Sunday, December 16, 2012

Long Count Blessing

There is another "I'm-imaginary-saving-the-world" type dream that I have.

This time it's about fire.

From a magical dead letter office with a black sky full of stars, at the magnetic center of the world.
Here I am, beside a magnificent oil drum, which is the mouthy chimney of this contained inferno.
I am the sole attendant of this world fire.

Surrounded by papers, which I will tell you all about because they are the most fun beyond the immolation at hand, I watch the flashing white-red burn that does not throw sparks.

It's purpose- great heat- is pulled away and pushed into all the blood and hearts of those it could save... Children first.

It is the fire that keeps others going in oil drums topside. Because I have the right kind of fuel, they don't need to gather the wrong kind upstairs.

It's just me. I can float if I want to. But usually I climb.

If I get hungry, the papers become food. Love letters taste especially sweet and deliciously nourishing.

There is the fire, a 6 foot circle around the fire, a folding chair, and stacks and piles and stacks and piles. Straight to the ceiling of no ceiling, To the wide high of starry black.

Fuel: letters, newspapers, books, loose ephemera. Some important, most not.

I am the fire-keeper and a speed reader with a spectacular rate of retention.
Sometimes what I read causes others topside to remember. They look into a fire near to them, or a fire inside of them, and find a new answer.

I never tire, tho' I do pause in the chair and watch. The fire, the stars, the fire again.

I work for years of no time giving all these fires a final purpose.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Only Part Two:

(For November, and Nick D.)

It takes you.
And you are two.

So simple.
We can demand to be granted thus:
Our crumbling babylon shall still have its
Our sweet language dancing a perversion of order.
Carnival lights spelling:
As long as I write
I am light and I shall live!
Fiat Lux!
Forward with all uncareful gestures!
Our knowledge can not afford
to be hemmed neatly into museum nook
under tempered glass.

Our knowledge is a hearth.
A hot manifesto seeping life.
Ever ready to witness!
Chance is so very jealous to be you.
Lover, exacter.
Practiced and made of many!
Chance so creeping and ill with jealousy what riddles further
toward complication,
those chances
unknown even of their own volume.
Chances unprotected, intangible.
Hold your breath, and make time stop.
Together in this spectacle, each rumor is a special answer,
as tall orbits demand us.
To the culling limit.
A divine gesture multiplied.
Shattered rim of appearances housed in verbiage.
Punctuating seconds into seasons.
O slaked reclamation,
the particle,
the pulse!
One great perseverance
crushing negativity.
Crooning opposites make a frame, an angle, over twice-
help to dueling its own cause
with factual mannerless sweetness.

Observed from eyes to teeth-
why, every sink is a leaking sink!
Water nomadic and formless as
careening thoughts.
Themselves things that become suns
setting behind the pupil.

The telescoping orange reveals a red banded network for first stars.
Another white wide disk revealed:
The Pearl
what a thing to find which has not composed a secret for itself, though is the most hidden thing!

Again an eye
possessed of prehistoric evolutionary
No other enlightened obstructions exist but this-
The key to the theme beyond.
Measured in sky sizes- frequency and amplitude.
The medicine to wake all sleeping worlds.
Light as salt, sugar, and hieroglyphics.
Seized again by bathos!
The girl made the world by blowing bubbles in a snowstorm.
In the mediated voiceover of god, she feels the pain of portrayal.
The domestic alpha called actress.
Necessarily psychic, her salient complexities bisecting realities conquests.
Simple is not as simple as it once was.
Unmentionable vicissitudes afloat in the greeting gloss of a galactic bookstore packed with pretentious customers.
But well-wishes cannot promise notes.
And notes,
are what we must have.

Saturday, October 20, 2012

15 Towns

If you can name at least 10 of the cities each of these photos were taken in, I will send you a prize that includes $.

Good luck.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Sent By Post to Mr. Crispin Hellion Glover

2 ErotiXperimental Pieces: "Johnny" and "Josephine"

"Johnny" - nov/dec/2k11

Johnny can taste the sun.
The talent of his vision bleeds wholesome softness into the darkest corners, and into the caves of men.
Johnny is the bringer of great undoings
and in this way, he is a friend to all things created, which must then be devised of an ending.

He does not spare to give warning where none is needed.
His non-belief in hidden things removes time. It is never too dim or too late for true savory softness to compel others to weep their lightest breath.

Johnny is today, engaged. Lurked.
Johnny is unrumpled and clean as a profanity of motion.
Johnny goes about as the sea, or as a library.
As an ineffable nothing.
Commissioning wishes to become efforts.
Johnny dreams into unmasking places,
Where the mosques are full of naked women. Each one named sovereign. Each one different.
Johnny observes. Translates.
Indulges infinite pareidolia.


The man too smooth for the scene. Lithe and intimate talking down cloudbursts.
Building coffins to bury drowned midnights.
Telephone and the telephone call to fleeting worlds.
The letter from the dead man's wife.
A woman who is also a sister
stolen like wine from a church.
Johnny- you bright dime! Spent in the name of enlightenment.
A divine resuscitation.

A conversion of ink,
brass and flesh female
J becomes conversation, continuation, chop-chop
from alien life.
The echoes of a giggle of irresponsible future.

Johnny knows fantastic danger
as much as the next inbred crime-practiced
He can denounce all the necessary shrines,
but never enough complaints to build a following.

Real lepers cannot leap, or form orders.

Yes, all Johnny's laugh. Johnny laughter- each Johnny gonad jumping restless and symptomless with the industry of it.

Women contract the abject romanticism of that ritual argument and all the Johnny-flavored forts to follow.
All women whose tits are austere frowns are belittled and put to bed publicly.

Bulwark. Prominent conformist: Johnny.
His environs pisswalls- strange and strong as money.
His coos all patriarchal indiscretions.

Let's establish hereforthwith
the expected utility.

Johnny's insubstantial and extraterrestrial
distributing kiss-crisis
natural as ontology
masturbating to burial for schedule.
For formal reactions.

Give god to your Johnny's to chant
home a wet law.
And how happy duality is to have found you both!
Hearkened, and numerical!

If you are a woman, you are a V.
And if a Johnny- F.

Appearing to feed- infectious and unsuspected.
Too slummed to live along the lateral year.

The price comes in fives.

- - -

From "Josephine" (June 2k11)

The sun is up & high & bright & she's still in bed with curtains pulled. A victim of reverse paradise, with the man gone to work.
His yesterdays t-shirt bunched up in the corner like a big, elongated skull. Dream seepage caring back. In some post-reality glimpsed at his alarm, she's kissing a man she knows in real life but has never before kissed. Deep, hard, wet kissing.
After too, recalling arrivals, comings & goings of women of a previous acquaintance, each laced with mixed messages of dreamselves layered into collective experience without language.
And so, she finds wakefulness & reaches for the 1st drug- her pussy. Last night it was hot & wet & worked over from the man's pumping penis. His body's hot action a thrusting orgasmic magnet.
She hesitates, still resting, listening for the sounds of the women up in the next room. In & out of the bathroom with efficiency and timeliness of having somewhere to be.
If he were the one masturbating now on this very bed, on his back, kissing the air. He would be whispering her name as jisim spilled from the tip of his erect cock. Thought after thought of a good ripe throb thrills the body into the little death.
Into the exhaustion of a perfect feeling.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Congealed Splendor

There are streets and corners and public places everyone is used to, and uses. These are the common map.
Then there are the hidden corners in neighborhoods. Private. Fenced in by wood and hedges.
Sometimes the secret spaces decay and lean over into view- overgrown and neglected lots harboring rotting picnic benches or rusty iron furniture and cracked tiki lamps- out of fuel since that last backyard party almost five years ago.
I want to be a hidden thing, a tiny animal, darting unnoticed and free into these garden niches where pieces of treasure have stayed long lost. Where birds nests are safe, and the sound of water from a small fountain or a glistening spill from minute pockets of rain can be hinted at or heard or seen.
I want a whole city island of these reconfigured oasis to wander through, linked by steps of dirt and marble. Roundabouts marked in columns and cairns. Taking all day to get lost in the undomed conservatory of remotest paradise.
Such edenesque sensory overload finally, exquisitely, on all sides bordered by the rolling gleam of a magnificent ocean.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Desert Days of Brother and Summer

Dear Bryce Canyon-

It is an hour from sunset on Sunday night here in your "North" campground.
My brother has fucked off for a good long while so I can take a nap, text some friends, take a ritalin and read and write.
I took my blood pressure today in the grocery store where we bought local beer, cookies and sprouts. Carrots and more almond milk.
Paid for gas today on the way in, and it was great weather again, but storms are expected soon.
We got a flat tire just as we pulled into the Kolob Canyons parking lot. Right up next to a mexican family in a big truck with a shredded tire of their own. Same tire! They had no spare, unfortunately.
Our tire looks to be in ok shape, but it turns out it needs more than just a patch.
Now I have twirled the parts of my hair that aren't too gross to touch from grime and dust, sand and silt and not bathing for almost a week. My hair dreads itself out in a furious way.
Bohemian brew pilsner from Midvale, Utah and clips of readings from the Nomadic Festival's zine "Carnival of Chaos" narrate my afternoon post hike into your exquisite "Queen's garden".
Amazing! .8 miles from Sunrise Point and drowned in switchbacks. When I get back to my bro, whom I've now left napping, has split, and without a water bottle, so I hope he hasn't gone far. I'm hoping he will appear by the time I've finished this beer (which is pretty soon).
The campground amphitheatre is a short downhill jaunt away. I might perform some poems there in homage to the dusk.
A truck periodically swings over the roads, sprinkling them with water to keep the dust down.
And a very flirty and determined chipmunk (maybe more than one) skitters about the campsite hoping for a speck of chow.
Stellar's Jays-smart and beautiful- swing elusively from tree to tree and call their short evocative song. They are my new favorite birds.
Up at 6a for sunrise photos on the ridge. Making tea and packing up. Morning rituals have Chris at yoga, then tea, grapefruit. Along for the ride are cereal and oatmeal. Pop tarts and apples.
Last night he treated me to pizza and salad. We eat and drink well on this trip... And enjoy plenty of olfactory emissions!
Finished a book by Bukowski (good), wrote three haiku for Sedona (ok), and a jotted a little bit in my experimental storybook (eh.)
You know, you have very beautiful vistas on the trail just to the rear of our site. I smell cookout fires and (I think) marshmallows. We haven't lit a single fire, and I don't think we will. It's simply too dry around here, and I just know if I collect wood I'll be covered in sap.
Tonight would be good for a night hike in the form of a site walkabout. Cars keep rolling in as the day gets cooler. I think we may be full up, here.
The increase in elevation from Zion natl. park makes it a little better to live with. Still dry tho', and now it's Chris's turn to get a bloody nose.
I inspect my receipts: Lunch at Wildcat Willies (veggie burger and sweet potato fries), Red Rock Grille at Zion Lodge (pasta and quinoa with veggies and red wine), a few sundries from Sol Foods.

I want to write poems on the backs of all of them. Then I want to put them into the fire pit and remember them by forgetting them.
We record songs and sing and read aloud- harmonizing. An accidental worship of the thumbnail moon.

Cool enough now for long sleeves, jeans and a sleeping bag wrap. (Still so warm in the car!)
Up on the ridge at rim trail. Into the view beyond, a small line of orange lights gleam like adjacent campfires down canyon.
Chris puts his guitar away and goes to take a look. It is after 10p, and the ranger/host has made his last rounds. We have finished our beers and washed our dishes and teeth...
Memories swim neatly as I prepare for dreams. Last night I slept in until late morning with nonsense so vivid I thought during the dream that I must be dreaming.
It is a realization that changes nothing.
I couldn't see any stars yet, but the air was dim. Pink and forgiving with breezes.
My headlamp around my neck. My brother fast asleep with the water jug nearby. Breathing soundly near Sedona spring reserves.

Thursday night I review some maps I take in the awe of our 1st day in Zion. We drink the last of the beer at our free camp site (thanks to Charlie in Kenab, from whom we bought a book and a tea kettle) and I look forward to soymilk over cereal for breakfast and PB and celery in the afternoon.
We have consumed our PB and J's at Antelope Beach this past morning- many hours and miles ago.

A couple camps beside us. A man's murmurs audible. There are other talking sounds from across the way... there seems to be owned land or a homestead over that way.
The sun is gone. The trees are loosely packed where we are, and where we are is also littered with bone fragments and pieces of a long-ago chowed deer.

The road is a little washed out and I kept worrying I'd bunk up the bottom of the car getting up and down- beautiful but sketch terrain for a car that's been stuck in the sand 2x so far and lost an engine cover! Oh well, I worry about the low clearance and the breaks that need to be worked on, but we got the oil and air filter changed today for 50bux and Chris says he's golden on cash, so that's good. And we're still at a half tank of gas. The annual parks pass too is already saving our ass from a bunch of fees...
We are dirty kids having good clean fun.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Back in the break room we talked about babysitters.

He and his brother had one that tortured them, threatening to slit their throats and who he one day "moon"d. This gained him little favor, but made him feel better.

I don't tell him about "Sayword R.", the 16 year old Pittsburgh suburbanite with the weird name and fascination with our Michael Jackson's Thriller record. Her penchant for following me around and into the garage, only to catch me eating chocolate covered pretzels out of the deep freeze which, in the morning, I'd discovered she finished off.
I was twelve at the time and she didn't look much older than me. This caused some resentment, of course.
She went on to total the family car and probably have a bunch of her own obnoxious children. Such is life.

However, I do confess Veronica. Who is, after all, the best and most important one.
The first night she was over one of my parents homemade wine bottles exploded all over the kitchen. She spent half the night cleaning it up and was mortified.
Later, she would bring over "Joey" from time to time. Her scummy dago boyfriend. Sometimes her younger brother Allen would babysit when she was unavailable. Allen was 17 or 18 at this point and kind of cute and I'd woo him with my parents rock record collection. He lamented that we didn't own Pink Floyd's "The Wall".

Veronica's smile and spirit and laugh were infectious. She told us about a class trip to Spain- Valladolid. She had asthma real bad and wheezed. She chewed gum occasionally. She may have had freckles.
When she was younger she hallucinated snakes and spiders on some shitty allergy medication and feared them interminably.
I saw her one afternoon, over in her tiny room in her family's trailer, trying on for me her royal blue satin prom dress with the gold chain for the strap. Her firery red hair flowing past those same pale shoulders. I thought I was looking up at the queen of all my dreams.

And finally the blow of her last visit. The last one I remember.
I am much older. My mother has asked her over for some reason, to give her something maybe. Or she is in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by.
I am excited to see her. But the wind goes out of my sails as soon as I do.
She is massive. She has blown up in size to rival that of her mother. Well over 200 pounds. Maybe she is pregnant too. On top of all this, she has a blonde 2-3 year old boy in tow. I feel insulted by this entire scenario. The boy pounds on our piano and wants his mother's attention constantly while she's talking with my mother, which my mother tolerates as she gives it to him. No discipline. I observe all this, and I guess that's what I see.
There seem to be a bunch of icky feelings I was wrestling with at that moment.
I took Veronica to be much prettier than fat. I didn't think she deserved it. I thought she'd go on to travel some more and take over the world. Proof that I could get out of here and do the same thing.

It doesn't matter. People can't get away from their families, and they want what they want.

Wherever she is now, I just hope she's happy. And healthy.

Friday, June 1, 2012


Today I burned the last stick of incense my grandmother brought back from Japan many many years before she died. I watch the smoke uncurl at halfway and the ashes meet those of a dollar bill in a white ceramic bowl.
Yes, I am trying to call a phoenix...

Tonight I'm the little match girl in high heels. Too-large wool coat and tied up hair about to be let loose. Tiny sparks for jewelry, the pumps are wearing nervous sparkles onto my skin- baby blisters- that won't be so big I can't handle them in the time it takes me to get home.
My clutch: lipstick, pen, paper, money, tissues.

There was a woman I passed on the city street a while back.
The cords of her earphones were neatly tucked
underneath the strap that held the breathing mask/air barrier to her face.
She made eye contact with me. Her eyes told me that from under that mask, she wasn't smiling back.

Monday, May 14, 2012

Wood Fears Metal - Notes on Desire

I've written so much to you. A lot of words you'll never see. You might never "see" these words, either.
Are you afraid of people? You say you're lonely.. why do you keep so hidden?

I can't shake this idea that you're bad for me. Yet I still want you. Better judgement says I want you more than you want me.
And why? You philosophize, yet you have no practice. You understand duality intellectually, yet the real exquisite terror of science is that when it looks in the mirror, it sees poetry.

The paradox of this is that any (assuredly volatile to some degree) partnership between us could still possibly be hi-functioning and mutually beneficial.

But nobody, Nobody, can make another person want something they don't.

Do I write this more for myself, than for you? Maybe. It doesn't matter.
Either way my skin demands to be articulated. My path, my pretext, conceived.

I do and do not struggle to hear all my raw desire in the wake of you. Desire that is not judgement. Desire that is not expectation.

Desire for warmth. True intimacy.

A pact of non-aggression is still a call to action.

Sometimes, a woman is encouraged to be a thing without a past. I certainly do not intend to give my legacy away.

I am the best writer I can be right now- as a feature of my will and the sum of my parts.
My own loneliness and sadness, interlaced the twine of a few bad decisions, are not regretted.
Their edges have been explored much much more than once.
Still more, they've been found expertly fathomed. My eyes see more clearly after tears have washed them.

The "you" I speak to is the great elusive love. The soul mate in the traditional sense- lovely, strong, and in the male form.

It would be arrogant to say "I am ready for you". I am only truly prepared to say "I am worth loving, and so are you."

So, are you?

I'll keep calling out into the dark, knowing you will come.

Monday, May 7, 2012

List: Band Names

Dicky Listless and the Affairs
Heart Ache and the Bummers
Meta Phor and the Dislikes
Like Or As
Code Perfect
Meat Drawer
Sex Bunker
Petti Theft and the Pilfers
The Lonesome Bulldogs
The Long Midnight
Hot Noise (first album title: Hardup For Stereo)
Undercover Youngbloods
Dead Push Music
Covitous Ov
Mick Lixx and the Jolly Pops
Tab Lloyd and the Bad Publicity
Word Gun
Talking Tape Gun
The Daring Cut Lables
Satanic Carwash
Jefferson Leopard Lovestory
Grant Asylum
Mint Hoax Yawn
Plastic African
Mechanical Bullshit
Occultocaust (Its a Dog Eat God world...)
The Reverend Bartender Headache
The Waitress Union
Glib Contour
Sleepy Dirt
Foxy Moron
Ultimate Beef (saw this spraypainted on the side of a building/restaurant)
Barking Jeanius
Double Death
Soft Sword
Jayjee Ballad and the Bombs
Hot War
Idiot Electron
Creative Fighting and the Anything Dangerous
Shugar Skhull
Napoleonic Code
Wet Magnet
Teen Murder Composition
The Glued-Ons
Deena Martini and the Crass Pack
Fierce Decible
Dick Nigger and the Badasssssses
Alphabet Tapedeck
Kilometer Frame
The Constantly Tinys
Bystander Effect
Light and Moth
Frankfurt Motor (had a dream about this one: "meat and bones animal deathfuck porn band")

...Up for grabs, that is, if you feel like starting a band(!)
And if you think you've heard any of these before... let me know.


Monday, April 2, 2012

Evidence, Relevance, Consequence, Action.

When commercials become too much to take,  simply imagine the blowhard actor/voicetalent to be a cold-blooded murderer. Mass murderer, even. Something out of 'Nam. Whitey in flagrante delicto.
Then its all terrible giggles from there. Seriously. The ad loses all context and bleeds entirely any absurd integrity it may have had.
I thought of all this over a cleaning product spot. Corona nearly shot out of my nose. Bartender probably thought I was bananas. Effective.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

In proportion to your intelligence is your perception of pain

My mother's mother passed away on Friday. The last of the matriarchs to go...
I saw her just a few weeks back, and have no urge to go to funeral services.
However, in a silly twist, in a week or so I'll be taking on an acting gig that involves being a mourner at a mock funeral...
It is there that I intend to do a lot of crying for no good reason.

One day when I was little, I found I could cry on demand. I think I had something in my eye.
My mother was dually impressed with this. She'd say things like: You could go to Hollywood with tears like those.

Now, I simply lower my eyes and try to think of something that makes my nose tingle and my face itch like an allergic reaction, and soon I'm weeping.
But these salty jewels don't come cheap...

A little while back, I watched Wings of Desire. A German film by Wim Wenders, and it made me cry. Or moreso that I cried for watching it. It occurred to me then to make a list of all the things that have ever moved me to tears.
This is a work in progress, of course...
Old Photos, sometimes, like movies.

The love of my mother, and things that have made my mother cry out of sympathy for her.

The death of my father's sister last summer. The death of my grandfather, and his incredible send off.

Often, the plight of others. Lost families during wartime.

Videos of people, kids especially, getting puppies for christmas.

Octavia Butler:
Went to write to her after I saw her at a reading in 2005. That's when I found out she'd passed away.

Mother Teresa, and her confiding to a priest with whom she was close late in life, that she was no longer able to hear the voice of God. And that even if he'd given up on her, she hadn't given up on him.

My brother, singing a song I'd written about love in the hospital.

The short story Girl Pool by Kurt Vonnegut.

The children's story The Velveteen Rabbit.

Every single boyfriend, especially the ones that drove me crazy, and the romantic love they offered.

LAIKA, the first dog (Russian) in space, who did not come back- "We did not gather enough data from the mission to warrant the death of the dog."

I hope you can find a reason to be thankful for your humanity and compassion today, and tomorrow...

Saturday, March 3, 2012

dont you wish you had those nights back? the ones you paid rent for, but didn't stay?

don't mention the fog.
bring silk instead into the bed.
the place where our minds could be.
don't lean against the doors
when you could be under the covers.


coming like a message
hemorrhaging pink under Venus.


From the wide windows, sky.
A view of the high elec cables sine wave.
Cigarette ash in the upturned beer bottle cap.

Clean wide brown
paint brushes dried and
Three in a clear jar with a wide mouth.

Glass tarnish
shimmy the light back toward
crumpled paper and crumb tatters
of gold leaf.

Sunset falls,
long and final
over the worktable.


Those times when
deja vu
doesn't feel like anything
other than a wave
of extreme perfection?

I feel that
every day
around you.

Cloudy Tuesday. Rainy warmth hangs in the air like a deceptive blanket. the threatening insulator.
I went into a tea shop and drank white tea. Slow, and with air. It provided a stillness and a clarity that let me see colors and hear the city sounds with more purpose. As in a film. The cinema of my mind is vast. It makes me smile! It swirls inside me and spreads peace... or maybe it's sloth instead? My movements feel sluggish as if I was just aroused from rest.
The end of December. Already the bright retainer of spring thrusts itself into view. It is about to be deceived but it doesn't care. Even in deference, it is grateful.
People go out to breath heavy. Boys and girls move their bodies to music. Whatever becomes the light in them?

The board. The larder. The pantry. Empty.
Almost completely. I don't mind the look of it, all individually wrapped crackers and box of cereal with one bowl left.
I cannot eat the sound of my drum being played. I cannot unspin a curtain into spaghetti.
Coffee plays an uncertain cadence over my heart.
I dated a caffeine addict whose cum tasted like the coveted roasted cherries of that naughty insurgent bean. The grit and the flower of its taste. Pressed like saliva from bark. Rain run-off juice from a washed city. Burned rebel-drink. A bad substitute for prunes.
It's a thing that makes a tummy feel more empty after awhile. Hungry for grease.
I cannot whip toothpaste into eggs, over hard. I cannot breathe and take in the air like milk. I must fill myself another way.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

A Moment In 2007 (for Heather and Christian)

Two Nineteen.
I am 27 today. And lonely. (In Maine).

On Hobson's wharf, in Becky's diner, warming my hands with half-decaf and thinking about how surreal a kind of day like this spent alone can be.
The odd years are always the best, but they start out so casual, so understated..

When I turned 21 by the end of the day I was crying. That day was supposed to be spelling my name in the sky. The day that followed instead, was much much better. And I guess that's how I'll feel tomorrow... relieved that the pressure is off.

I do currently have the best boyfriend ever. Supportive and sweet and calling me and sending messages. He is also lonely and we're a little heartsick for one another. Even as that situation won't remedy itself for another couple weeks, its still bittersweet knowing that a short few hundred miles away, someone is down with me.

The sun is so bright, it's hard for me to not want to be outside. But the wind: an icy and unforgiving witch.

I walk around town dropping off applications to everywhere I can think short of laundromats (and I might just break out the phonebook and do that later this week.)
No bites yet, but we're close. Hard to get a part-time gig in this town.

In hopes of a more positive experience with birth control and condom-free sex, I put in a "nuva ring" today. A little plastic hormone delivery system. More news on that later, I hope.

Guys to my rear rap about basketball and I think of a friend in PA with his family. Called me at the beginning of the weekend in anticipation of Monday off. Yes, today is also president's day. Me and Lincoln- we're taking on the world at every turn.

Volunteering at the TV station tonight. A show at the Strange Maine- a little hodge podge shop with music and movies. I only went there once and the cashier looked like every member of TV on the Radio combined. Having a phone conversation about something either extremely personal or very illegal.

The math professor sends me an email:
"And remember, 27 is the last prime cube you will ever achieve as a birthday."

Yep. 27. Your life is amazing. Right down to the split ends.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Addressing Busters

"The State is for Man. NOT Man for the State."  - Jacques Maritian

It's an election year, and I owe my friend Patrick an apology...

Back in '08, swept up in Obama fever, I shot an email out to friends and family drumming up enthusiasm, or at least sharing my own, for the upcoming election.
I was excited for much of the same reasons that others were, including voting for the first time in a place other than Western PA, and was- as I still am- a resident of Chicago, Illinois. Ground Zero Obamaville.

When I talked to my friend Pat about who he was voting for, he said: "No one. I'm not voting."
I then proceeded to give him a bunch of shit for it.
I'm not even sure I remember his reasons for not voting. But time, and experience, teaches.
Perhaps he knew something I didn't, and was afraid to tell me for fear I wouldn't listen.

My point being, I'm not sure whether I come to this out of the peculiarities of a generation so generally and swiftly jaded by a broken, static system, maybe each one feels more estranged than the last...
Although for me it was late 20's, I'm sure it's a more personal timeline for everyone. Some people never get to confronting that coarse of injustice that facilitates a nihilistic outlook on what is, at large, a wholly dysfunctional option.

But, to Pat and to whom it may concern: I'm there. I've arrived.
You were right, and now we have Occupy fever.

To digress a moment, my last two partners have been "Baby Busters". They were, are, 48 years old.
In speaking with the first one day, I had a realization that I should have had a long time ago, which was that this system and its politics are cyclical like anything else. The same samsara-trap set, the same trap going off again and again.
What scam that involves selling our rights back to us comes next is our only guess- "universal health care" seems like the likeliest candidate.
And the latest admitted a paradox, because the current Mr. President is himself a "Buster", a generation also plenty jaded with politics.

However complex the variables and outcomes, the primary conclusion is herein momentarily being: I've decided to divorce myself from voting.
No ballot casting ever again, for anything local, state, federal, international, universal.

Voting distracts.
And besides, don't we just vote every day anyway with a thing politicians are more interested in anyhow?

Saturday, January 14, 2012

No Comment.

I want a cigarette after that sex.
I'm on my period and its messy. Brown like nutrient rich earth after a good rain.
My phone never rings when I'm available and my legs will never shave themselves.
I will know when the time is right... why do I always want to rush it?
The plastic jangles. I forget my earrings are there @ the sides of my throat, until I brush them accidentally.
These actions coincide with my phone not ringing and the remembrance of needing to pluck eyebrows.
I ask my boyfriend not to drink so much at happy hour so he can pick me up tonight. He won't make any promises. It's Friday.
I start a new book.
The book store, there are so many people to write to, lonely. Only one person responded to my ad. I like forgetting that I've done those kinds of things.
If I was different, would I make new friends?
My hair works its way into my ear like a pressure, a thought that tickles the side of my reality. Quiet hair dusted and stuck, made loud against strands grown from the top. Brothers and sisters of another topography.
I'm eighteen.
I want to drink cold pink wine with my boyfriend in a bedroom in my hometown. I want him to visit me in his past so I can say his name & kiss him and call him my boyfriend. ...and then he can melt away in the morning.
I don't wear socks that often. And I don't have a reason why, other than it looks real cool, and I guess my feet like to get intimate with the sides of my shoes.
I wear a skirt today. Winter feels good on all the things I'm not covering.
The ballad radio at twelve twenty five.
My chin crushed into the pillow, staring at the rain.
That girl I remember from many previous summers in her bedroom on her bed watching the rain thinking about her dead pet. I pushed her door open and walked past and took the glance of her from behind that she'll never know.
From that I have all this- a head full of bedrooms and ballads. A piece of rain shuddered against glass near long brown hair and ass in denim.
Sometimes its so curious how we have all in one day, a noon and a night.