i'm either unimpressed or disappointed by it.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

we are not in this together.

welcome. my name is lab rat among lab rats today. unremarkable. taken
from the sewers to a box emulating the former's labyrinthine
inner-workings.
the search for affect is in my ratty hands
that prefer to be dirty

as the dangled karat guides the way to victory.

i am not missing as it has seemed to myself- a word problem
yet to be completed is more like it:

"if so and so has an apple and their brother is two inches taller, but
so and so who has an apple is also bananas and is average-heighted,
the little brother is likely to have either apples, bananas, or both.
how tall is the little brother- that is,
if stasis is really a thing? does the reader believe we ought to
focus on symbiosis, instead?
"

decline
being something
at the moments i'd rather be seen as being itself

not even trying to look at
or touch
or admire

because
too much want
too much want for this to be exactly the opposite

and the want is pointing to the impossible
which better not exist

but might
as i do not fit into
the too much want

hate to allow myself a confession
that's been going insane on the back of my tongue, that's been
in the middle of the fucking room.
hate to be a negative nancy- furthermore, to know
that i could easily personify that. fear it, in fact. suppress it
for all its taboo.
live it

as a consequence- that walk on the wild side
of keeping it all in.

it does have to come out at some point

and perhaps reign terror
and you might have to understand me for it.

this is about me not thinking about stuff i care about and such pleasantries.
i'm thinking about the deaths of stuff i care about. i'm
mourning to boot.
hate to experience ego withdrawal. i know

the ego is such selfish shit
whose power is okay only in moderation.
hope my guilt makes up for it
since i feel so guilty to begin with. (hope it's worth something.)

it's better late than never
to open up, before becoming someone
with very high blood pressure caused by stress
unattended to.
better not suicide just to avoid embarrassing myself- my reality
being my reality in front of
the realities of others. that dream of being naked in class. that fear

of being something petty to laugh at.

this is where my propriety concentrates, so it seems. (by the way.)

it's trying to be nice like how we all
try to be nice. who doesn't want to take a stab
at being nice to sylvia plath
as we all do
before she cuts the shit? we might save her life.
the heroism of the ego

could be reasoned!
formalities are mandatory anyway!

and your surgery is surgery all the same; provocation.
it is desire to explore reaction
in a kingdom where warnings against exploration
go unnoticed.

i want you to know i protest today, as it's been made clear
i am no longer a fascinating game. not the intricate puzzle
building up to scenic poetry

as was interpreted last time.
so, no.
i hear the buzzing of operation, the game- horrified
upon realizing the sad clown

is me

with the red nose, unable

to teach
to pose a challenge-

such was my pride and joy.

off limits.
off limits until you miss authenticity, such as that

which i see within myself.
by then, i will be long past it.
dead.
dead sylvia plath in a deathbed.

grains of sand.

"when your body
always betrays you;
so you bring it stolen flowers
"

creatures of the wind when gravity poses no challenge.

my experience of consciousness is realized as a tantrum on which only tall dirty ugly can sneak its way through, stolen by the air before i can drag it under the earth with me.

Monday, December 5, 2016

buying it.

i have found myself in the future not so distant
that it cannot be spotted in the night sky; not so distant
that the contrast of change is distinct. i'm not making faces at it, nor am i calling it a shit.

i'm in a crunched up car and it's raining. of course it's raining. my cell phone is dead.
the pressure of the atmosphere
is crushing the ground, the traffic, the people. we wonder what this is about as though it's phenomenal
so it won't turn into anything more.

we don't want to leave the houses let alone ourselves. we don't want to address it.
i'm making sense of things, examining my teeth
as i pluck them out
with the wonder one might imagine they would, when they're truly
making sense of things, as i finally am, in
finding myself
before losing myself, and grieving- making sense of things this way

before moving on
to somehow else.

getting the lights to turn on, as if with a mind control; immercing into this
before they go out.

this is when thinking cures my soul of itself.
it tells me to stay where i am for ten seconds, then to follow it

into the gingerbread house it half-runs toward the door of
like we're playing hide and seek.
when i follow it in, it jumps out from behind the furniture, exclaiming, "surprise!"

my first birthday party ever.

the walls are pink and soft. and the hearts- red, purple hearts
everywhere- bubbles floating coyly about. bubbles in which i recognize kindness as happily ever after.

there's a table which on top of are piled neatly wrapped presents, each
wrapped in ribbons and bows, accompanied by cards.
i look upward, smiling at god, who's smiling back. admiring

the ceiling, god, and life.
admired back.
the secrets of life i ache to know, to be with
like a popular kid, unveil themselves

at this moment, which weren't even the presents!

i am brought to the backyard by them, where i sit among
all my friends and family, who tell me
what it all means, and that meaning

does have its role in the universe.
it is safe to close my eyes, so i do so.

a blindfold is wrapped around my head. i am spun around a few times

and i walk back to the car i was crunched in again, entertaining myself

in the shift of weight i follow, exploring
the dormancy of faith

in which i find myself liberated
from pressure's oppression.

Thursday, December 1, 2016

the gift that keeps on giving.

i've finished work on my online portfolio, for now. please feel free to check it out, and share the content with others. thanks in advance.

https://sallyshapiro.smugmug.com/

Friday, November 25, 2016

saving the world.

i'm going to draw a picture today, for all of us.
a nice picture.
a nice picture of guns- accuracy unresearched prior
and always.

something to address our stink of paralysis, to convince others
there's a complete language that's inside of us
requiring our defenses. we're channeling whatever sense of integrity we can
is what we're doing, actually.

this might turn out to be the solution
to getting it all out-

not a single microbe left inside. indigenous extinction. okay extinction.

understood right away as okay by everyone.

someone will take one look, understand, and run to their phone and call 911.
a swat team will arrive and then we'll be set free
from our kidnapped scene.
i'll sit on the back of an ambulance truck, wrapped in a blanket, crying serene tears of victory. tears of joy. smiling. an angel at last. holding a cup of hot cocoa.
i'll talk about helping others and really stick to it this time.

being a kaleidescope will turn out to be a gift.
the breeding of vision
will not need to slow down, as it will be pure from now on.

the walk into the gardens of the grounds
will be a hop, skip, and a jump
into homeostasis.
as will meditation.
as will fruits and vegetables.
as will all the teachers
who've never dared fuck up.

our former seeking of homeostasis
by deviating into injustices, trying
to match that which was strongly detected-
excused, we'll look back at it and laugh.

everyone will laugh. i'll start dressing in white.
the fungal infection has been extracted
and sent to jail for eternity.
we'll all turn down anti-biotics effortlessly.

our former captor will not turn all grateful and humble
in jail.
it will not stop drugs, nor
will it adopt healthy attitudes toward life.
i will become the one
to become a monk.
i'll wake up into a headdress
whose weight has something to do with fertility.
from ancient greece onward
will i be permanent.
there'll be some ornate parade in my name.
and the former infection will be sorry; saying, "sorry" over and over.

i will forgive them when i choose to,
citing that it's hard to, is why.
it might take years.
it will all really mean, "sorry" by then.

Thursday, November 17, 2016

here comes the breath of fresh air.

your honor, i prefer it
when it is you who presides over me-

i like to think your honor finds innocence in me,
banishing the jury; failing
to understand judgment at all.

i find innocence in you just as much- refusing
to seek elsewhere,
refusing to unzip your fly, refusing to pull your pants down.

i am keeping my urges to do so to myself, making them dark-
turning them into shame.

my only fetish withstanding
is being an object of fetish- your fetish.

we can presume this is fate- my winding up here,
before you, so that your faith can be restored,
and now you will be young again

until you are not.

i think of myself as how you fondly think of me
in order to keep calm.

do not hesitate to trust me. i can only be faithful
to that which i believe i need
in order to survive, which i believe i must do.

i learn to never do an ugly thing, as i keep it all
inside of me. i become self-conscious,
strangling the innards of my brain to exist only as this.

you remain ignorant of your starvation,
until fed. think of this feeding as what i've done for you,

when you cringe with disgust at those in whom
you determine guilt- mere reflections

of the side of you that does not feel remorse
that you do not want to feel.
the disgust equates enough,

disgust at those in whom patina is obvious, their experiences
having made impressions on their faces.

you do not stomach it. this is your impoverishment
you do not know about;

your secret side you keep apart from me;
your double life.
think of me at these moments, and

think of me when you return home. think of me
rubbing your temples, and you will know
you are home.

i will never grow old.
and when you grow old, continuing to forget
how to feed yourself, i will remember you fondly
as the isolated image you always were- the oxygen

i allow the innards of my brain to be nourished with.

i will never grow old.
you will never find me in jail, never

staring from beyond a grave as one
who lives both life and death at once,

the land which is a burden that cannot be ignored.

you will never know where to find me at all.
never a single grey;
all is ignorance of sex. fear of drugs. fear of death. frivolous.

Friday, November 4, 2016

intensity equates reference.

"But still, should you or not commit suicide? This is a good question. Why go on? And you only go on if the game is worth the gamble. Now the universe has been going on for an incredible long time. And so really, a satisfactory theory of the universe has to be one that's worth betting on. That's very, it seems to me, elementary common sense. If you make a theory of the universe which isn't worth betting on, why bother? Just commit suicide. But if you want to go on playing the game, you've got to have an optimal theory for playing the game.
"

https://erowid.org/culture/characters/watts_alan/watts_alan_article1.shtml

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

never say "society".

"One of the first psychiatric wards was built in Baghdad in 705. They treated patients with baths, drugs, music and activities. How utterly clever of them. Lunatics were named after Luna, and it was thought they had been moonstruck by the goddess. A mass dancing mania was reported in the Middle Ages. I raise them Acid House and early Rave. I raise them gospel churches and shopping centers, our collective need to stand among others.
"

http://mobile.nytimes.com/blogs/opinionator/2014/04/02/an-illness-inherited/?referer=

Monday, October 31, 2016

antichrist; sense of proportion.

this took an apparently necessary undesirable amount of commitment- i figured out how to set up my scanner.






Friday, October 28, 2016

haul, p. iii.

with cut-ups of "xo, dumbfuck" manuscript i forgot about. (one of them is anyway. if i find the rest, i'd love to do something with them- that shit was golden.) : )






magic flowers.

the war will not end
if we will not connect to it. we are in charge
and know nothing about our duties. how can we.
we do not connect.

if we do not connect, we send flowers.
so sorry for your loss.
the war will morph into another war we will insert ourselves into
flowers flowers flowers
until we get it,
and when we get it,
war will magically end forever.

we will not be bitter over being told stories
that we were fated to believe.
we will stop fighting. the dream will come true.
we will wake and see we are fighting
and stop fighting immediately.
there is nothing more wrong than fighting.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

housecoat.

i do not know what i want to do next. i do not want to plan for this
with constructs to homogenize myself with.
the bubble, as is, is okay.
i have been in bed for thirty years. my bedroom is frilly
my dolls, dusty. it smells like old lady. this is the room
in which i'd been concieved, and born and raised in.
i masturbate without stopping.
my fingers have erased my sex. my sex would've erased itself.
my fingers are not good at this, which is irrelevant. my mind is not good at this. it is good at
getting away with doing what it does not want to do, feeling
compelled to.
my mind is stubborn and unamused
by sex with the valiant, the troubador
for whom my bedroom door stays open,
creaking with the wind.
the dragon is here, rolling her eyes, telling me
my endeavor is fruitless, and my ovaries

have turned off.
there will never be children.
i will never turn bitter

over pets that did not fit my molds i'd set for them.
the dragon is here, joining her spine to mine.
it goes to sleep immediately upon dumping
her convulsions in my empty space. the empty space
i want to be fearless in the face of.
i put it behind me and get up
rejecting tradition that seems inexcusable.

i will never be young again. from now on, i will be stubborn.
i will be optimistic about that today, mourning
over the coffee pot, over the corn flakes. the floss. the broken hair dryer. the missed opportunities i see in things.
the optimism i will grow from.
i will tell everyone i know my gospel makes sense, relentlessly,
until it makes sense to me.

it is time to wake up. it is time
to be optimistic.
it is time to go back to bed
to later shrug off dreams.

hootie and the blowfish.

childhood; fugue of the mother. when in the car, my mother would transfer herself into the depths of emotions- as such often goes when emotion is hidden from conscious awareness- when the hootie and the blowfish song "only lonely" would play on the car radio. whenever my mother dreams about my dad now, she seems way more fragile than usual in a way that she does not seem to address. like maybe she's going to cry. she sings "nobody knows it but me" from that song throughout the rest of the day. one thinks that she's about to let herself feel sad. these are the only dreams my mother says she remembers.
dad, a part of me neither accepts nor understand your role in my life, in a way that i can actually somewhat trust it has nothing to do with the convincing  of my rage, who i am married to. as a result, i feel nothing toward you. it seems passive. so i manifest a dragon and allow it to rape me regularly.

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

i am not the real girl.
a girl is only a girl when their favorite color is pink
and when they consistently refer to themselves
with female pronoun.
my brand of pink is rash-red.
i haven't thought of sex in ten days.
my writing is inconsistent.
my bedroom is pink, filled with dolls and perfumes. there isn't anybody to fool- i am not afraid
that i might fail.

think early,
very early,
very very early, knowing so much,
not knowing why i hate pink. pink like
the clitoris.
blue. blue as in tender bruises,
noirished male-parts.

Monday, October 17, 2016

immodest contact.

an arrow pierces my eyes the moment i looked, caught off-guard;
eyes widened with surprise.
it was always there, waiting. my looking its way
was chance.
(i did not mean to be eager. i guess i was ready to stop fighting.)

my sight vanishes at once. there is opportunity
to forget claustrophobia. i am preparing. relaxing. breathing steadily.

i'd wondered if i'd lost innocence- the rite
of passage we ignore as considering deceit. i did not mean
to be eager.
(the innocence was never a solution, itself.)
deceit becomes when we believe we will become humans
that we are not already.
with guilt and grief we impose deceit on ourselves, justifying
the triumph of deceit. the appropriation
of problem as solution. (the consequence
of denial.)
disease of our grasp is from clenching understanding around
what does not exist.
vowing ourselves to one cause
is vowing ourselves for war- one cause is against all the others, in which
we find disgust we look for and exploit, hiding
our disappointments in ourselves however we know how to.
trading ourselves until the zeitgeist becomes- that's when
we remain unsatisfied-

the dream has come true and we have misunderstood
what we were to learn from it.
it is not a mask.
the mask is that which is grasped.

failing to dedicate myself to my own biases, i do not know
a zeitgeist in myself. i don't know where to go.
i have not taken the first step to know where to go.
i feel no force.
i feel so lonely without force.
i need to go like how others go. in a new direction. like how the others
convince me they go. forcing myself
as though i do not count as anyone.

an arrow procured my baptism
against orientation, against mocking my education (against
emulating my education), against illusion of security.
the arrow directed toward my experience.
i visit what is not mine, feet barely touching the ground- mouthpiece

of the wind, at the times when the wind urgently demands
to be understood, when messages passing over roofs of houses
does not do.
agony is not the winds. it is not mine, either.

is it less influenced?
is it disturbing that influence can be a vestige of how it seems?

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

the forest spirit.


backyard stoning.


perfect big baby
perfect fake fear of abandonment
perfect fake every experience
perfect fake valley girl dialect
perfect fake rocking back and forth
perfect rocking side to side
perfect fake rocking side to side
perfect fake bordering psychoses for a living
perfect rebel with a cause
perfect youtube comment
perfect omg misprint

some recurrent life themes; play-pretend voyeur collecting.

i left out, "perfect for the purpose of putting this on my blog which is so perfect".











Monday, September 5, 2016

liberation through the bardo of existence.

"trungpa rinpoche used to say that the practice of vajrayana is based on abandoning the hope of attaining nirvana and the fear of remaining in samsara. he called this attitude hopelessness [...] hopelessness really means the utter despair of losing all hope, hitting rock bottom, before we are able to accept the simple and obvious truth.
"

Saturday, September 3, 2016

instigation.

"If I do not write all the time I am completely paralyzed by what I know and see, unless I am actually grabbing a nurse throwing her to the ground and insisting she administer the medicines she was instructed to give, instead of sitting around doing nothing.
'I have had a great deal of experience terrorizing doctors and nurses who refuse to do their jobs. I do online research all the time so I trust no one´s assessment of a case other than my own in collaboration with professionals.
'This is the future for civilians. You are your own overall doctor and never forget it.
"

energetic reform.


Wednesday, August 31, 2016

whatever, part ii: very old friends.

bast, kat bjelland, celestial mermaid, and carelessly pregnant crack whore.