Thursday, June 24, 2010
Comfortable at my desk, in the theatre, planning the blocking for "Lysistrata"... horn of a car strategically placed in time -n- mind as a reaffirmation of the correct path chosen- early tonight, the echo of now- weed and beer avoided; mind remains clear and focused... as if it all came to any given moment's knocking on the door of memory and demanding to speak with the truth...
Memory: The truth? Who is that?
Moment: Surely you remember- he lives here.
Memory: What does he look like?
Moment: Well... kind of... sort of... like...
Memory: Nobody lives here by tht description, get lost. (he goes to close the door)
Moment: Wait! Wait- I saw him go in here, not long ago.
Memory: Go in where?
Moment: Here- this house.
Memory: You must be mistaken pal, nothing in here but us memories.
Moment: If I could just look around.
Memory: In here? You can't come in here.
Moment: Why not?
Memory: You belong out there.
Moment: I'll just be a moment.
Memory: Funny, a real wise guy. Get in here- but make it quick.
(The Moment enters the house of Memory)
Moment: It's different in here than I thought it would be.
Memory: You've been here before- you just can't remember.
Moment: Who's that?
Memory: That's you 5 minutes ago.
Moment: Doesn't look like me.
Memory: Never does.
Moment: What's up with him?
Memory: That's the Memory of a Dream- still thinks he's real;
Moment: Where's he going?
Memory: To be forgotten.
Moment: What's up there?
Memory: Memories of Childhood.
Moment: And over there- who are they?
Memory: Impressions of Past Lovers.
Moment: Why are they so sad?
Memory: Being only impressions of love they are unable to stem the tide of lonliness.
Moment: Happy I'd be, if never again a lonely moment I saw.
Memory: Who was it you were seeking?
Moment: The Truth-
Memory: Watch your step!
Moment: What was that?
Memory: The abyss. It yawns open from time to time- especially in the kitchen.
Moment: May we look there?
Memory: What time to do you have?
Moment: Sorry, I don't wear a watch.
Memory: You don't care to know where you've been and where you're going?
Moment: I'm a busy man.
Memory: I see. Oh! there's someone we should ask... Goodday sire, have you seen The Truth lately?
Fact: Can't say that I have.
Moment: Who are you? You seem familiar.
Fact: I am a Fact.
Moment: You don't say.
Fact: Actually I do.
Memory: He's a bit pretensious- if you know what I mean.
Fact: If knowing you are right is pretense - then that I am.
Fact: Right. Of course I'm right.
Moment: Do you know the Truth?
Fact: I am familiar with the name. What are the color of his shoes?
Moment: Black- no White- no...
Fact: Make up you mind lad. One or the other- there is no inbetween.
Moment: Well, you must know him beyond what shoes he wears.
Fact: Shoes are very important. Does he frequent the pub?
Moment: He's everywhere if you ask me-
Fact: Then what's the problem? If he's everywhere then why are you looking for him?
Memory: "Because, because, because- because of the wonderful things he does!"
(Fact and Moment look over and roll their eyes)
What? How can I forget.
Moment: Look- I'm just looking for the truth- I need to talk to him.
Fact: About what?
Moment: About why I'm here.
Fact: Well, that's easy- you are here, first and foremost, because of the Big Bang-
Moment: Yes, yes, I know-
Memory: He was there.
Moment: What I mean is- Why am I here? Forever present and always incomplete...
Fact: Forever divisible and infinitely able to multiply yourself ~ I'd say you've got it made.
Moment: You're missing the point. Where is what I am and what is what we aren't and who says when we go where we go while wending away our substance on the inebidible waves of thought-
Memory: That reminds me- I left my soup on the stove. Good day, gentlemen. (he exits)
Moment: Why'd he take off?
Fact: He's limited- he's forgetful.
Moment: I thought the house of forgetfulness was across the street...
Fact: It is. That's where he goes to eat.
Moment: I see...
Fact: Look, the Truth is bound to find you- if it hasn't already. Go back out there- and do what you have to do. Get things done and move on. You're too real to get mixed up going house to house in search of the Truth.
Moment: Yeah, I guess. It's just that... ya know... sometimes I get to thinking that wouldn't it be nice to know- just to say, sure, I know the Truth, we go way back.
Fact: I hear you. Think about it from my perspective- everyone expects me to know the Truth. And when I tell them that everything is relative- they get pissed... Look kid, you just keep on rolling along and before ya know it you'll be happy and safe with a billion-billion little moments sitting around your rocking chair listening to you tell stories about the way things are.
Moment: I guess you're right.
Fact: You know I'm right.
Moment: If only we could ask the future...
... to be continued ...
...The Moment Enters The House Of Memory... a play by swagbelly
Another day rolls its lip- smirks, smiles or snows... the hummingbird theatre breathes in people, fills their brains and exhales them gently back into the real world. We staged the play I wrote for you- last night before last. Andres came down with Eve, Sasha and Brandon... for several hours the children played and the chance to ask the stage a favor arrived- they read from the script, a revised version; I set the stage and played air-organ; Andres directed. Fun was received and given by all. The week before my two page play "Warlord George" was staged at Chico's house. I had written it on the spot for the company gathered: Chico, Colleen, Ray, Angelo and Me. We was mucho high at the time. Rehersals for "Lysistrata" (aristophenes-adaptation by swagbelly) are wild, intense and sexually charged- the cast is an amalgamated eroticism (the women) balanced by a gruff and lonely bunch (the men) - this combination makes for curious vibes and unheard of theatre, at least as far as we can see and hear through the sick din of a shameful war. What the fuck!?.... Dana, the theatre asks if I'm here and wonders where you are. I have no answer for her, but I assure her that I am yet crazy and you dream of her still... Love, Matt :)
When I was a kid I wanted to be a professional football player...
in the 6th grade Erich Jeffies told me that I was too small to play in the NFL- he was right; I knew it immediately and like many incidents of my youth I took it entirely too hard... bursting enthusiasm met, shortly after inception, by the insistence of an emotional train wreck... those days are gone- my love of football has survived and the theatre, friends and forms bred together among endless days and nights, has come to soothe the pain and suggest the way by which life can be more than repeating mistakes and struggles- a path shown to be true by the light of art and the strenght of the human will as it reaches to understand, attain and experience the very essence of what life may become, that which it is most certianly already is, and has been-
Clever rhetoric, I know, and only able to travel as far as its meaning is appreciated, more so felt, drifting the vast expanse of the mind and passing like cosmic jelly pore to pore, cell to cell and through the tiniest particles of our everpresent, though invisible souls which mask the truth with inventions of horror and mirth, hatred and kindness- how is anyone supposed to know what anyone else is ... is ... is ... is ... up to or intending when the fabric we act out in is fraught with the apparent impossibility of our ever understanding its true dimention-
I've contradicted myself, haven't I? Good, unfortunately the dual nature of apparent reality, ascribed by observation & in - and of actualization of what some consider to be an elaborate system of smoke and mirrors, remains necessary to figure out... what? (this letter is being taken over by an Alien named Harold. Matt has apparently lost his cookies. So bear with me, Harold, and we, the Empurvian collective, will attempt to elucidate certian concepts, or emotional rollercoasters threaded onto a rather thin line, which seem to be seeping out of Mr. Kubala's brain...)
Harold: I love you. Take it however you wish and -
Frank: Harold! What have we been talking about in Human Love 101?
Harold: The kissing of soft wet lips.
Harold: The moist coupling of-
Frank: Harold! Love is the foundation of human existence- all responses are rooted in love: hatred, yes, and happiness, jealousy, trust, kindness and on and on- in that light, Why have you begun your letter to Dana with the words "I love you"?
Harold: Because... because... I love her.
Frank: How is that possible? We operate on the 5th plane of 7 and they on the 3rd.
Harold: Well, I was delving through Matt's brain and I felt what he felt and-
Frank: Yes, yes, but human love is fraught with complications and impossible dreams.
Harold: But his wasn't.
Frank: Yes, perhaps... perhaps you did not delve far enough.
Harold: Well, his thoughts are mellow and happiness hovers, waiting for him at any given moment.
Frank: But has he not been somewhat sad these last few days?
Harold: Yes. His friends placed a certian awkward distance between them and him when the play had concluded its run.
Frank: Ah, the play. What a wonderful experience for all involved.
Harold: Yes, that time carried a fundamental communication which weathered many complications and was offered simply and clearly from the entrance gate of the heart of theatre. But it drained him of his ability to discern the true meaning of the social fabric enveloping his senses.
Frank: He became very sensitive and his heart broke a dozen times on the shores of heaven, receeding back to earth where beer said "we are all here", where cigarettes occupied the nerves of stale habits and pot, marijuana, strove to maintain the high of the sweet relationship with the theatre he had established.
Harold: And then he came to this letter- his spirit rose to greet dear Dana.
Frank: Yes; Harold, do you think it is time to turn the letter over to Matt again?
Harold: Of course, I got carried away.
Frank: It is easy to get lost in the human brain...
Dana-is that you? Something weird just happened. I was here, see, writing words to you, striving for meaning beyond meaning, tempting thoughts of you from memory, when suddenly, unexplainably, I was transformed! Into what I cannot be certain- suffice to say a mirror would present a different story, an observer would swear their life on the assertion that I had not moved in any other fashion than would a fellow composing a letter to a dear friend.
Shapes of experience altered
by the ropes of experiment,
tones of verbs and nouns
transformed into notes otherworldly-
nonsense warped by the waves which
consume and mold our day & age...
I had been sleeping in the theatre... there being some time between projects I have moved back to my apartment... My roomates went home for the weekend so I am sprawled on the couch watching "Revenge of the Nerds"...
We have the theatre space for three months, maybe more- there are 4 projects I have in mind: the first, an adaptation of "Lysistrata", a play by Aristophanes, is underway- it is scheduled to go up April 4th, Sara Steelman is organizing everything and I am slated to direct. I received an adaptation written by some word-jockey with a knack for overstating the obvious, oversimplying the shape of drama and ignoring the essence of the relationship between women and men. It was a one joke play (a pussy/penis joke) and, "not to speak it profanely", lacked the depth and beauty of Aristophanes' original. So, I went by the library, checked out a copy and am now in the process of an adaptation- going line to line, preserving as much of the original script while altering obscure references, inserting modern phrases as clues to the meaning of the text, augmenting the dramatic action with 20th century comedic standards... After that we had in mind some children's theatre- a woman has been calling about puppet theatre and I've met an IUP student who does puppetry as well. My nieces, and staci's son Morgan, enjoyed the set we put together for "A Sunny Morning". Bright colors and recognizable features... after that I'm thinking about a staged reading of one of my plays, a performance art piece involving surveillance cameras and spontaneous improv skits. The energy is positive- the change is coming, the chance to do good works available... And in May, a new play, now in blueprint stage, entitled "The Ghost of Buster Keaton", with the versitile Chico as Buster Keaton (in imagination he is perfect for the part)... Ambitious, yes, but possible... if I remain clear headed, letting not the twisting quality of collaborative art knot my mind 'round my heart as to create impossible avenues bespotted by the marks of trial, however petty, mundane or daunting they may be... it is 1:30 am, the nerds have triumphed...
Ah! "The Rockford Files"- I loved this show as a kid... show as a kid... That new song from the Red Hot Chili Peppers is cool, sweet, on it. The video is right on - "Can't Stop" is the tune- "...this life is more than just a read through..". My stomach is shrinking... when I get involved with a gig I sometimes forget to eat... Where are you Dana? Has California acquired the tenor of your grace, the pulse of your energy? or does she yet resent your brightness and play contrary to your moods?
O ← a drop of milk from a cup of milk which did, once upon a time, compliment those two peanut-butter-n-jelly sandwhiches I ate...
Do you remember that Bobby McFerrin song from 1989? Ya know, "Don't Worry Be Happy" ~ play it in your mind, if you remember. I saw a biography about him awhile back - he conducts a symphony, in Minnesota, I believe... "South Park"... the TV offers, the ads suck dry the brain... its late, ideas dribble incomplete... I will return tomorrow, goodnight Anad...
Well, Sara Steelman called me. She sounded nervous, slightly flustered by this idea of not using Mr. Adam Websters's "vaudville" script, as she calls it. Oh Dana, it is far from vaudville! It's more like Teletubbies for Adults! With the added pretense of having been derived, by clumsy hackney pillaging, from the great Greek Playwright Aristophanes.
I don't know why I'm so hotly set against this particular adaptation; let this not resemble an ego trip- my it be clearly presented that the theatre itself has spoken; she needs not another piecemeal attempt at pleasing the lowest common denominator!
Let Broadway appease the mass for their cash! Let Fox network get fat on T&A and blunt violentainment! Let the community theatre's perpetuate the same 30 or so plays! But let it be of the record that the hummingbird theatre stands humble and ready before the task of expanding the prospect and practices of the theatrical arts... I guess we, Sara, John Henry and I are going to Pittsburgh tomorrow to see versions of the AW adaptation of "Lysistrata" performed. It should be and interesting day. Though, tonight I must continue work on my adaptation and prepare my argument for a version closer to the original (whichever translation be used)... Where are you Dana? In your room? On the trail? In the mountains? Have you had the opportunity to run naked through the forest? Lying in the moss listening and feeling the air ease subtle messages all over your skin... or is it too cold? Too many people?
I miss you... raging and bleeding pure life in my room... bursting random ways in actions quick, precise and out of control while maintaining control... your mad scribbling of poems on bits of paper... your wild hair... soft lips... your complete defiance to my advances... your incistency on your own opinion... your propensity toward the silly and absurd... your surging energy which is impossible to deny and harder yet to turn away from...
DANA~~ January 21st, 2003
in the morning a mouse moved a mountain to the other side of the meadow...
a play by swagbelly
the curtain rises and reveals an elephant, a mouse and a duck sitting at the kitchen table of a communal home eating breakfast. The sun rises, from beyond the window, above rolling green hills, slowly- by play's end it will rest below the rolling green hills. A full day will have passed.
Mr. elephant reads a book. mr. mouse reads the morning edition of the Wild Kingdom Tribune. mr. duck carefully spoons and stirs sugar into his coffee.
mr. elephant: (reading from the book) in the morning a mouse moved a mountain to the other side of a meadow. Hang on, that can't be right.
mr mouse: It's right, alright. I saw it myself.
mr elephant: You are naive.
mr. mouse: a naive sensibility discovers truths about the living spirit.
mr. elephant: and the fool is a fool no matter the color of his shoes. What do you think, mr. duck?
mr. duck: (he thinks) well, it seems to me that a mountain weighs much more than a mouse.
mr. elephant: true, very true.
mr. duck: on the other hand, a mouse is more clever than a mountain.
mr. mouse: this goes without question.
mr. elephant: nonsense. the science is indisputable.
mr. mouse: as they had said before galileo.
mr. duck: and newton.
mr. elephant: and einstein also. of this i am well aware, but gravity still administers law. We may ask her a favor and go to the moon, but her greater responsibility is to the earth and not to the minds of elephants, ducks and mice.
mr. mouse: without mice, ducks and elephants where would gravity be? a drift in the cosmos with neither a care nor a friend.
mr. duck: we all need friends.
mr. elephant: yes, yes, true, very true. but that is beside the point-
mr. duck: mr. elephant, that is the point. cherish the minds and spirits of others and in turn you will cherish your own. this kind contract being made, between all animals, will allow anyone to do anything and everyone to do everything.
the toast pops up. mr. duck stands and to the toast... he butters it, brings pieces to the table... carefully he sprinkles sugar onto the toast...
mr. mouse: we were earnestly in debate just moments ago. what were we debating?
mr. elephant: (he thinks) i can't remember. mr. mouse, would you please pass the peanut butter and jelly sandwhiches.
mr. mouse: (passing the sandwhiches tray) there you are.
mr. duck: (a subtle revelation) there it is.
mr. elephant: thank you.
mr. mouse: you're welcome.
the sun dips below the horizon...
morning has arrived... I'd been up 36 hours before last night. strange, thick dreams had sway over my mind last night... somewhere around five am. this play woke me... last night? Yes, this morning. There is no doubt that your letter, among other influences recent and long ago, made its presence apparent to her script. Gravity, eh? 'The potential increases!' I read it yesterday afternoon and unfortunately had not the emotion nor energy to hear what it was you were saying to me. You see, there had been a brilliant celebration, of modest means and soaring spirits, the night before. A full compliment of friends, gathered in several locations at once, exuding warm bursting vibes, had occasioned upon a collection of moments, living in the very center of present time and space, which had, apparently, been designed specifically for them.
You are familiar with most, if not all, of these particular friends- they have names, but do not let that fool you... Chico was working on a painting of the Brown Hotel. Its fucking unbelievable- so much so that it is immediately and without doubt believable. We smoked some mountain tobacco and laid some music on the alter of our intentions- he carries dynamic guitar riffs, precise and smooth, and I dance the bongo skins like a wacked-out Buddy Rich... Danielle and Ray were kind to play, audience for some character biographies I'd written. They helped me realize how much I enjoy acting- on the spot and in the moment, receiving suggestions from their eyes and freedom from their attention. They spent a lot of time watching bizarre, perverse and, in estimation of their laughter, hysterical British Comedies... Dean spent most of his time on the couch, in the basement mellow with the tube... Staci left early (2:30 am.); she travels on foot through winter with unbound enthusiasm... Paul and Molly were at Paul's place. They were quite drunk, permanent smiles on their faces, gloriously insane with converstations the shape of alien circuses and impulsive movements taken from the recessive corners of our shared genetic milkshake. A porno was fucking the TV, righteous hip-hop tunes made us dance, our bodies bouncing the room- crazy love made us happy...
Chico and Danielle drove me home at 7:30 am. In the back of the man's truck I made a snow angel and for a delightful spell, cold winds warm, snow kissing my lips, I ate donuts and drank milk. At home there was no possibility of sleep- correction! there is always possibility! and in this instance the chance of sleep was 10¯43. Funny thing was, it was all positive. I was functionally stoned out-of-my-gord and physical exhausted. But! there was work to be done. I had a meeting at 10:00 am. with Peg Malcolm of the Senior Citizen's community center. As the story goes, we, the Hummingbird theatre, are producing a play. "A sunny morning", by Serafin and Joaquin Alvarez Quintero- copyright 1914, Samuel French, 50 bucks a show, admission free, at the senior center Feb. 10, Indiana Playhouse Feb. 22nd, 21st, 15th and 14th. The play is the thing. It is about an elderly man and an elderly woman who one day meet in the park, in Madrid. They soon find that they share a common past- a love affair. When he was 23 and she was 20 they consumated a torrid affair of unbridled passions (o.k., enough with the harleqin romance bullshit). It is a great play, a one act, John Henry Steelman is in it. And Peggy Buckley. And our friend Andres Machiavello. And his friend Juliane. We've had three rehersals. I got some sleep yesterday afternoon and was ready for last nights rehersal. We were all on! and we all shared in shaping the blocking and the dramatic decisions of the characters. Andres thought we waisted some time, though. I told him that there is no wasted time. I think he intends, and well to creation's imperatives, to butt heads with me on as much as he can get away with. I'm holding my ground well- and it actually helps me better understand the process, and what it is I'm thinking and doing... learning is good...
As to your letter→ I read it this morning for real, for the first time, and I felt blessed to have such a friend as you. You're awesome. I gotta go- out there- snow world- to do some stuff that needs me, that I need to do... see ya soon... soup is yellow, steamy... Lately, the sun shines most parts of the day in these parts. Blue skies, various sorts of clouds- brisk on foot, beautiful snow layered smooth or shoveled up. Not a hint of violence, hatred or upheaval- had it vanished? was it hiding? Mute questions. In and of the walk taken, the places visited, the people encountered and the thoughts received I had no reason to suspect that anything was amiss. Many college student faces wore expressions bearing the imprint and implications of pillow cases, but even the apparent dullness and apathy was balanced by many other students like bengal tigers in asian winter, playful and alert.
Yes... the sun shines by day and favorite snow falls by night- either thick flakes or tiny crystals reflecting street lamp star light. I tried to nap → the muse and her invisible commands kept me fascinated with apparent consiousness, here- in the dream outside the dream inside you and me and some person known as Charley and Charley's friend Elaine and Elaine"s cat Bruno... life is fun today.
Next tuesday? How many kids will you be teaching? In our time we have been inspired. Now it is time to do our best to inspire others... speaking of inspiration! do you remember new year's eve when a line from a letter I'd pen'd to a friend inspired you to paint a scenerio for the stage- the theatre herself on stage pissing into a cup and being forced to drink it to survive. Well, that's a deep subject... (sorry, an old school joke an old friend of mine was fond of saying)... so, two days after you'd left I woke one morning with the notion to write a short play based on that scenerio... 60 pages later I'm 60 pages into the best play I've ever written. You have to admit that we hit on an essential quality of the theatrical expression through dramatic action- in that moment, that discussion! The plight of the theatre! This play is titled "The big long word for The" Like a springboard you set me onto a better understanding of what I meant by what I wrote. Collaboration is beautiful. You are beautiful. The song on the CD spinning now is beautiful. Ink is wonderful. Plastic elephant, plastic squirrels, plastic spacemen, framed photos and that rubics cube that found me at the Goodwill...
be strong, be kind, be curious
p.s. so much to tell you
so much to ask you
p.ss. Thanks for the starmap. It is upon my wall where a certian picture you promised to send was meant to be- there between two equal opposites of conceptual expression.
p.s.s.s. →"Human nature is not a machine to be built after a model, and set to do exactly the work prescribed for it, but a tree, which requires to grow and develop itself on all sides, according to the tendency of the inward forces which make it a living thing." - John Stuart Mill
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The following, aside from the brief intro here, is not my writing...
Eric Wallen, a punker friend from DC, passed this journal along to me. He found it in an area where he'd been squatting- (in)famous Blagden Alley. Been thinking about its significance in the form of writing practice. And questions for myself, like, why was I compelled to type up this whole thing? It doesn’t amount to practice for me, because I didn’t run into any problems keeping myself from editing her work, as I've attempted to preserve her formatting AND misspellings...
But her work was practice, even though she didn’t know it. Her word choice provides for some good images and it's clear that she is moving into the fires of womanhood and embracing poetry, which in turn helps her to leave behind the things of childhood: parents, friends, religion.
She goes back and forth from noble philosopher to wicked siren and her duality troubles her, as it does every post-pubescent/pre-adulthood girl who, growing up in this society, has had to lay claim her subjectivity and take a moral stance on things labeled “right” but which her gut tells her to be “wrong”.
Her emergence from religion is key to understanding her motivation for writing. She seeks also to cleanse her soul and is working both for and against the idea that there can only be one way to do that, namely by prayer/scripture/Jesus.
I think her name is Megan. It seems like a good name to me: girly but honest, practical and modest. American and not blatantly Catholic. Very young. Very real.
Tomorrow school starts. I have been sick all weekend and threw up.
As every year, I received a father’s blessing for school.
Here are some of the things in it: The first name the Father gave the Holy Ghost is comforter. He promised this his dieciples as they left for Earth. I felt this as a powerful relaxation. I am blessed to be able to take advantage of that gift. This life is often a “veil of tears.” I can find comfort in that to Eternity, it is short. This is a pivotal year for me in finding the Lord’s purpose for me and my mission, here on Earth, if I am righteous. I am a strong spirit. I will be able to lift others up, regardless of their social status and in so doing heal my pain and scars. I will have more energy to do the things I love and achieve a greater zest for life. There will be many days when I will be happy to be alive. I have endured much pain at a very young age. I will begin to see a pattern. My Heavenly Father loves me deeply and is much like an earthly Father, anxiously awaiting my return. I was blessed in his presence in the premortal life. I am blessed now to live so that I may return to Him. I’ve noticed he didn’t say anything about academics and little or nothing about social life. I find that significant. He also said in my times of despair I will never feel lonely or abandoned.
I find out today Lexi is staying in California to go to school there. That came as a shock. I found out right before the blessing and I was crying.
Yep. Great day. I love school. (HEAVY sarcasm). My feet are freezing and I’m still sick. Lorraine called today to see how I was doing, which was really nice of her. She called b/c she found out about Lexi, and me being sick. I liked seeing my friends at school.
Pure, refined hatred
deprives itself of you-
channeling, urging, caressing
itself to your cause
Ebullient, caustic raw
emotion erupts in Alaska
and finds you there
The sand you eat tastes like
bitter salt and trails
Bury, baptize, birth, die!
Blue vast invisible intangible rejoicing
I miss you. I hate you. How could you do this? How could you be so careless? How could you be so selfish and fucking stupid! It’s okay. We don’t need whores like you anyway. I'm so sick of duplicities. It maybe okay for Walt Whitman but not for me.
The minute I find something, I lose it. I thought I found you. I thought I found us. But then all that is, isn’t. Is this the last time we’ll be? When you come back, what will it be like? We can’t be the same – that’s a sick hope. We can’t evolve – we’re not together.
Maybe I will just go to sleep. Sweet sleep. Sweet tempting sleep. I don’t want to live. I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.
“Lord I'm walking down the line, and I'm walking down the line. Lord I'm walking down the line, my feet’ll be fine, let me tell you ‘bout my troubled mind.” – Bob Dylan.
But I only use my anger for a show. Because I really am hurt and sad and confused. I love you. You know that. The truth is I am so hurt.
I can’t stay sad for too long. You piss me off! You fucking hypocrite! I hate weddings! Yeah, that’s right, sleep around and do whatever drugs you feel like you dirty whore. That’s success if I ever saw it.
School started of course – It’s weird, now that I'm worried about the petty things, I don’t have time to worry about the big things. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Instead of thinking about people’s motivations and eternal concepts I think about what color I should paint my nails and what shoes would look good with my outfit.
“Trails of troubles,
Roads of battles,
Paths of victory,
We shall walk.”
My wall is blood red. Somebody told me that meant something about my personality. Maybe it does. That I love the blood coursing in my veins, I love the pulse in the core of the Earth and the breath of the trees.
Maybe I'm egocentric. Relationships don’t matter. I can’t have anything of value with anybody else. Every time I get close to someone I find some way to hate them, to push them away. I'm the only one that matters. But I know that’s not true. I can’t put my finger on it.
But my feet are cold
Where’s the blood?
I am asleep and dead. I wish I was dead. Don’t you now? Don’t you know I'm talking about myself? It’s time.
There is pain in cold eyes
And the trees are silent
The flames are licking, caressing, taunting
How long can you/I hold your/my hand above the fire?
It’s soul touches me
My essence is ashes
At the core, I am hollow
An empty case with broken roots and scorched hopes
I bear the torch of truth and thrust it at you
To see what you can bear,
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.
I was born under a star
And awoke to weeping.
My skin is my wall. And I must protect myself. If you’re looking and me, you’re not looking at me. I have done so much protecting I'm afraid of becoming the person that I'm protecting.
I have a green pen. I feel lost, but not necessarily afraid. There is some future for me – I don’t know what. I don’t live for the future, I don’t live for today, I don’t live. There are so many people and things to keep track of, I can’t even keep track of myself. I don’t see beauty. I don’t see “the light at the end of the tunnel.” Are you supposed to live for something. My answer is not in these words, it’s not in me. Perhaps the answer is “blowin’ in the wind.”
The sea seduces me
Singing a melody of gentle malice
And I let her sing
Slowly, ever so slowly, she taunts me.
With her silver locks and sparkling complexion
Then we become one.
She erases me, erases my recollection.
And all I hear is the seagull.
And all I feel are endless, endless waves,
Eternally erasing my past.
I'm so cold, so cold.
So numb, so numb.
So cold, so cold.
So dead, so dead.
To Bob Dylan:
This is to you
I hope you understand
I wanted you to know I love you.
You sing and you sing to me.
It’s amazing how you know so
Much about humans
And you see the dark side of them,
Yet you still have humor about it.
So what do you do?
I stand up and I breathe.
I feel the ground beneath my feet.
And I walk.
I don’t know where to, but I walk.
I stand on the valleys of the world
And preach my soul
Until I hear the echo of myself
In something lost.
Then I drink the rain and grasp lightning
I bow to the Earth and the Earth gives me life.
And loneliness means rejoicing,
Where wild hopes fly on the breath of tress, where the ocean offers us her prisioners, where the sun sees life.
And life has joy.
Life has soul.
The whales sing and I listen to their
Gospel of harmony
And this time I hear.
NO SWEETS! 9/17/00
I'm kind of lost in my journal. I suppose I should write some about what’s happening. I am still seeing Lorraine, my counselor. I ran away 2 weeks ago. And then I told my dad things that I have been thinking. Lorraine said it might be a good thing if I do leave for awhile. I'm becoming vegetarian and my parents don’t really support that. I got a bunch of library recipe books (vegetarian).
Lexi is still down in California. I miss her but I guess its kind of distant. Sometimes I just get so scared and want to hide and quit everything. I have moments when in my mind I make a mental decision that I know I must go on. Look at all these empty pages I have before me!
If I set my life to music, it all makes sense. It’s all just a big pageant, with soft melodious passages, and angry flaring notes. I can see all the scenes connected and smell the memories. Then the orchestra lulls me to sleep.
“It is enough to enter the temple invisible.” – Kahil Gilbran, The Prophet.
I tried out for the play today. We’ll see. I also went to the Beach with my dad. There were hardly any people there. It was so quiet. I could feel my origins rising in me like I was newly birthed. I became young again. I no longer was striving for my inner-self or the Holy “Om.” It was manifest in the sea itself.
Where does it generate its peace?
December 4, 2000
First day on the job @ Hair Pros. Pretty cool. Great scripture:
For I am persuaded, that neither
Death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities,
Nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come.
Nor height, nor depth, nor any other
Creature, shall be able to separate us
from the love of God, which is in
Christ Jesus our Lord.
December 7, 2000
2nd day taking anti-depressants. We’ll see- I don’t know. Mock Trial competition is tomorrow. I can’t describe how I'm feeling right now- but hey, I’ll try.
My head is heavy, I can see words and half-formed thoughts floating around in my mind. I hear the whisper of the holy “Om” wandering through my soul. Confusion is talking and music is playing.
I am in such a bad mood. My exchange student is here. She’s been here for a week now. I am so tired. I feel like I always have to entertain her. I’m not doing so hot. I feel like I want to throw up. Mom is really pissing me off. She’s moping.
Sometimes I forget where I am. Holden just wanted to catch people from falling. He just wanted to touch bottom. Things like that happen- when you are so completely apart from everyone they all depress you. They’re mean, dumb, or cocky. I hate those intellectual snobs. Who am I writing for? Go away. I hate it when you look over my shoulder like that. Today Sister Elliott talked about how she had this 5 year plan and all and how she wanted to major in theatre arts until she met this wonderful guy. She was 19 when she got married. Nice. What a dumb-fuck. Then she talks about she straightened her priorities and she poked fun at her friends who aren’t married like they haven’t had a full life or something. It makes me pissing mad when she talks like that. Like you have to be a wife or a mother to have meaning in your life.
I don’t want to give up my dreams. I wont! For me, its not about sacrifice. It would only be about sacrifice if I love Jesus most, but I don’t. That’s what those people don’t understand. If your number one priority isn’t God, there’s no reason in hell you should give things up for him. That sounds bad, but I mean it. And that doesn’t mean that you’re unhappy or that your life doesn’t have purpose or meaning.
I’m sitting here listening to Dave Matthews. Typical, eh? Especially for a high school student contemplating life. Tomorrow finals start and then I get out on Friday.
What a year. What have I done? I’ve done a No-Dinner-Dinner. A huge effort of which I’m extremely interested. I’ve lobbyed for migrant farmworkers and taken a great interest in
Ok- -So I never finish anything I write.
A stupid crying baby,
a barking dog.
and a ringing phone all
in one hour of attempted
My parents had sex two nights ago and I cant get over how disturbing it was. All I want to do is never be home. I mean, I heard my mom say “It was good.” I about barfed. I felt sick all the next day. Do you know how torturous that is? I know I must sound so childish but I cant get over it. If I ever hear that again I’m going to SCREAM!
Honors English is officially over. I’ve successfully put up with one year of total shit. I mean it. Worthless shit. All in the name of deeper-meaning. Do you know what deeper meaning I found? People, especially adults will do anything to protect their ego. I mean Mr. West. I’ve learned that original thought and creativity scares small-minded people. I’ve learned that it takes a strong person to face the truth when it comes to having to change themselves. Mr. West didn’t teach me any of this so so much for learning deeper meaning from that bastard.
People will do anything to get an edge in, at any cost, at any expense to others. There’s a gap the size of the Grand Canyon between concern and pathos and action. Very few people are willing to take action on their beliefs if it means stepping outside their bubbles and getting off their fat asses. Those that do, at risk to themselves are my only true heros. I mean normal people- not glorified by the media or praised by mankind- people that sincerely care.
That’s the conclusion I’ve come to. I don’t have a lot of faith in humanity in general but I do have faith in a few. It’s the power of one to rise up from the dust and have their voices be heard. To protest the pettiness and greed and selfishness and to turn the tides from small-thought to acceptance.
This is my education.
I got this pen in a set of pens all for a buck at this store called The Dollar Tree. I’m switching to a darker one. Anyway, that store is really ghetto but its fun sometimes.
You know you’re PMSing when you cry at a dumb-ass movie like Save The Last Dance. I am. I think it’s kind of funny sometimes- you know you’re PMSing and you think its lame the things you do but you do them anyway. I gotta laugh at myself. Then you get to thinking how your life sucks and how everybody hates you but you know its not true.
It’s funny how I only write in this journal when I’m pissed. I should try writing sometime when I’m semi-normal.
My Aunt Sarah and Uncle Paul are here for a WEEK with their damn noisy kids. I look at them and it just adds to my resolution to be kid-less. They’re driving me insane with their incessant crying!
My room is a trash pit. It’s kinda funny. It’s a big room but I still manage to have piles of clothes covering my floor. If you saw me how you’d laugh. I got fat. I’m all gross and flabby. I have no discipline to be otherwise.
Blah blah blah.
Time to go to bed and go to the hell-house in the morning (more later).
The hell house is my babysitting job that I quit b/c the kids were INSANE!!
July 8, 2001
Today was an interesting church experience. I haven’t been good lately. I thought I would be perfect always but I screwed that up pretty quickly. All I have to say is it’s true what they tell you: if you don’t pray and read your scriptures, you will falter. And I did. I’ve been feeling lonely w/o the spirit and like I can never get it back that I’m lost forever. I know that’s not true, but at the same time, the path back seems daunting. The path I’m already would be so much easier just to stay on. But life’s not about taking the easy way out. My biggest problem is that I’m more afraid of man than God. I wanted so much more for people to not think bad of me that I forgot about God being disappointed in me.
I was sitting in bed, awake in the dark, Hannah falling asleep and waiting for my glow-in-the-dark stars to fade.
All I can think about is moving out. Where would I go? Shari’s house probably. I would pack all my stuff and just leave. My parents, after several futile attempts to get me to come back, would then resort to calling my bishop and my therapist. Bishop Hodges would come visit me and give me a never-ending lecture about the importance of family and all that shit. He’d try his darndest to get me to come back, but in the end he would fail.
Lorraine would tell my parents to mind their own business, that I would call her if I needed her.
I can’t breath. I wonder how long it would take the entire ward to find out – a week?
I sometimes think about severely damaging myself just so my whole life would turn around. I wouldn’t work and people would actually care about me.
Today I had to say goodbye to Lena, my friend. A German exchange student. She is leavning tomorrow for Germany. Also today was a sort of get together party for Natalie, she is leaving for college on Thursday. I am left contemplating how soon they will all be gone – slipping away. What will happen? Will I stay close to any of them?
If I had one wish do you know what it would be? It would be that I grew up in a family with no religion. Today I was walking into my house and my dad was driving in from work and that was all I could think of. How nice that would be. For them to just leave me alone and be able to understand. But I know that will never happen.
Always running, I am
running, looking back.
A lost child without her
Please God, send someone to
hold my hand.
Centuries ago things might
have been different.
Stones looked different then.
Just standing on my street
I can see the mountain and the
sun shuts my eyes.
Trees falling silent to the heavy
I follow the sound of water.
Gliding over the empty
I am thirsty.
Festering, bulging like a
blister waiting to pop.
Drained by the sun.
Please God, I’m tired.
Don’t make me walk anymore.
My feet are cracked and
bleeding skin peeling,
Ahead of me, a person beckoning,
crooning- telling me it will
be allright, that I will
always have someone to love me.
Sleep, she says. Sleep.
Watch me father
Good daughter, good. I always
wished I could fly.
Here let me help you daddy.
Give me your hand.
No I am too old. Maybe years ago
I might have had the strength –
but not now, not now.
I can’t come down, I can’t come down.
I told you you would hurt yourself
and you did. Do you ever listen?
Please daddy – YOU LISTEN TO ME!
Don’t you see I’m flying?
I cant see you anymore
father. I’m being carried
by the wind. It is hot
up here but I don’t mind
Somehow I feel the soothing
breath of water against my
skin. I am encased in a
Look at me daddy, I’m flying.
August 5, 2001
For some reason I can’t sleep tonight. I have this pressing feeling. I don’t know what it is, but I’m short of breath.
I feel like I have to do something. My life is void of meaning. I have no cause. I have to have a cause. I feel pressed to do something, to change the world. Who knows, I’m only 16.
August 10, 2001
I am here at the lake. It is dusk. There are bugs flying all around. They like my sweat- I’m sweating because I ran home from the Greene’s. I had dinner there. Wouldn’t you know it? I’m here by myself for the first time. I can’t stand how shy I am. I’m not shy in the typical sense of the word, but when I’m with people I don’t know very wel, where most people would be completely relaxed my insides are crawling. I say stupid things, my voice cracks and my sense of humor is out of reach. I’m so boring and obnoxious. I cant stand myself I have no idea how other people can. I’m talking about having dinner at the Greene’s. They’re friendly people and are hospitable yet I act like a blundering fool. Oh shit. I think they’re riding their boat over here right now. Yup. The more I try to act comfortable the worse I get. My writing is getting all messed up, my heart is pounding. Ahhh! Will somebody shoot me please?!
Okay, I’ll shut up now. It is so peaceful here. The water is calming down and there are less and less boats. My straight vision shows tree-covered hills. All the people are so friendly here. There’s a song I sang in fifth grade choir called Mariun Bridge that my dad loved. It was about someone going back to their small hometown- the best and most beautiful place on earth. I think my dad loved it because it reminded him of here.
A damn mosquito just tried to bite me. Did he think he was going to get away with that? Fuck no! Moo ha ha ha!! I shall prevail in the end.. Nevermind. I’m going inside until these mosquitos are gone. I see Venus, the only star, hanging above the trees.
I feel so violated! I’m being devoured by blood-sucking maniacs! I mean, I know my body is desirable but you don’t have to suck my blood! Okay, so the mosquitos win. I guess it’s comforting to know that nature prevails. Carry on.
Right on! “Poor boy” by Queen just came on.
I wonder if I’ll ever meet someone that I’m who I am when I’m by myself around. That’s hard. I’m weird by myself. I get all into songs and dance around and cuss and talk to myself and am serious and goofy at the same time.
I wonder if I like Queen so much because I’m gay. No really. No that’s dumb. I’ve only told two people that I can’t even write it. Oh well. You get the point. I’m so glad to be away from my family and by myself. My dad is being really weird. He’s having some trouble dealing with work and other things. He’s taking my spirituality upon himself. He paid me $150 to read my scriptures and pray everyday while I’m here. Doesn’t that seem kind of weird to you? It does to me. Who the hell am I talking to?
I don’t need a perfect body to be your honey.
Janis Joplin sang with her gritty voice and double chin.
The Pearl of the 60s
Destiny’s Child sings with their midrifts.
Thank God for quality music like Brittany Spears.
And I thought rock was dead.
What was I thinking?
A step down.
Sit on the porch in the cool night air.
Venus on the horizon.
Life slipping in the cradle of a dream
with a country song playing on
the radio and an old tan with
I spy a Beamer racing by lulled
to sleep in the muted song of
summer bask in the firelight
of blazing bazookas and slam
drawers in rhythm to the crickets.
A drink of sand will quench your
thirst for leadership in the mirage
of the television buzzing jingle into
the early morning, accompanying the
tune of rotting branches and sullen
A groggy awakening. Welcome to
America jazz hip night-life lounge
singer feeling her up in the bathroom.
a short stop on the road trip
in the dark.
America, America where the
hell is my mother. Buzzing
confusion and deaf puppy dogs.
Incessant buzzing take a vacation
from the lake.
You might find that you engage the break.
Ecstasy dreams in what you thought was
heaven wake up to misery and heartache
and that same old country song playing
on the radio.
Remember me? It’s Jesus, waking
you from the dead.
Remember me? It’s your father demanding
you to say your prayers.
Remember me? It’s the chorister leading
the dismal hymn.
Remember me? It’s the phone ringing
in the middle of the night?
Remember me? It’s the hospital, we
think you’re dead.
Remember me? It’s religion knocking.
You forgot to say your prayers.
Wow I haven’t writing a good poem in months. I’m full of shit. There’s nothing to blame it on except that I’m brain dead. I bet if my dad read this he’d blame it on pot, even though I don’t smoke pot.
It seems everybody has some dictate on the cause of my life. I just love it. I love religion and how its made me so happy ha ha. They look at me and tell me to pray and read my scriptures and tell me itll make me happy when I just want to get as far away from them as I possibly can. I haven’t taken a deep breath in so long and its because of their goddamn religion that saves lives.
You look at me and wonder why you cant save me.
Maybe its your fault
Perchance my eternal salvation Floats on
I thought I saw a rabbit in the sky.
The clouds descend and bring a gift of
the Christ child
A dream unfolding caught in the
charm of a raindrop mirrored
in a thousand different faces
and channeled into excellence.
Am I looking at the rose the poets
The perfect blushing red
cautious flight of the sparkling dew
into a bud of desires
Bursting in the morning of the
first dawn in forever.
A rose bush standing on the
precipice of Time
governing our existence by its
A poets gift to humanity.
2. Take CCC test
3. Call Bishop re: Recycling
5. Job Hunting
6. Matt email: email@example.com
Fall is here and I am lonely. It’s that odd time when all your friends go off to college and I am looking responsibility in the face and telling it to come back later. I am all alone ans so anti-social. I stopped taking my anti-depressants about two months ago and was fine for a long time but now I think I’m falling again. I don’t regret stopping them. I really don’t like what they did to me. I felt like I was in a fog and really it just made everything with school and church and life. Now I want to self-medicate by running.
Your love is like a song I want to stay in the car to listen to even after I’m home.
Say anything you wanna. Just know I’m here. So many things lingering –
and like the summer air it feels right somehow. We have this moment and Im listening.
Listen baby, youre not stude- give me your hand and you’ll see how my words fall into place like a strategically planted garden. No dark eyes here, only frolicking in fields of wildflowers and malt shakes.
The 50s never ended- we can still go to the drive-in movie and feel content and patriotic.
Look, its simple. No esoteric artsy’-stuff.
Just the smell of apple pie coolin on the sill and the kids swingin in the fields.
This day never ends just the song on the radio. I’ll wake up every minute to the smell of bacon and the sun peaking in the curtains.
Lord- Here are my hands
I know there is nothing that keeps me from flying except my own weakness.
Here I am, pleading.
And somehow I know you’re listening.
Here I am!
Do you see me on the Earth flying overhead in your plane?
I too can soar one day.
November 4, 2001
I haven’t written anything about September 11th. I haven’t written much of anything. I don’t really need to explain anything. This journal is only for me. There is chaos, death, turmoil. So many are lost. I’m scared for the future. I know this is only the beginning of the end. I used to imagine what it would be like to be in a war, and now there’s no need to imagine. The future is dark. But I’m not one to be fooled. It know that’s not all there is.
Amidst terror, there is always peace. The nature of the world speaks of opposition. We just have to find it. I know there is peace in contemplation, in friendship, in spirit.
May it be lifes mission to seek peace!
I hate working at Hair Pros. Its not the people or the job. Its just the shift. I hate how inflexible the hours are and how we close at 8:00. It’s ridiculous! Who the hell closes at 8:00? I’m talking about salons. We could at least close at 7:00. It ruins everything. If we just closed at 7:00, it would be TEN times better. And I have to work all Saturday! I want to volunteer on Saturdays.
Oh well, life’s not so bad. What the hell else am I supposed to do?
Bubbling, bitter old anger
Corroding the parts of the machine
A glint shines in the corner
A spot undirtied by you
Going to act out
Just for the fun of it
Being a bad-ass is my destiny
AC/DC knows me better than you
Paranoid sissy in the darkness of
home and shelter
Ditching the old shoe
Depth and breadth
covers the desert of mind
Eyes burning like bubbling sweet
Again, the sun arises from its firey closet in the paradise
of the sweet night.
Drying, refining, baking, burning
The cactus relishes the penetrating,
While the woman slowly breaks,
awaiting the silence that bursts with darkness.
Staring into the anguish of the
descending cloud of confusion
a certain clarity comes to the ponderer
A heaviness and breadth to the torn
lovers of history and present
Swirl, overtake, capivate
You mysterious storm of
Turn the lonely into the loved
Transform the unbeliever
Tear the reluctant
It’s a present on the horizon
That brewing tempest of passion,
thought, and power
It will not be contained
Brooding into the corners of timeless eternity
We are expectant mothers waiting
for the purity of the falling rain.
In a parallel world
I have wings and you have eyes.
Pitiful changes heed not constancy
Yesterdays ignorance is todays regret
My arrogance is permanent,
written in concert with the devil
on the scripts of eternity
It kills me to know you have read those scripts
Please forgive me. Please.
If only I was sure, if I knew my resolve
If I could trust my will
Your fat face harboring those eyes,
How did I miss it?
“So, do you wanna make breakfast?”
“Sure, why not.”
“Okay, Ill go home. See you later.”
Sometimes she wondered if she was like Liz, if people would only stand tiny bits of her at a time. Other times, it just clicked.
Painting her nails meant something.
A certain something in the carelessness of the act. So transitory. That’s why she loved it. Tomorrow it would probably be chipped, but today it was immaculate.
She wondered what Mike was like at college. Was he a charmer? What posters did he fill his vision with?
Eh, celibacy isn’t so bad.
Fill your thoughts with success! Fill them with distance.
Teen angst music of the sarcastic, clever variety
satisfied her current needs.
/ / /
She wants to shed the old life
The only thing that held her were the limits of age, and even that was loosely binding. Somehow, she felt people were being fooled.
He found her one day, hidden in the patchy shade of her cheap plastic tree. Things like that pleased her. Things ultimately rejected, useless, ugly. It was something she could pity when humans weren’t good enough. They never were.
It was time to go out. It was almost obligatory, social events. She was perfectly happy to be at home and paint her nails. Maybe her toenails this time. Who was she pleasing? Nobody much cared whether she joined them, which didn’t bother her. She could never reach her full beauty with anyone but herself, and besides, she was dwarfed by the more vocal and respected Alexis.
But some things are necessary, even if no one profits from the action. She was resigned. It came time to go, but she preferred to just stare at purple polka-dots.
I’d do ‘bout anything to get my feet warm
She was fading.
Like a moth before a flame
He was draining
…and she lingered.
It was yesterday when my
head was filled with polka-dots
Today its filled with you.
But your shoes didn’t win me over
It was your belt.
I touched your hand on accident
but didn’t let go
She was fooling
But dizziness overtook her
..And she held on.
Andrew was afraid of falling. It wasn’t a fear of heights, it was different. On time, he played that game where a friend held his arms up for a long time, then slowly let them down, and he felt he was going underground. He hyperventilated.
This is what he faced the world with: An unnatural fear, and a glass jar. The jar set on his bookshelf, straight across the room if we was sitting up in bed. His favorite pastime was to sit in bed with wool socks on and stare at the glass jar. What could he possibly put in it?
The idea of capturing something was so genuine, so naturally greedful. The glass jar activity was really an exercise. He would practice feeding his greed, seeing how far he could go and still be able to harness it. It was an elaborate mind game. One which he was the emperor and the pawn. This fascinated him.
This wasn’t his only form of exercise. In public settings especially at school, he would practice saying two contradictory statement, one after another, to see if anybody noticed. Most of the time they didn’t. It entertained him to be overlooked.
(sucky _) Fortunately for some, his powerful intellect wasn’t matched by physical strength.
“Don’t get too excited, Drew. You know how weak your heart is.”
“Its disgusting, how much she dwells on that,” he thought to himself.
He never had any REAL health problems. Then again, he never exerted himself so much physically as to tell if there was a strain on his heart. From time to time, when he would be playing the glass jar game, he would get a little short of breath. This is when he knew he had let his pre-occupation with weakness go to far! A short break was all that was necessary to calm himself.
First, it was passion and pride.
Then is worry and wonderment.
The easy convictions of childhood
slide carefully away…
There was a time when faith filled you,
Now something must take its place.
You may feel guilty-
Bury it. Turn away.
You may see doubt in the corner of your eye-
Only this, only your present inspirations
can carry you.
Anything more is too much to ask.
They came home from the restaurant, laughing and teasing, even fighting. The general feeling was contentment. One by one, they were dropped off their respective houses. She went inside.
I was left under the clear sky with you, wanting to kiss you but instead hugging you and turning away to the cold shell of my car. Even then, I felt some regret, but you could leave in the morning. – So I honked and drove off.
Driving by each road sign
into unknown cavernous tunnels
they way dotted by withering light
obscured to smothered stained glass
Overbearing crosses glistening from the recent sacrifice
you too, can be redeemed
its not accident. don’t get me wrong
don’t touch my fucking pulse
Doped up on distress
alive in the stifling surroundings
a concealed breath beneath you
billowing despair turns the wheel
Saturated images of a glorious middle finger
signifying its own institution
signifying salvation in the
“it all means nothing” universe.
How much do you understand?
Lost in a foreign land
spoken in a foreign tongue
Contours of the land arise to collide
Without a purpose, without a destination
The apocalypse is HERE.
It is now – no time for love – follow me
and empty your eyes.
Somewhere in that valley I can discern your face.
Shot up and shattered
Love is bloody and demolished-
Its funeral was yesterday as the river rose.
A passing glance drifts upwards
Flying in surrender-
Nothing much to find here.
It all sunk in the war.
LAST PAGE, LAST ENTRY –
You were sitting there
your fingers like fuses
your eyes were cinnamon
Am I fucked up?
Am I normal?
Am I liked?
Am I loved?
Am I flesh and blood?
I stand diametrically opposed
to this existence as we know it.
Chained to reality
Why say anything when someone
else has said it better?
Faded faces rise like mirages
Voices from a distant past haunting
my dreams, sleeping my wake
I grasp at ghosts
And come back with a hand full
These people pepper my life
stars in the sky
sand on the sea
Palpable yet intangible
I rise with a stale flavor in my mouth
Tasting distant tastes
Hearing distant songs
My wake and sleep fuse languidly
into an endless road trip
Hand out the window
Foot on the pedal
Cigarette in my mouth.