Wednesday, March 30, 2016

my baby one time.

my sensibilities that
keep me a child
have been
by a lie, which was a worm
that was trying to find my childlike
so it could eat it.

now, i don't
remember anything except
the pain of crushing.

god had set this up.
he told me:

leave the village as a child
discover truth in a booby trap
come back a man.

isn't this what every wild person wants?

i had found the truth upon
caprice, not recognizing it at first. then, my body

began to speed up. "go, throw

the truth out." i whispered
inside myself, eyes wide as an owls.
nothing mattered

except ridding the world
of what the truth

turned out to be. "go, now!"

i turned to run with this thing
my blood turning with me, quickly
but god was right behind me.

"throw the truth out," god begins. he
has to be tricking me.
"it's not worth doing anything else with."

"yes, i understand that."

"you cannot tell the truth. nobody will believe you.
you'd only be fucking shit up."

"understood, sir."

as a child i've
fallen for lies of all kinds

feeling like shit for doing so.

i stuff myself into
the fancy
land of ideals

oh how
people on the street. oh how creepy.
i fall for people on

the street because i need someone else
to make me feel majestic so i could

talk just like god. one day i will i believe in

i fall for the cause
of others flourishing
to distract them from the truth

the indifference of god is to
freak me only myself out
from now on.

i must go on from child-man
to desert nomad
to god.

the people
flourish from their disappointments
having fully made love to them,

into a sky rising beyond disillusionment.

there's no point sticking
around here anymore, is there?

it makes me feel real but it's all bullshit but it's all i know i must defend it.
it makes me feel real but it's all bullshit but it's all i know i must defend it.

the truth is not a big deal we can fly now.
we can fly now.

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

i'm gonna grow up and you'll really notice me change.

i'm gonna grow up grow up grow up and
stop walking
i'm gonna start doing something else instead i'm
gonna get my life together my
my my my life together i'm gonna
grow up

how could we get them to understand that we're telling
on our own selves? that we tell
our own stories and make ourselves seem disgusted?
his emotional
reaction to our honesty punched me in the face
told me he was tired of me talking about shit i don't wanna talk about. i only wanna talk

if it's rehearsed and deserving of a nobel prize i can reject.
i started smoking cigarettes again and drinking
whatever is closest to me when i wake up in the morning, shot
after shot of whatever. working

my way outward, toward the door, my toes
and bottom of my feet bleeding, filled with broken glass. this was
a scene. this was a scene in a movie. something about punishment...

oh yes, i keep getting myself punished
because i'm not good at fitting into shapes, as i'm formless and liquid.
i keep screwing up at shit because my mom is a borderline bitch.
my mom
has borderline personality disorder, therefore, is very interested in fucking
and you alone. i'm wondering when i'm going to feel better as i do active things and all sorts of healthy things. don't tell me it's a matter of me living here that prevents me from my shamanistic powers

i have every lie i keep them they're collector's items. i fold them up and open one up once a day, every day. i rely on the lie for the rest of the day. i'm so convinced of my lies i tell myself. my absolute

favorite is when i lie to myself, "i have every disease under
the sun". i know what it feels
like. i don't bother to take the time to think

about if i hate myself and i'm lonely and sad, or anything.

i'm lonely, sad, and i hate myself, i announce. you know to who you know to who to the make-believe munchkins, of course.

it has to be explained to people in cars, the way
i am

that i have every disease under the sun (and you know no disease
every truly dies, some remnant
of us all will live forever), and my wrenching in pain

is impersonal.
(truth: it's never impersonal. every experience of mine

is very personal. everything is very much so like sex
which turns it into a subtle thrill. but nothing personal, it's just
how i was born according to the bio-social model.

how could i fuck whenever i want to
when i'd rather just allow myself to lay still on my bed
you better get me in the tangle limbs of a tree
and tell me i'm not going anywhere.

yo there aren't any eggs anymore
yo there aren't any eggs, ma, get eggs, we threw
all the eggs
at one anothah

ma go get eggs ma grabs icepick from center of brain
and pick the eggs outta my uterus and
we'll all have eggs

eggs we'll fry night and day

sex makes you turn blind

sex sex is an action justifying our objectifying of one another
sex sex is making me go blind because of our itemizing of each other
sex sex is turning me into a mountain to escape the ritualized compulses sex
has turned into? he he ehehehehehehehhe. sex. sex. it's
even during sex, we've turned into what machinery we live
vicariously through. sex sex, sex, dirty hippie, sell your peace

somewhere else
in someone else's clothes.

we are all the 'x' in sex.
that x. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. my card number is x and as in two contradicting

sawing away at one another in the hot sun.

i bet we could make them grow beards, sonny.

i saw a girl all over her boyfriend
while i was waiting
to pick up my drugs before
at the pharmacy. she was jealous of me.

her boyfriend was a hot boyfriend,
and i'm drop dead gorgeous.

she started that shit and i
pretended i didn't see them. his hair
was lame, anyway.
so disrespectful.

every man is really mine, little did they care about.
whatever. every man is really mine.
i just choose not to choose them.

i came here for multiple reasons tripping me up.
the grocery list on my
hand said something about
making that boy hard
and having to make that boy hard
because i can't help it
i mustn't

it's okay nobody has to know i tell every boy.
being bonded by secrets is a very intense dark art.

ummmm....the grocery list said something about milk
yeah, two percent milk
the accuracy of how "two percent" it is
i choose to doubt
because everything america gives us to consume
is lying
to us.

so, two percent milk.
clinical strength deodorant.
mediocre music playing
throughout the thinking sinking into

a hole between cracks in the sidewalk
another earthquake tra la la
another earthquake tra la la

every grain of sand is very unique, tra la la i'm at the pharmacy
every grain of sand is my boy my boy mine mine mine. tra la

la. tra la la.
"due to the holiday, the pharmacy is now closed..."

oh my god.

fuck, i knew time was shit. everybody is dead


Sunday, March 27, 2016

the myths keep us safe.

i know i am stuck
i know i am stuck because i'm in trouble
i know it was late at night but all i was doing
was searching

i don't know what for, just
regular searching
in the car i feel weird it's been happening
often. i keep in mind that somehow, i'm burning carbohydrates. that
is very important.

but wait.
a cop pulls me over, makes me get out of the vehicle, and i have
no way to escape this unless i either prostitute myself to

him or to kick his ass.

i need to talk to you about something. come here.
really. come, come.

do you know i'm in jail?
do you know i'm in jail now?
guess what for!
guess what for! come on. guess!

the baby is deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeead.

the maternal drive is a typically convincing asshole.

dear mother.
                dear mother, let us speak of the unspoken which blazes with urgency to be spoken of. i am not christian. i continue to work on convincing myself i understand you needing to assure yourself i am. (stacey, would you like to say grace tonight?) mother, you’ve been passive aggressive all night. that really puts the cherry on the cake. why would i want to say grace tonight when i never know what to say come grace. i do not even make any efforts to pray, let alone say fucking grace. (“grace! amen. now can i eat the pure waste on my plate?”) grace doesn’t make me more or less satiated or grateful for what i have. food is something we need in order to survive. if i get food, great, but why dramatize life by adding incantations like “saying grace” to show o god, we know we’re so lucky when we all think we’re totally unlucky all of my thoughts are deliberated to lord jesus oh my god stop thinkthink stop thinking stop op op thinkthink. in fact, it pushes me away to force the concept of gratitude onto me. nobody wants that shit. in fact, this is how gratitude is always spread. it’s forced.
“you have SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO much to live for”
“you have SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO much potential”

the intensity of these two arguments are like particles next to the intensity of any given thing i do, including feeling and my personal secret behavior, thinking.
                that’s why we all feel so badly. we think of children starving in africa, ignorant of any of the names of its countries- just an image of a starving child that eats cooked grass in order to move on to the next day. this baby is sick and genetically fucked. this baby never had a chance at ruling a palace with the graciousness and kindness we do.
                dear mother, i totally don’t think of you that often.
                ma, i hope you start shooting up so i can get away with doing anything i want.
                dear mother, i want to go to africa because my struggles lead me to believe the holy land of struggles is where i belong. not to say there aren’t struggles anywhere else. it’s just that the struggles seem passive aggressive where i come from and i don’t have time for that shit. in the land of africa, the struggles caused by being under attack are direct. in africa, i don’t think people say grace unless missionaries teach people how to. in africa, people want to know what happens when you say grace just like here; we hope it gets us into heaven.
                i would look stupid and out-of-place in heaven, mother. i’d feel uncomfortable.
                dear mother, you’re phobic of your youngest child committing suicide. you do what you can to make sure she proves it to you she’s trustworthy (she’s not sure she is). you give her medical advice to give to your medical practitioners. you wake her up at six AM to tell her what’s going to happen for the rest of the day to make sure she knows there’s a rest of the day ahead.
                you’ve become hypochondriac like everyone else because of me; you’re superstitious- you experience a sort of countertransference with me because it’s the mother’s will to take away the pain of her baby even when she’s unable to.
                you used to change your career over and over. this brought you happiness. then my father left you, me, and the others. suddenly you weren’t free anymore and you didn’t take well to this being stuck in a cage shit. your eyes began to look dead. you lost a significant amount of weight.
                one day you told me, and i’d never seen your eyes look as dead as they did during this moment, that you were molested by a family friend. “what?” i might’ve replied. you might’ve repeated yourself, adding that you told your mother your father everyone you knew searching for someone to listen to your truth but nobody would have it. appearances trump all. molestation is too dark. we don’t want to destroy the image of a family friend, you know.
                my mom looked so dead as she told me this. she looked so dead, i recognized the expression in her eyes as my own. she said that one gets over it in time. above all, we must be as wonderful as possible. we must emulate the savior for the savior. i think i heard once that he said grace.
                dear mother, it’s me from the heart of my note informing you that if all goes well, i will be dead by the time you read this. sorry for the bitch move. i want you to take care of all of my stuff and i want you to make sure that you hold back from funeral arrangements. they’re going to make you feel worse. nobody likes fucking funerals, for peter’s sake. dear mother, stop doing things that make you feel worse in hopes that if you continue to oblige, you’ll feel better. mother, you’ll never get what you want this way.
                you are looking at me like how you are looking at your mother when she was dying; you hook into our eyes with your own guilt. you felt guilty for grandma because you had to work overtime in order for our needs to be provided and there was nobody around to watch grandma, and my aunt, and us. my grandma is recalling very old memories. there are only a few. she’s reminded of cousin helen and cousin helen’s huge field and farm animals. this is grandma’s happy memory.
                mother, i remember mine. i think i was five years old. you were tucking me into my bed on new year’s eve. you thought i was so darling that it was soothing for you to have such a darling in the family lineage which was shrinking as the years went on. i was so excited that the next day was the beginning of a new year, as though something unspoken would change the direction of the future and it would start off bare. now i don’t give such a fuck. there are relics i hold on to but they are not mine. i am theirs.
                dear mom, you look tired. are you sure you don’t want a klonopin? i can go out and grab a bottle of cheap red wine. your daughter just tried to kill herself, your other daughter is all perfect and righteous, and your son has this asperger’s thing that nobody has dared to discuss yet in about twenty-five years- he is coddled instead because nobody knows what to do about it. above all, your own true love, my father, left you on your broke ass about twenty five years ago and you still love him exactly the same way. with all your heart you love him. he is pure. everything else is shit.
                i know how it feels, mom. as much of a pain in the ass i can certainly be at least i pay the rent most of the time, i clean the house, i listen, i go to therapy and take it seriously, i take the meds- i even got a job just to challenge my fears. this is your daughter who challenges her fears as it can be done.
                when i was young, mother, i was so shy. i still feel it the same way. i looked like a dying crocus. but i didn’t tell you how tormented, bullied i’d felt. i didn’t tell anyone. i didn’t tell anyone this but one night i dipped underneath the surface of mud beneath the water i had been balancing myself on. out i came the lotus who feasts on fears as it can be done.
                dear mother, i see too much of "my" self in you. dear mother, please tell me i'm not looking into my future.

                dear mother, i am my own mother, my own father, my own children, my own fast food place, my own favorite band right now (KMFDM), my sense of prioritizing, my very own meat grinder, my favorite band at fifteen years of age (switchblade symphony), my dream pony, my establishment run on prioritizing results, results, losing of a sense of the future.

                i am crawling away on four paws, mother. but i’m gonna say it. nobody called you out for being possibly crazy and otherwise unhealthy. why are you still dating the same guy who’s an idiot that can’t possibly be liked? because he’s great, and you’re defensive over dumbasses, and that too is great? great! great.

Saturday, March 26, 2016

don't be so drastic, the forest
is that which lay

in god's enormous hands
you can't
god's beloved forest
in one night
of course it's going to take forever
because you feel like shit

i don't think i want to be asleep nor do i
want to walk through the waking life.
i learn witchcraft, get  a real hang
on pendulum spells.

there is an armor i wear
eating away at me.
it want to live inside my body
as mold. it wants me to suffer slowly.

for without the languishing, what is suffering? it is not.

my hands are trying to gently capture butterflies
in my terranium filled with my mold. my hands
forgot themselves. it's a dream

about elementary school, except fantastical.
upon waking up, i'm unsure wherefore i have the shit
that's hanging on my walls. none of these
things mean anything to me.
change them.
change. change them.
change them.
change them.

glass birds...

what is cruelty? cruelty is all we don't let go of. cruelty
stems from early man. he fell because of early cruelty,
also known as women. all women are cruel as are
the feminine perspectives of man. you be starlight,
then hesitate, and explode. you be cruelty.
my allegiance to an unknown, opposite side.
my allegiance to no one.
my allegiance
not even to myself.

allegiance to my feminine pride.
to the things i buy.

i know i buy a lot of crack i must smoke
a lot of crack. shit is pure
i know i buy a lot of crack i must smoke
crack a lot. shit is pure as a
shit is as pure as a giggle dream, blue marbles

rolling down the tubes
the tubes i don't believe in
nor do i want to believe
in. so of course,
as it goes, it's my master taming me with the
disconnect that is fear.

a few naked men in lines go to be eaten the executioner is looking forward
to the feast. they piss as they stand in line. everyone feels a sense of
intimacy. all the men begin to love each other because their pee is all
over one another.

deities. they were dismissed to prison and everything
turned to the shawshank redemption- glorious. digging through

a shit tunnel is what the deities apparently
are up to,

i can't believe the movie ended how it did.
the cruelty of knowing.
the cruelty of pretending.
the cruelty of melting.
the cruelty of sundowning.
if you don't surrender, you're being cruel
you must pretend to want to give even if you don't
surviving with morality is about giving and doing

other things you don't want to do.

Friday, March 25, 2016

holy fruit red wine.

there are limbs in the way. i am a flower that
didn't last long. ants cover
one half of my body. i think this is
people wake me back to life with diaphragm punches.

so what if i wanna have to kill the baby...the community will
look down upon me?
suppose i wanna kill you? i'm a guy fucked up by
the image of things; stuck in a hall of mirrors.

i wanna get you undressed in the back
of my van little girl and do harm to your
aryan body. but we're not supposed to talk about that

kinda thing.

girl let me have your half dead flower. girl let me have your half dead flower
my house plant i neglected to let live long.

you and i will get satan to bring more death. (okay, hehe!)
satan is that which we find challenging to work with.

make believe and lies are friends.

tell me, we haven't all done what we believe
we can
to find ourselves in our secrets, to become
apocryphal, the myth, the make-believe. grandiose or impressive.
is that why we don't share
our secrets with each other? are they sacred? must we be
so possessive?
i am picturing the earth as flat and drifting away.
it becomes rectangular. a kid's place-mat. it's stuck to the bottom of someone's
boot now. your secrets mean shit.

the streets.

in an edward hopper painting: there are fuzzy, soft refractions of light hitting the street. the streetlamps
think they know what their restrictions are, staying
fond of them.
the fuzzy circular lights fade as i dream less of escape. intermittently, i take

it all back. i lose interest
in making a sacrifice, or doing
anything, really, out of obligation.

there isn't a solid pool of light to fall into
except they are still there- at least, something
you can lap at,
regretting moving away from
a desire so beloved
in the first place, praying that this will

calm you, hush you- this

is what
it's all come down

a crushed
hydranga blows gently from a lawn nearby. a blue
hydranga, bleeding purple life. it'd been
stepped on- neighborhood boys couldn't
resist. this pom-pom
is resisting dying, so it
dies slowly (the most pathetic thing

you can do).

majesty unknown, hidden
until desperation was known.
my limits screech upward with the dawn, hissing

off tar.

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

cul de whore.

you imagine you're at that age where you're humbled. maybe i'm
half humbled and and half angry, the age of the ugly unveils itself.
i imagine you're living in the past and acting it out to justify
your anger at your inability to act in the present.
you act like- a-n-o-y-i-n-g. i'm sorry to say. and if you get
passive-aggressive, you need to deal with that without me.
of course, i feel i've been there countless times, because my writings
are attacks, thought indirect attacks. i don't give a fuck what
is thought of my work, anyway. the shit i'm not hiding.

she's a hostile shark, the people would say. i've never met such
a viscous creature. she's swerved throughout your forest.
and stays there forever. there's a shark in my head.

you are a mother. you are a hostile mother. you're a bitch to your daughter.
i've been teaching myself how to emulate the movements of starfish. they're
very far away from here. i would live in the wild, placidly
crawling through a scary jungle. i love
sucking on thing. i am nothing without sucking
on things. something
is caught in my throat that i can't get out, i'm all

inflamed and

i need to be taken apart, and redesigned, into receptors
for cataclysms among my neurotransmitters. look at me, i fold
for sleep which i don't really need. i pretend finding freedom is
unimportant. i'm in an age of severe disconnection. i fall for politics.
i fall for doing what i'm told to do. i fail at recognizing the truth
quite frequently and quite often it offends me.

it is a couple of gerbils stuck in my throat. i have to be
pulled by the hair until the gerbils are recovered, i just love jesus.
i simply love jesus i dedicate my life which sucks to him. god

above all else.

Saturday, March 19, 2016


this is mostly wrong- listen to it talk. do you hear it? i'm chasing after thoughts i've held again. i've run so far, so quickly, so many times, you'd imagine i'd regain my composure but i'm still chasing the thinking though i know it died- the thinking dies quickly. this matters more than when people die because, you know, the ideas i experience will change the world. help me evade my grieving. i can't go through this a hundred times everyday, you see. i want to do heroin, so often i've read of it in books it seems dreamy. i want to do cocaine, i've read of it, it seems exactly like what i need. i'd like some acid tabs on my desk in front me silent in the presence of royalty, waiting for me to choose to allow them into my being.
at the end of everything that begins somehow is always a sailboat in the distance i ignore, nearing the sunset- oh, those sunsets- i feel needles slowly dip into my eyes until i can see no longer. beauty pains me with the high threshold i have for it, considering my low threshold for pain. i wish sunsets were gray, drab skies; something wise to avoid.
i cannot seem to search my mind for what i want to remember. it was so simple, the information; i remember believing i was clever for thinking of something simple.
i obsess over it. everything is "theirs"- turn off the light and "they" exist, the other human race we speak of so we can speak indirectly to one another, speak about the language of our shadows. "please don't hurt me," is what we would say if we spoke from sincerity.
i've searched everywhere i go. i've asked myself if i deserve what i want.

we never deserve what we want. and these days, the mind has grown so sophisticated, and merits re-defined into mere interpretations, to the effect that we don't deserve what we need, either. deserve is a word that we use without knowing that what we mean when we use it is that we've victimized ourselves into believing we are a unique right that may not be shared, unless i'm losing my sense of being victimized. that's when i deserve heroin. i deserve cocaine. i deserve lsd. i deserve ecstasy. i deserve glue. i deserve sharpie markers. i deserve methamphetamine. i deserve benzodiazapenes. i deserve to be a doctor. i deserve to be a lawyer. i deserve to be rich. i am owed universal worship. why won't anyone get their heads out of their asses? why? why? oh, because they found a place in which their heads will fit. they need to fall in love with me, it's an imperative. i can't imagine anyone not falling in love with me; fall in love with me.

tongue and gums.

flesh better be enough to gather me, get me through the world.
i do not want to ask my own body favors.
i do not belong to it, though i'm unsure of whether i am
of its. i wake up, look outside. it's a beautiful day.

i feel my saliva slip between my teeth and around my
and gums like come or like angel skin. truly i'm gossamer. i'm stuck
in this cyclic thought of realizing how beautiful i am, i am almost
flying because i am above everyone else- i have no ugliness
inside, no ugliness in need of release, so you see, everyone else

does, even small children these days only care about
mind control as a reward, adults are the same- nobody wants

their ugliness accumulated within their
minds. they're overwhelmed by it, and their distaste for it
drives them as insane as they can go. they cut the crap
with their inhibitions as much as they can to match up
their crises. everybody is crazy; they don't walk bare-footed

in their backyards. everybody is crazy, they're not
smart enough, they manicure everything they've got then say
"oh, i'm so horrible," when they let it go for a moment.

everyone has given up on possibilities except the ones presented
to them, sort of forced on them, except for me. everyone is violent and
trying to purify
themselves and their lives of it, of their focus on being
polluted. "i'm not fire why do i feel like fire?" i hear them think.

then, as they've been trained, they believe
they have to do something about it. they refuse

to let go of it. they're worried

their inner fire will debilitate them, "oh, i know what i'll do- i'll find a purpose. i'll wear black, and find myself in my wearing of black. it'll feel like i'm directing my own movie about my own archetype; i'll go down in dulled, non-existent history and others will go down with me.
"i'll call the next guy i come across on the internet names. i'll insult him over his genetic heritage. it'd be a relieving of my ugliness; i think i'm starting to get the hang of it that that's what i have just like everybody else- but only i am brilliant enough to know. i'll never write a book but i won't need to because my life is turning into poetry. i'm a real renegade- i'm confident in it. i never realized it before that that's what i've wanted.
my allegiances are dark, cloudy secrets- my flag is my ambitions for the near future. (they can be done). something can be done. yes i'm a renegade. i'll take pictures of myself wearing black [at this point the fire is smoking out of their eyes]. the last thing i'll do screaming, 'original sin!' is i'll mold my body against a bomb assigned to me from my sketchy, cloudy allegiances and kill myself and everyone around myself in a supermarket. i'll free them; nobody wants to live, really.
then i will have wings.

(real original).

everyone ever
is envious of my free ride and the space inside my
mouth my tongue occupies as it feels around the
courseness of the roof of my mouth. i am beautiful, protected by
an orb that i cannot leave but also it sets me free. i'll never be dirty only
fear being dirty. "never fuck up," i remind myself, though
it's not necessary.

Friday, March 18, 2016

smile and apologize.

            i am born out of a tunnel into a tunnel. i feel like how i imagine a miner feels, a sense of confusion between life and death. my experience of life seems so formless, as if i'm making the half of it which i care about all up. ABC. 123. the smell of play d'oh is important.
            in my mind is where i keep my thinking, precious like a jewelry box. my thinking remains rigid, of its crystalline barriers i fail to chip away at because how beside myself i am over the perfection under the earth. i must look until it becomes confusing.
            that's when my mind, tightening itself into a fist that has nothing to punch, goes soul searching- having no place to search other than itself, it goes deep inside. oh, ah; shiny.
            the fist, i've noticed, is often provided a symbol of power (which never needs a symbol). power is not an autocrat; power is a golden rule. i continued to think of the same things, in the language i have yet to recognize, i just recognize the dialogue; i continue to wish for my mind the fist that thinks it owns my power to stop degenerating the way it is because i'd love to stop wishing for the same shit. giving up seems like liberation now. i see myself at six years of age thinking similarly to this, however reacting with perplexity and that's all i remember- you know how it is with children, they're busy not ruining the world with reaction after reaction; they're busy generating information then passing it elsewhere, convinced what we do is misplace. such is a defense we share, collectively- how we fear the roots of fear itself being founded in the unconscious mind because we know nothing about it- it's all guesswork- the land of innocence.
            but my conscious gibberish is a real fucking peacock. well, i'm a lost cause, that's for certain; so, where is my mate? my conscious gibberish has yet to find its mate because it has to love itself first. that's not my mission, not if i can help it. it's a pretty tall order after all and as i like to hint throughout conversation i've given up on that kind of life.

            i think now; allow me to repeat what i think aloud. can't make it out. is this what not being able to think is like? what i hear when i say whatever it was i was thinking is that this is my fault; i don't love nature- i overlook the flow of organic movement to the effect that i don't even see it anymore i just see- things not touching each other, not connecting to one another- not having a chance at decomposing because things will not join, thus sparking a union, a birth, a creation. it's a reflection of my mind. how insightful am i to stay mindful of the way the mind works? the mind is a reflection that needs to be reminded of its ripples but i don't know anything about movement- i am a big subterranean hole unfocused on a hope for discovery.

            (don't listen to me- because that which i just said was bullshit.) i just need to change my habits. you know people like me. we just need to get jobs. no, real jobs. no, really real jobs. no, no, no, we're fucking it all up no matter what we're doing we just need to be bought by some autocratic all american company and then everyone in the family will say "congratulations" while clapping their hands. i got a job (not a really real one, nevertheless, note my courage of challenging myself). since i started working where i do, i've fallen back into an old pattern of playing hard to get with my anorexia except i'm not sure who's doing it with who- i think we're doing it with each other. the blind lead the blind.

            now anorexia, like other eating disorders, is exactly like the mind, when you consider that anorexia extends itself from ones brain and convinces one of what it has to say, convinces one to do what it has to say, convinces one to surrender- anorexia is the centerpiece of one’s life. move over, mind. someone else is talking. the mind, similarly, is also seemingly- and convincingly so- an appendage of the brain. as spoken prior, the mind, too, doesn't shut the fuck up about the same old stagnant shit; we are not born with our minds. the mind is a formation of one's reactions, it's a chain reaction itself; a catalogue of greatest hits; both a process and a result at once. the mind and anorexia alike are abstractions, very dark magic veiling ones interrelations with reality.

            but one just has to manhandle the somnambulist experience; just fumble while blindfolded 'til you get the hang of it and hope not to fall down the stairs. all it takes is play-pretend worshiping imaginary images, daydreaming about becoming images ourselves one day. nobody really grows up or loses their innocence- nobody really has any belief in what's happening to them because they're too busy attaching their experiences to judgments. if only we all surrendered to what i consider god. god doesn't know what he's doing, but he doesn't care. god's just a little boy fallen to the planet earth with a magic wand because he'd like to be a magician when he grows up, so he emulates magicians as presented to us now. he asks a lot of questions, never satisfied by the answers he receives; he's a good boy that always listens to his teachers respectfully (which is how heaven and hell were born). his feelings are constantly being hurt; he is always confused by the reactions of human animals.
all the pain from destruction people feel and are so angry at god about is not something uprooted from his carelessness. he's only following what he was taught are wisdoms by his teachers. he's open to pretty much anything. he is a good little boy and i love him dearly.

            "i love nature, why doesn't it believe me?" we're in a car together passing trees. it's the very beginning of spring, the dismissal of winter's gusto, winter's reminder of our mortality (i've looked in its eyes and saw death). we generate the sight of the trees; not a single leaf in sight; they reach upward as much as they can stretch themselves.
            there are some of those trees that i'm certain have seen better days- they look like life has beaten the shit out of them- you know, those trees whose trunks are split into hundreds of opposing directions, wilting with the spectral, self destructing rage of neglected houseplants; like a news headline that was all the rage a few weeks ago but hardly anyone remembers, "paris is on fire again..." feeling crushed, these decomposing trees that look like tall thorn bushes whisper as loud as they can, it's all they can do, their voices are disappearing into the invisibility of oxygen, "why don't you appreciate nature? why don't you love us?" in synchronicity, they all whisper to me and it sounds demonic. i'm so ashamed.
            god looks at me. that’s all he does. his mind is forming, i notice- he's fascinated by my reaction. perhaps reaction is a sacred practice somewhere far from me and i don't know, it is true the mind does not exist without reaction- a chain reaction is the force that is all the mind is composed of.
            at twenty years old he sees himself at twenty-one years of age thinking similarly to how i think now. "don't you love nature enough?" nature is everything, even believing everybody drinks. i see myself at thirty years of age this is the reaction my mind echoes: "you've turned yourself into a machine; it's all your doing!" (i don't care enough that i turned myself into a machine.)

            we must burn our souls like a pile of clothes we were raped in and go on a wild goose chase searching for the perfect cocktail of pharmaceuticals- surely, victory, therein. i wish to relinquish everything if that's what it takes to purify my mind as if such is possible.
            and the clinicians are the coldest people i've ever met- i feel racist saying so because it is a blanket statement but when it's said that doctors have to be callused in order to live in luxury i'd like to say back, "luxury? they look like assholes when people emote and it's their jobs to determine something along the line of why people are emoting," and the clinicians get paid. the clinicians get paid. the clinicians get paid and paid and paid and paid like they're engaging in a coked up jazzy dance and everyone has this bug crawling under their skin just a single bug just like their clients those looneys- life begins to fail to surprise me. i show them as to not talk shit, "my body is a diamond."
upon my revealing my body is a hole that was once a decomposing tree; what is all is nature. (i feel insane in the places that make me safe.)

            it's understandable a clinician bear frustration considering even they cannot get inside my mind as if the mind is a bodily organ- as if it's the same thing as the brain, like how we're trained to believe almost universally. it's not. if only the clinicians could figure me out, considering all their accolades, you'd think they just would operate immediately. how- hard- can- it- be. keep in mind, your pain is your doing. they can't figure out what to do because that's your problem.
            i observe myself in my formation, still with god who has persisted to follow me around. i'm of the ages twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four; i'm of a crystal ball. in a different place in my life at each age, i appear to work harder more or less, and the subterranean hole that's my experience of thinking is still something i'm doing wrong (i feel so badly). i'm still to be blamed for the way i feel and the things i think happening the way they happened; i'm not working hard enough; not reaching high enough to touch, delicately, that shimmering virgin, the impossible standard that i so believe in- maybe i relate to it because it was passive in each and every single choice it made for itself: "they made this happen to me". i'm beginning to believe in solutions because i never did before and my structure was either broken or unknown to me. i have a solution- i want assimilation, i think this has got to be it. i need to be bought.

            i began to hunt for assimilation when in scrubs, stripped of any pride i'd had, in a big white room- yes, they exist. "fuck," i said, cursing even more than usual, reacting to stress as a teapot under pressure from increasingly extreme heat does.
a clinician and walks in with her team of medical students. the clinician, rather brusquely disrupting my speaking, "we do not curse in the psych ward, young lady." (the reason i was there,) i steered the subject, (was because it was all my doing, all my fault. i admit it. i'm not doing what i want to be doing inside my mind.)

            i smile and apologize. i needed to be bought. god wasn't with me any longer. god had moved on.

            my adventures in the consumption of pharmaceuticals, how i have chosen to be bought, prove to be unstable. i gained forty pounds in three months. at the same time, i gained an epilepsy diagnosis, a migraine diagnosis, and i lost my ability to sleep. none of my thinking pain went away. i was going along with the pharmaceuticals to be pleasing to my first long-term clinician. her take on these 'side' effects: "this is supposed to happen- you're coming out of your shell!" even my parents didn't get it.

            i was a good girl after all, i didn't know how to do anything else i was so obsessed with being good- however, conversely, embarrassed. my first clinician diagnosed this, as well as my condition, altogether, with an unheard of title: "a lost little girl lost in her own little world".

            still i went on to just work harder, however i could, whatever "working hard" meant to me at the time. if one is out of reach when it comes to receiving help, one must change their life all alone. (i must assimilate).

            unchanging of bewilderment, help doesn't offer the impact of crises i have a chance to thrive off of. "just get a job," i'd hear. join the masses and my wounds will heal, like beautiful daisies erasing the memories of war. i'd be so distracted by your multi-tasking- i wouldn't...think of myself at all. (throw my awareness out the window.)

            it's my doing, my terror is. i feel the sincerity behind these words so it must be true. fingers of fascists point at me from all directions, 'this is your holocaust, you know,' these are the sickest people i know pointing my way. i know they are manipulating me, so why do i quiver with shame? can i not prevent the manipulation? am i so susceptible? yes, of course i am- all humans are.
manipulated somehow though i don't know how, i see myself overworking, fixed on beliefs that i know are transient- what knowledge drives the beliefs to stay with me, bringing me down, diverting my attention from the truth that's been erased from my memory. all i know is it's my doing, my terror is.

            i'm in my body, coming to after trying to kill myself, hoping i still have a chance at death, hoping at least for the failures of multiple organs. i learn i am a criminal according to a clinician that i presume has never thought extensively about death- at least not with that nihilistic magnetism. god, how i wanted to transmigrate and bury what is this current state as a memory. here i am. the clinician sends me on a guilt trip, leaning over me like a tower not yet lit on fire. "how could you do this? come on, don't you know you have so much to live for? didn't you stop to think about your family, how it would affect them?" all i could fucking think about was how i couldn't work any harder. i couldn't get away from death. i didn't want to get away from death.
            like a flower i blossomed, as i had had enough- i was beginning to get offended, facing the gods of olympia who could do no wrong, on trial time and time again- so over my treatment that i stopped bothering to explain a blow-by-blow account of the things i was doing to attend to life somehow- i didn't tell anyone immediately but much much later i wrote it on my blog that i tried to kill myself because i was way too upset over a boy and i was way too ashamed over it. but i wish not for my suicide attempt to be your climax.
            what it was exactly that was limiting me so, i wasn't to be quite sure- words couldn't describe my limitations. they weren't to be all for me or anything to work hard for.
            i see all of my selves ever, each reverberations of one another- nothing stops any of them from rebelling somehow, because if they don't?- their hearts will be broken when you remind them of the ways they've been reacted to before, when they stop trusting you.
            trust for me is like how love is for others. i want my drug; my drug, my drug. do you know someone that's holding? the act of diving in head first changes everything. you have potential to be the universe because you are the universe-then i don't know who you are any longer because i don't handle it well; i don't handle beauty well and it's the only thing i care about. endings do happen, you know- when my myths that've protected me, seemingly- they now disappear when i need them most. i'm both naked and ugly. i think this is what happened to god, who i've yet to learn from as i perpetuate my unknowing- using it as a weapon, unintentionally.

            my brain is terror, doctor; i cry all day. i only dream nightmares. i do all of my homework, teacher, because i'm terrified of not living up to my potential fully. i'm restless, this is what has become of me.

            you look at me as though i'm protesting against your invasive procedures, doctor- as though i protest against the only thing you know how to do. of course not. i'm glad you've convinced yourself of fulfillment. i'm glad for anyone that can arrange for themself a quick fix.
            i'm willing to take risks to feel like i'm walking among the other people. it hurts so badly, you understand, living does- i think because it seems as if i'm pushed away from the people. i wish i could remember, or focus. i wish i could remember multi-syllabic words.
            life is all about doing, particularly, doing for causes you’d rather not- causes you feel obligated to work for. doing is a real sweetheart, an angel- pearly, luminous, glowing with shimmering fairy dust that graces the planet with its nutrients. i've been touched by doing. i am an angel sent by god with the power of the entirety of mankind, though in the back of my mind, i know equations are bullshit mocking dimensionality- i defensively abide equations (don't you?). i discern a make believe fun little handgun that can shoot anyone. the handgun appears after weeks of staring at my right hand in passive resistance against all else. the gun is mine but i don't have the balls to use it against myself. i decide what i want is to give the people a hand in warming up for their next revolution. the frequency is inevitable- the earth must breathe, right? i walk down a city street more confident in my life then i've ever been; i love this gun. i shoot indiscriminately. i don't want to listen to their noise which too is my own. my mind narrows furthermore into a tight, almost inconceivable tunnel choking itself. i continue to walk, shooting. walk and shoot. walk, shoot. shoot. shoot. my duties are pedagogic. if people are going to die from now on it's because people make weak choices- it must've made them easy to register, to discern their movements from stronger people on the city streets. in my serene angel skin i tug at my own thread- i always have had to busy my hands. the devastation of the planet is in order, i watch as i orbit the planet, so proud of my children. i'm crying tears of joy. i watch it lose itself. (i'm so proud of myself.)
            i defend a recently manifested myth- the planet will be born again with words to describe my former limitations. i don't know anything else, but i am confident i will gain. i can go on now. i may float away in space now, continuously desperate- but i still do have that handgun.

Thursday, March 17, 2016


there's a lot of pressure on a person for them to do with their lives what others want to happen to it. it takes a lot for someone to allow themselves to encourage others to do what they want to do with their own lives considering it's not a projection of the desires of others; it seems awkward, unfitting. especially, there's a lot of pressure on a person to decide whether or not to live because nobody else ever wants the same as what the person in question wants for themselves. people want to live. it's hard for them to believe others don't, underneath it all, no matter what, want to live. i don't want to live. "selfish people," people sneer, as if walking out of church, as if selfishness- one making a choice entirely focused on their desires- is a moral issue.
personally, i feel this pressure. i feel ready to take charge and say to life i've had enough of my disconnect from it, i am ready to move on and i feel so free- because, plainly, my thinking is too much pain for me to handle, and it's been going on too long; for as long as i can remember. i smile a serene smile from ear to ear thinking about myself declaring "i feel so free because i am finally experiencing freedom-"

but it's not so easy. one doesn't always get what they want in spite of these wants being manifested of one's personal desires. we have so many other choices to consider. aren't we so lucky?

this is my choice, aside from the choice i want (making this an ultimatum): i have to consider the effects my selfish choice would have on my family. i have to picture the future. that's what it boils down to- picturing the future. my choice is not so free for me to act on, as it is not entirely dictated by my own desires. we must consider the desires of others, which we will never get close to, or want to get close to, fathoming. that is pressure. which has more weight- the desires of others or the desires of my own? i think they weigh the same.
"others", i believe, would rather i stagnate in my pharmaceuticals and pain. my guilt over a situation that doesn't exist, one i can only imagine- the aftermath of my death- is what stops me from doing what i want- what possesses me; strangles me.

i only begin caring about it when i picture it. i have to, in order for me to know what my desires are up against. i've thought of hiring a hit-man before, many times, so my family- who i often lose patience with- won't feel so badly about my thinking- though, you know, it was myself that was proactive in doing anything i could to "feel better". everyone knows that my mind- that dangerous appendage- would not have any of it; my disinterest in the world i tried to fight shrugged all my efforts off.

why is it so confusing that committing to a selfish choice does not make me a wretched soul? a selfish choice is simply entirely for ourselves. "it's all about moderation," as it's said. a selfish choice has a lot of force, of course it's going to change others- change them into listening, i like to believe.

i don't always feel listened to.
the idea of gardening, for instance, sends me into a daunting panic every spring and summer for the past few years. it was a hobby i took up to try to be...positive. you'd imagine if everything was fine, and i wasn't just overreacting, that i wasn't just being a big baby, that this wouldn't happen with all my goddamned fucking hobbies. the words of poets i like feel like little, mechanical stabs into my heart. all i can seem to think about is how much better than me they are.
this all probably has to do something with my mind, once an appendage, having been eaten away by the terrorizing it, at some point, opened itself up to, closing itself for good, afterward. the terrorizing remains. it took the place of my mind.

other parts of me are still alive but i am not lying when i say my mind is dead.

i've made my ultimate decision (again). i must play hero, live for the sake of my family, and other human beings- you know, the ones that'd eventually get over my death?- to secure the sacredness of their own minds. i don't want what has happened to me to happen to anyone else- and you know, considering what retards people are about death, anything can happen.
in and out of hospitals it'll continue to be for me, my hideous, uselessly smart, pharmaceutical-resistant, self-admitting mind it will be. the same old routine. not that any of that will work, obviously. my mind has shriveled, the same way other people have to lose their arms or legs because the spread of infections caused by bullet wounds leave it to be. i still feel as if i have a mind. and as it goes, i can't see it, so i'll keep convincing myself it's in there, deep within the recesses of my rotted head, if i can feel it. i can't go crazy. i can't go sane. i'm...a living ghost.

"i'm on a mission here, doctor," i'll say as they nod, fully understanding i'm a hero and that's what all of this is about, "i know this is all perplexing and useless and the more i live the less i want it, but my family needs to feel safe and well they have minds unlike me, after all. i'm fascinating; a medical mystery. i love how impressive i am."

Monday, March 14, 2016

custody battles.

karen dalton died in her forties wandering the streets of new york city living for heroin dying of AIDS.

desperation was born when god shit on my senses. if you're living, you don't have to worry about it, do you? but you're not living. you're on all fours getting fucked up the ass, merely surviving. the weight of the world is on your shoulders. there is always something to run from and to crash into.
when i was just a babe, i was taken away by the devil and his red hot poker. something about me liked it. something about me didn't like it. this rendezvous was a formative experience, only because i was two years old. all i remember is experiencing it. i don't remember reacting to it- no, i had better things to do. i must've thought something because it was pretty wild; it was one of the earliest dreams i remember.
the devil said- that from now on my ability to choose is to limit itself to whatever he wants and whatever spans throughout the spectrum of his amusement. his little globe, all of its natural disasters? all my fault. "okay." blink. my eyes were still blue.
he never spoke with me again. he had it with me. we got involved quick and that's all that mattered. all else afterward was up to me to figure out. i remember hearing him say without reacting to it that i'd remained good because i'm afraid of him. "okay." blink blink. i was too old for this shit.
if one is to decide they're okay with romanticism not having to be mutual, than they can easily go on with anything they want; possibilities, outer body experiences, astral projections, all that which the desperate hunt after; ability to acknowledge my origins are of a supernova; abilities to sing so well that people's ears bleed hearing my beautiful voice in some mysterious room with a piano that they can't find but they can't stop thinking about.
but what do i do instead?
i choose to go on with digging my grave in my very own graveyard that i got because my husband is rich. i never have to worry about being abandoned because i will never disobey him. nothing will hurt my feelings: there's a bee there's an ant there's a dirty ol' salesman to hell with 'em all all see nothin' bothers me. nothing will hurt me except the truth that i've been alone too long- and i learned there's a chance that that would be okay if only my dumb ass would learn to love itself, but all i want is a blossoming gardenia hiding behind my sternum.
i am going to make this marriage work. right? there's a chance if i convince myself there's a chance. i am in denial of his carelessness ha ha ha everyone around is laughing at my naivety. so dig, dig, dig! diggity dig! i bury myself and wait for the marriage to work because this marriage has a chance at working, right? diggity dig! yes! this marriage will work should it prove to possibly thrive on indifference. i'm pretty cool, right? i can turn indifferent. all i have to do is develop indifferent feelings toward myself, right? ha ha ha, the world is laughing at my visage of indifference that i cannot see through because i want indifference more than anything. insanity is tiring me out. are you going to laugh at that, too? i'm done with this cafeteria filled with pre-pubescent children holding pint-sized milk cartons they neglect to throw away.
i allow the following to happen, because i'm too nice, and i admit i ought to pay my dues for all the people far worse off than i am. "i'm a cow, moo, moo," zeus has turned me into a lost heiffer. zeus turns everybody into somethin'- he, being the great reincarnator. "i'll protect you from me," the great hedonist devoured. (and then everyone turned stupid.) no. i can't argue against anything. it's not nice to do. i can't argue against anything- i'm dedicated to the black hole of contradiction. if i'm not this way, if there are other choices- well, i can't imagine them.
however, somethin' funny happened. i noticed i was unable to read people wholly from their eyes anymore; i felt like i lost my colossal empathy. there was nothing i could understand; nothing i could discern. so i made up a land of my own (one bestowed by zeus). this land was a bitter land of bitter crops on cracked desert ground. this was a land of powerful insensitivity because that was the best i could do.
and i was alone in my world not in love with itself. a moist wind passed but mostly stuck to my sweating skin. i'm no gravedigger, so it turns out, but i didn't want to go anywhere unless i was being dragged around by any of the extremities even if it meant losing a limb or two. but i wasn't going anywhere. i was alone. i wanted to wait for something exciting to happen to me but i'd been doing that the whole time. the floodgates of my denial had been breaking down from an enormous mob contained behind them. so i begin to search for myself, sitting perfectly still. i had nothing better to do.

i learn to cut myself a great deal in my search for myself. but the more i do it the more i try to stop. now that i want some fucking privacy someone approaches, some real goddamned caretaker- "what are you doing? what the hell do you think you're doing?" at this age i react, listlessly, disaffectionately- "oh. i'm just taking some real goddamned care of myself." cocksucker points a gun between my grayed once blue eyes- "stop it! stop it now! drop your weapon! hands over your head, now!" my demeanor doesn't change- "oh. it's okay, officer. i don't even like it. this is not a threat at all. i don't even trust this is even happening."

"hands over your head hands over your head i said now hands over your head bang bang!"

death works similarly to life:

i have needs. i understand my needs are convoluted because, according to several books on the subject i evade addressing, i never grew up past the age of two. something happened like my senile grandmother or my senile mother left the room in which i was alone.

it's easy for me to want to be regretted- the word for this is to sabotage myself. now i've been forebode from the entirety of the multiverse because it's too boring, it's too stupid, i've fucked every guy in all of them without their dick even getting anywhere near my pussy. these guys are human sacrifices for my fertility.
i need that fertility. the children i birth are all- how to say- diminuitive. that's so sad. i have to eat them, their future sorrows will never have a chance at rooting themselves in my runty rabid rodent children. they'd confuse me with their crying, anyway. they'd cry all day. i put a stop to this before they have a say; let's just say i'm pro-choice, just putting the kids to sleep. "when i was your age," i scream down my own throat, "i wouldn't have ever eaten unless my mother fed me."
then i surprise myself when i stomach this. i don't throw up all over the goddamned place. i am fulfilled; satiated- however, still looking for the meaning of life.
i continue onward by dreaming about swimming with sharks circling me. (what's the difference between being brave and completely stupid?) taking a chance intentionally is the difference between being brave and being completely stupid.

i can't reach for the shit i'm filled with buried deep in my throat. i give up; the work seems absurd, i don't want to believe anything is absurd. i do not care about anything i am unwilling to give a shit. i pout my arms are crossed my hands are in fists i'm stomping my feet i'm not a day older than two i still look and act so. managing going down a spiral regularly is hard enough, you see. so look at me now i have no arms no legs my belly is filled with gas due to starvation because i took a shit long ago.
oh- oh, would you take a look?! i've changed into the image of a dark african woman- impregnated, starving, but impossibly for the same kinds of stuff i starve for.
the two images, hunger for filling emptiness and hunger as a basic need being unmet, stand next to each other, but only as dichotomies; two guilty dichotomies we've finally caught and are going throw away in the slammer where they belong. then everyone will get nice and plump, bouncy.
but not me. i choose neither, i am hooked to shame. shame is still on the loose.

and if i have no choice i choose to be the starving african woman because i'd rather look like someone who looks nothing like myself, my sicknesses not chasing me- no- not to this body that looks nothing like the blue eyes body i was born in and think is so fucking ugly- besides!- i like her more than i like myself, of goddamned course. you've got to choose a side these days- because if you don't choose a side, you're ostracized, you're ostracism itself (intellectual property of kathy acker) you're waiting for death on a rock in the middle of the red sea crying some plaintive, pathetic plea for help; probably screaming "mommy"; probably sucking the tiny cock of god in between whining about how you're so goddamned sorry. right? right.
i'm going to get wonderfully warm clothes in lovely textiles and a thanksgiving goddamned feast for all them poor folk. that's how i'll reel them in, because the truth is i can't wait to impose all my ideologies on any they might have, because i know how susceptible all human animals are- i have an agenda intended to last eternally- now is a perfect time to share it with them because no time like the present i know so little about.

autobiography cont'd.

a memory from long ago haunts me like a motherfucking ghost. it's one of those dead-ended relationships you'd rather not have. it's when i was warehoused like some shit furniture filled with bricks and my former abuser and friend "cheated on me" (so to speak) with each other on a goddamn yacht when i needed something, someone, help, someone to help me devise a plan to get out of there as soon as possible. but he kept screaming at me then hanging up on me on the twenty-five cent psych ward pay phone because he didn't have a threshold for the wilderness of my emotion. my mother kept hanging up on me. i was panicking in my intensifying loss of awareness, drawing myself to the guys there with my girl body and girl giggle, often spending my days all day watching these other warehoused lost souls- not one of us belonging there- lumbering down the tiny hallway and back whispering to themselves- it felt like i was watching a movie about the souls of old zombies; souls in a foggy marsh that hadn't crossed to the other side.

but my boyfriend, the abuser, and my friend were too busy fucking each other to give me a goddamned hand.

the ache of betrayal seems to always be around, lurking, though i don't know what it looks like- i know what it's into. it is as if i don't lay down for rest- no, i don't like the vulnerability that seems like it's about to swallow me when i do that, it's terrifying- i lay down because my skull is crushed and i can't take this forcing myself to live shit any longer.

i remain unsure and confused over what exactly happened other than this was the only time in my life relationships died not because i was driving the others out of their fucking minds- not to deny that that, of course, was a factor. (it's always a factor).
guys had messed around with others while dating me before. i'd done it, too, out of sheer impulse- unforgivable, unspeakable things i've done out of impulse that i will deny if ever guessed at for the rest of my life. shit happens. that's reality. when my former abuser and friend budded a romantic relationship- when they started acting like they were in love- i think i'd rather trade in the memory, the knowing of this for more terror to pile on my lap. i never, ever want to deal with this kind of shit again i swear it i'll kill everyone involved. i mean, when we visited her when she was in the looney bin after the cops picked her up, and they made out in the visitor's room while i watched my feet, trying to be sensitive, convinced that i was selfish, as usual, then fought with him later- and you can imagine what fighting with a sociopath might be like.

i think what upset me about it most was their seeming indifference and complacency.

perhaps i long for indifference and complacency myself, but, what? why didn't they end it later? i am an unfortunately highly perceptive and intuitive human animal i think i know when something is up- i seem to always know when something is up, i even think something is up when nothing is up- and when people are cuddling and baby talking with one another in your bed that you bought for the one of them that you're dating, you know something is up.
why not go all the way with the insensitivity? i tried to confront both of them several times. what's going on? "nothing." change of subject.

cowards. one of them dead. one of them went on to make it in life, as a psychologist- a success story that overcame adversities. you might want to warn your children.

the fear of "bringing out" indifference or complacency from others has loomed nearly since so of course i perceive indifference and complacency from those i wish the least to receive it from.

today my new boyfriend calls me. i can't break this new monogamy thing since it began, because i feel humbled. but he's a complete retard.

i'm crying. in life, i wish i could have more control over my crying. but i can't quite stop yet.

"what now." sharp as whip he retorts to my crying.

what, praytell, do you want me to do? shall i suck it in until i explode, by myself, later? or shall i pretend i'm feeling differently, pretend my feelings are easy to deal with- because you're worth all of this? just suck it up, fake it, and kill myself the second i get off the phone with you? is the reality of my accumulated pain funny? you think this is comfortable for me to worry about what you've been up to?

but nothing happens; he doesn't react. asshole. my pain is a little bettered. so i stubbornly hang up the phone just like how my mother, my dead abuser and dead fucking everyone else hung the phone up on me.

then i worry i've "lost" him.

i've held an aversion to the role of the obsessive for a long time. but without obsession, i'm dead.

i call him back and remind him that i'm crazy. i ask for forgiveness.

looking outside, i notice the cars; notice them moving quickly. i imagine him, the devil, sitting aside me , defining what colors the sky is. the bed, no doubt, is grey- grey, unkempt, and littered with remnants of food.  i need to stay here. if i leave the room, i'll walk in on my mother having sex with her most recently picked up barfly. i'll begin thinking genitals are disgusting.

so i decide- the sky is an electric lavender. i imagine it over an ocean at the same time my head is in an oven. because you do not say to me, "i see that faraway look in your eyes again," i sigh before giving up on you, bravely declaring that i want to suicide but it's not like i'm going to or anything. then, i put my head in the oven in the fucking room.
i regret telling you all this because i regret being the catalyst of the end of our relationship. i'm always a catalyst, a real agent provocateur. if only everyone could see how pathetic i am with these bed sores all over my ass and i could see theirs too and most of all our avoidances of one another. i have a lot of sicknesses as much as they are suffocating the world a pillow on the small mouth of desdemona.

my life isn't worth anything without drugs and debauch in it, transforming it. give me death.
nothing i say makes sense to me. the only thing i want is for the stuff i say to make sense to everyone else- my "process". i would like for it to be wisdom, everywhere.


gentrified town.

boy, i start to die, trying to touch
your lips of artifice that protest against
mine, warm-blooded. i'm tryin'

to teach you how to kiss; i'm being
generous- i'm convinced
your kiss. you
are somethin' to stare to at in
stillness, to place high above me. can i
carry on with my belief?

must i allow
exhaustion, humiliating me with its
blemishes? i can hardly
move my long body any longer. i am old.

it is time for one of us to go, time
to risk myself
and my idolatry.
you are killed. i swim again,

warm again. upon looking back,

i recall only my own movements.

you would not
die or live without me.

Sunday, March 13, 2016

cloudy days every day.

^more reading aloud.

Saturday, March 12, 2016

i love you.

the priestess.

help, help; your language no longer bears
a meaning to me- i can only hear and fear it; not long
ago, i didn't question
my belonging inside its fluency, its guts. but
i am old and heavy,
unbelonging, unbelonging; nothing will stop this; i love

reality in spite of my protests. expectations
of the uncomfortable, the rambling, indecisions; the
drastic choosing, the impulses; fear of
never feeling better; repeating itself- the rambling.
the unknowing of meaning- long ago i lost
my relating to such.
o old gods stagnating in my mind as a result
of its gravity, speak clearly.
how i wish i was one to
speak clearly. there are no voices. there is
no such existence as the present.

Friday, March 11, 2016

backspace for attention now, please.

i work the register at a drug store, but let's not get too ahead of ourselves here- i really don't like it, my manager has a hot load of negative energy, last night i swallowed something awful like, just wanting to sit for five minutes and drink water, which i in turn questioned my "willingness" to participate in life over, and then i DIDN'T fuck up a transaction, just assumed i did, and all those same demons that circled and swirled the original siddhartha came to me and i couldn't take it anymore and broke down. apparently, this is commonplace there.
needless to say, i haven't been trained (i only started recently), so i feel at a loss- thus, turning inwardly to my old friend "rigid, blinding, cancerous depression". oh, and anorexia, to an extent. but i mean everything is funny when life seems to light you on fire as your "purpose", because it's just one of those things that seems pretty unbelievable- though the concept of a personality is kinda weird, too. people say my focus, my drive on accepting and changing my relationship with my emotions is either me labelling myself (though i admit a sickness in one culture is pure light in another), or it's me searching passively for answers that just aren't true; that everything i put myself through?- mere marketing scams i've fallen for, as if i haven't thought through my lifestyle choices thoroughly.  how neurotic an emotional reaction of these people- as if they might have minds, too- ones they deny.

i have cried perhaps exceedingly all day today, before and after therapy, though i find the new module and therapists i work with relieving, pro-active, refreshing, and helpful. it's just my mood is shit. i left therapy and i'm all, "i can't remember one goddamn thing except how much of a snob i seem to myself, in spite of my friendliness, and how i was worried i'd forget everything 'kuz as a rule of thumb, i do do that, and how i was worried i'm addicted to help again." perhaps i was in pain from my part iatrogenic part psychogenic migraine condition and my knowing i'm chronically on the verge of going places i don't but do want to depart to. therapy is hit or miss like that when your "mind" is discombobulated.

and now i'm laying down because i wanna feel better in spite of my silly fear of laying down and feeling incredibly vulnerable during the day. pardon my verbosity. it's just that i kicked my favorite friend out of my life just now and i'm devestated either way but if it'd be transient, if i made the conscious choice to "end" something, the devestating pain caused by emotional reactions toward relationships goes away, guaranteed. right? i don't know where self sabotage comes from but it permits me a graveyard filled with skeletons of dead relationships- death by inability to trust other human beings when they're not in front of my face. does that make sense? does sense make sense? does anything make any sense? of fucking course not.

Tuesday, March 8, 2016


i wanna show you how alone i don't want to be; i need to feel your aloneness more than i had my own before, mr. cold; i know nothing about myself without my constant snow i make to keep you alive- you stay when it snows- i don't know what you do without it.
if all my secrets became stars, i'd make them die- they're not bright or intimidating- do you know how many demons they are possessed by? they are nothing special, as they say. give me a cupcake and i'll eat all the cupcakes i'll become all the chemicals of the rivers, i cry after doing something to get something but not getting something right away. give me somethin' special, i want. make sure it's a propaganda, i love nodding out. give me a fucking teddy bear with a recorder in it. you know i'll sleep with this fucker for the rest of my life.
it will never replace me. it will never think.

mr. cold; i want you to know i am the eater of the zillions of cupcakes and shit do i feel shame about it- and no of course i don't fucking like the way any of it tastes; give me something better, idiot. at the times that i've did it, i mean, that i've did eaten those cupcakes and did eat those shits it was a rebellion against reason- the acts were thoughtless and i felt bad and like the world was shrinking around me so i ate more shit and cupcakes to focus on something else, something other than my claustrophobia.
and besides- i was apathetic about the repercussions of what i did, seemingly perpetually on the fence concerning my willful behavior. i consider that i know sometimes i am tired from being a big baby and at times i don't give a fuck about things/anything.
i ate cupcakes i ate shit and i did everything i could to throw up and i couldn't do it 'kuz toilets disgust me so i can't gag the vomit- this constitutes....failure.

it's a "value" of mine to be a cold uncaring dick when people are sick as a result of never taking care of shit and always complaining, 'kuz i don't sympathize with those that don't take care of themselves- they are in my way they make the world seem unpleasant. it also offends me 'kuz of all the care i took of myself and it wasn't going anywhere no matter what i did- i taught myself how to do headstands for crying fucking out loud. instead- when i wasn't doing my handstands?- instead, i was subjected to watching people who were everything i wanted to be- anyone except myself. i got to see them treat themselves like shit and get away with it and just love the hell out of life.

i continue to clean up after all of you and your beliefs in what represented fulfillments to you. congratulations- trying is important. finding a representation for "fulfillment" constitutes an "e" for effort.

the one repercussion that does matter- always matters- is shame. shame, o- that's when i feel badly about myself for my participations in life, my actions. for ninety-six years i've been fucking up but i take my medications so i'm a wise man; a recluse on a mountain petrified in a petrified ant hill. i've got nothing to be ashamed about so what the hell, why do i suffer shame? why? why the fuck?
this repercussion, though, and all the other ones- all of them, combined, are something less frightening than the unknown that is action not taken- that to which i would ask myself, "who am i now?"
better eat a fucking cupcake to pacify the ideology of identity i don't give enough of a shit about. repercussions it is because "who am i now?" without them fueling my every next move. (who am i now?)

i don't wanna be responsible for my actions, but i want to manipulate how they will go- what they will give me because all that matters is that i have. it is beyond important, let me tell you, that my actions dictate a life of poetry and it better be my life we're talking about here. my life of poetry remembered in my life and in my death- little do i know it's the death that's the real poetry 'kuz i don't believe in endings! life and death, difference unknown. nobody is watching, worst case scenario. nobody cares? it's 'kuz everyone is stupid and paying attention to bullshit. this is when i get all existential which is the schizophrenia in us all so i'm supposed to feel sad!- i feel sad! (i don't want to feel sad. i'm crying. pacifier, please.) where does wanting come from and does sadness come from it?

some friends of mine hold deeper reservoirs of shame than i ever will the sky is filled with their secrets/stars i fear their fires. these people drag the gravity of their physicalities across the surface of the planet whose flesh grinds against the ground on which they walk, falling apart throughout their sex, in their incidental asceticisms- fuck. them. nobody is allowed to be "more" of anything than me/ i'm tired of everyone being better people than i am- my stars...

...are dull. look at them- look, where i point. pretend you see my stars. i tell you the constellations; i tell you when they died yet how they still exist somehow. i tell you how you better love me because i am a fury- latin for...for...for fuck you. one day you'll be lost and meaningless and unhappy in your meaninglessness and unsure over the polarization of happiness and unhappiness anyway why do we need this made-up bullshit- why can't i just be how i am without being injected with toxic sludge and shit that makes me have to mask my emotions- why do i choose to be afraid?

you know, it's clear to me everyone except me does what they can to convince themselves that they are in charge of creating dimensionality and for way too many years they've been trying-and unconsciously knowing it's not working out- to create a dimension a complete wall out of avoidance.  these alchemists and their boredom, their love for regulating, their love for ignoring all the beautiful things that already are there whether we "have" them or not. these alchemists these people and their possessiveness now it's genetic!- shut the fuck up and die i'm tired of observing your boring behavior but especially die. (as if i'm not one of you). you're not doing anyone any favors.
the alchemists have been trying to make fear really impossible to escape in order for me to not escape, in order for me to compromise everything that i believe in no matter what it says about me...why-am i-dragging-along-too-as-somebody-who-knows-better in a parade that stinks and is overstimulating with the noise and the amount of shit going on around me? is that because i'm "too [fucking] smart" too?

the never-wary heart.

my heart is in my chest. this is not a heart symbolic of romanticism. this is my heart which i will die if i ever see though, so close-! how close we are! it's like my little baby that i don't know how to ween myself off of. who is rocking who to sleep? i don't go to sleep. it must be so that neither of us go to sleep. we go from dream to dream skipping space skipping all that must be. from k-hole to k-hole; new drug introducing new drug. seizure to seizure. new phobia as a fad to abandonment of such for whatever is new and cool when one is bored. sweet jesus my heart is getting attacked by me.
dreaming- i was only dreaming. i wait for my abandonment and at that same time will happen the explosion in my chest. soon, i will be alone, moving on from not being alone, and i will know everything.

Saturday, March 5, 2016

god bless the child.

general surgery: i am opening up a little bit. the insignificance is the part that hurts. my brain will never re-structure on chemical injury. my kidneys are dead as is my thyroid and my liver my brain all because the mind is a waste if you don't empower it.
(patience li'l child or i'll hurt you again)
who said that.
(patience, li'l child. i ought to cause ya pain.)
gasp. gasp. i'm havin' me a heart attack.

(patience you don't wanna be a chicken, do you? well, you are. chicken. bock bock bock. patience, or else we'll pump you with antibiotics....hormones...anti-depressants....psychotropics...
in desperation, i would do anything. and i will, because i'm desperate right now.
i'm simply desperate for anything that'll get me to seem a new way for the future. i'm simply desperate to distort the past for the future. i simply gotta overpower the tradition of the obituary- i gotta disobey god and be an entity-less human-rot being paved into marble. "uncanny how this marble is dead and we won't even admit it."

"when it truly be dead, said the african man, we are incapable of admitting such."

oh, venerable stink- i keep
sliding in and out of my ego's ecstasy-
though i want my ego to be dead- i enforce

its slavery on- myself-

nothing else is moving- i break not-
into a sweat. i feel like i'm in a factory. yes, the urgency is mechanical- made
for the masses.
i am going inside your mouth or mind, 'kuz i love you. love means acceptance, like
the acceptance of my wounds, sweeping over my nuded body in a sandsweep. i hear
the sinking the falling the believing the claiming to know the knowing the ought to
be knowing

i am aware of my blood it's red red red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red redred red red red red red red red red                                   red like a relationship.

oh look i am so famous dreams come true. i took a picture of my face and hung it up in public. i am frozen in time, a trick, impossible reality, a god- a person that isn't a person, merely an image, so you can sic dogma on it.
all i see are images. even staring at beautiful things i don't feel pleasure. typical american. i make a living of the economy leeching off of the process of my work by trying to make me normal by assaulting me with advertisements.
red red red. red sunset red lips red blood of the elderly and too the young. red the artist and their symbolizings- their portraits of symbols of reality for the current motherfuckers on their thrones. there is no cause but red. red swan. red knife. red crow's nest. first red breasted robin i did see yet today. red denial of our obvious tiredness- is it too obvious?- red god my fucking back aches sometimes. i it still to have my portrait turn red my color of coldness and of heat- red- the agony! the agony! i paint the queens and learn to victimize myself over it. often, i see people do the same thing. i see parents treat their children like shit in public all the time and all i do in response is get transfixed. (how may tonsils do you have removed?) (nine thousand.) (awesome.)