as following assigned protocol
Sunday, December 18, 2016
as following assigned protocol
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.
of rhythmic currents introduce themselves
to one another, evading me.
a seduction distances
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
Thursday, December 15, 2016
giant old gate
remains open forever. ready
for everyone. embracing.
anyone can handle these vibrations
if they'd let themselves.
requires only little tokens-
with what's going on in the world, for
you care about that?
this is the father, the
i'm referring to. mr. easy-peasy.
if you can't be cavalier
than that's your ignorance
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.
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
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
that doesn't resemble ourselves
but always is us exactly
at the end
of every fucking day?
yes, how endearing, our desperate plea
we've robbed ourselves
the intimacy is all thrown off,
from miseducation of dimensionality
if there's any true bareness left
then that's a glimmer of hope
we ought to surrender
to the good people-
very old souls
to that which seems evil in ourselves (though
is only naive)
that only we
and if we surrender
just this once
than the good people will forgive us
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
considering how obsessed with rewards
it would be the logical thing
to do, anyway
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
hinting to the queen
to trim her claws into
a black hole nobody knows about
except that which goes
into it. even then
the truth remains a spectrum of
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
so we'll go for a walk, and be satisfied
with why. "why" hasn't even crossed
i have more in me today than
doggedly pursuing a drifter, for it is the day
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 parts of the world
without birthdays, depraved
as the motes that surround
to satisfy our generosity.
to be charitable.
yes, that is why
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
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
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 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.
rustle the leaves of trees
sending down stars
not imitations of stars one falls for
it's some place
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.
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.
i don't know who
and not because
i don't know how to shoot
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
so far, is
a desert we walk
of sonic force
that prevents light
from coming true.
i suspect i am
being held in place
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.
who i surprise from under the waves
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.
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.
is not a darkness, not a death thing
for the magic is either lost
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.
is often more like grief
over a parent
who hadn't the chance
of teaching me
one must seperate
one must seperate
if i may be given a choice here
the choice in it
the architecture of this
if it can wave off my transgressions
of my caring
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
the manipulation of
i still dissolve on.
the great mother
takes your hand, with hers,
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.
dormancy today. called by shadow
to silence. wisdom
doesn't need a voice, don't
we all know. fire
takes my eyes
for its cruel longing
what it can gather. in return,
i'm given protection
of its shortcomings
is a foreign dream, foreign
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
of earth- a stray web, haunted
by spider, whose love
walks its fate toward
my barely wiggling, narrow
the vibrations i send
from my limited
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.
have been repurposed
for the greater good;
the essence of fertility.
as to show devotion.
stars of the dirt. stories, millions
of the trees.
at times, i did my best.
the next life be spared
from a black fate, from
a replication of its former.
hear me, without
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
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
Wednesday, December 7, 2016
from the sewers to a box emulating the former's labyrinthine
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?
at the moments i'd rather be seen as being itself
not even trying to look at
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
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.
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
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
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.
i hear the buzzing of operation, the game- horrified
upon realizing the sad clown
with the red nose, unable
to pose a challenge-
such was my pride and joy.
off limits until you miss authenticity, such as that
which i see within myself.
by then, i will be long past it.
dead sylvia plath in a deathbed.
Monday, December 5, 2016
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
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.
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
Friday, November 25, 2016
a nice picture.
a nice picture of guns- accuracy unresearched prior
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
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
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
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
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
Monday, October 31, 2016
Friday, October 28, 2016
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
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
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.
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.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
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.
very very early, knowing so much,
not knowing why i hate pink. pink like
blue. blue as in tender bruises,
Monday, October 17, 2016
eyes widened with surprise.
it was always there, waiting. my looking its way
(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
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
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
Monday, September 5, 2016
Saturday, September 3, 2016
'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.