nothing to do

poetry is unfeeling
limitless space
and gallons and gallons of energy
all wrapped up in a tiny breath
that scandalizes universes
and dreams a poet's root to be truth.

i know not anyone else's unhurried
breath; its extension to myself is not
warranted; i believe but do not know
humanity; i cleanse the palette of my
face; guaranteed by morning to be free from
grief; one dangling chord of memory ropes
dreams; and dancers unite in torturous
positions; some little track unfolds
curses; i am not squared to fit
fluidly.

in a botched dream sequence, i run straight through

Time

into a stolen version of you.

a couple bricks
lay pointed
in different directions
a pinecone turning gray
metal posts holding up nothing
patches of grass
many colored green
and nearly white with light
in some places
long, long tree trunks
and one thick trunk with ivy
forming a layer around it.

aubade

Alone--in another world we are all alone

Yes but fleeting feels so good
sitting in front of my computer
feeling its legs reach out to me

A morning does not grip me as hard
with an imaginary friend in tow
the miracle of life

speculated inside imagination

When do legs become legs, and not

the honest being of--- wanted desired reality?

I have nothing to base this on.

I am alone/ yet
a film
running beneath my eyes
transmits the cough of fantastic ignorance

within it--special, alone,

a thousand voices!

2 poems

In the Waiting Room


Time has borrowed me
spilled me,
and healed me;

No muddy voices

reach me
unembedded in its river.

If I survive,
I survive,
close to,
and unraveled by

its popular chords, mute to memory.

And I wonder--
how alone

how must i bleed

how must I face disorder

of blue breath rising
from this stone of grief?


*


Once, while perched on a little ledge,
the lonesome noise of faith
came calling my name.

and I recognized it in
its cloak of silence--

I recognized the stillness
immersed in me, with
my body's boundaries
the lines played and
wondered at, and also
the silk beginning
of a tremor?

poem

recipe for a blind person


red is purple, like the stars
all colors come from the same death
or life, i sink greedily into them all.

all over today was a lank version of me
crawling away from the sky
and i held in it, some strange color
some blending of force that sent me
blurring back to bed.

and then there was green, a green day
vanished into blue truth, and a yellow
sunrise that fell into hurt, and white
distance and black lies.

if you were blind, would you know
would you imagine color?
would you know the sound of
each smell of each singular
touch of such a blank resistance
against death? would you be able to
reason with time, that life existed
separated into particles like this
foremost and evolutionary
and lacking in the most spectacular nothing?

it is the surrender into nothing, color
which is never stationary
which does not surround us but
bleeds uniquely like a doll
whose pain is not real
but who we want and imagine
to be our whole and real selves.

tight rope walking


awful just settling
don't you hear?
the quite white noise
of nothing condescends
a life you once motioned inside.
these things remind me
who i am, who i'm not
where to start, to end from
when i arrive
i already want to leave
and when i have left
i yearn to come back.

blue before sleep

what little truths i know
repopulate the brain
the emptiness of thought
the blue terrible sound of other peoples' thoughts
the logic of the quotient of the pink in the glass, the drink i mixed
and the terrible amount of light pouring from its well
the round signals we receive from lips of grandmothers
a list of things that leave when i close my eyes
unlatched from small beginning and rooted back into fantasy.


i have no base to stand on
words define me
having no definition
a word alone is nothing
there has to be a specific kind
and so words alone are unspecific
they have a sort of following
and that is us
and without it they don't belong
they don't exist
and without them we barely do
and there is some logic, some tool in me
that wants to exist, that wants
to be brought to bear its meaning
but i cant tell how i'm supposed to handle it
someone please tell me how i'm supposed to handle it.



a rupture in my stream of thought
when i lay down at night
and eventually sleep is dispensed
like food for starving.
i belong in the space of nothing
the starvation of the mind seeking insanity
the blue chorus of unnoise
and perhaps on waking i will bring back
some reminder of this faith, that i exist.

i am only something's little pet

today i went to the decatur book festival. i am happy and i am unworth. i like making up words because that is what happens when i read cesar vallejo. i am in a mode where i am missing people. i am in the mode where i want to spoon feed parts of myself to every single person and live in side of them. the parts of me that would like to live literally inside of another person need worth and caring. they need to feel luck and anger and ruinous truth again. they want to be surrounded. dont we all want to be surrounded? so many of my problems come from wanting to be surrounded. is it such a bad thing? i guess it depends on what i want to surround myself with. my boyfriend comes home soon. i want to live in and among and timeless in his love but i guess this cannot happen--i cannot be taken away from myself and time by another person's love, and if i do, well i guess it's okay for a brief time. but it is too addicting to me. it becomes the only thing i want and i gear myself and every particle of my being only toward this. so i have to exist in time and let all boundary stink around me and smell the love as if far away and take a bite and let it sit in me like raw dough but i can never never never never never pretend to myself that yes i live or unlive alone inside of it, that it becomes me, that i am erased inside of it, that i am alive only around it, that it's boundaries are the best boundaries of me, and etc and etc etc etc

oh come on: live a little

she said.

i have alive i have noses

what happened there used to be

and night comes rushing in with no pants

i have hair i have not no holes

no external holes

oh and the wind it comes rushing

unforgiving into me

let us all be wind

minus the cold cold heart

i would reverberate with day blue and fire

i could open and shut without breathing

oh and etching lines where there is no sound

and preening lovely opening of time

oh and allowing all boundary

to be open, open, open unto me

she believes she is not open

she believes she does not start and end

and she believes most of all

worst of all

that the fire inside is not inside

oh it is fake it is folding

the day into two pieces

night and then bleating sorry wind

why minus the forgiveness

what do you have to give

what little faith is left in the hanging

of infinity? of mass unspoken for and

lost; of virgin silver light nestling

in unbroken places where sound

calls home, and wake up

daylight pouding in your ear

tearing apart the fantasy of living

the bitter untruth of being.

to begin again
that is why we love darkness
our own darkness
to spring from untouched
we ruin ourselves
over and over again we ruin
and i ruin myself every single day
i hate to have one single thing perfect
it is unallowed, too far from being
it is still it is nagging it is not free
so i break it down yes
i play a little music and i stop
listening, i plug up the faith
i make music in the stopping
i enjoy verses of myself
catering to strong winds as they
pull me apart, i am strong i am strong
they say, i am not
weak weak weak weak
but we know
we know that the only way
to build up yes yes
is to b
rrr

ee


akk ! !! !

you live and you die.
there.
i just heard a sound outside
i wonder what is was.
oh well.
this poem cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannot cannoto canoaotnoancoaidnnaoicnaoincoanisaidafds

be
over
yet

a dog lies next to me
i am not still the worst
sorry version of not being
still and sinking the day
does not deplete me; still
it does not enter me
i enter myself
plugged and fathomed
outside of day; day's door
i have not yet walked into
and i hold myself as if cold
and i starve myself as if hungry
and i dream my life as if sleeping

poo

oh yes i have hurt
leftover from other lives
hurt hurdling into me
from nectar of sweet disease
oh mother empty your cup
oh father dance with me

short of living i am not
life; i have shortness
of breath in hearing
my own breath in listening
to its fathomed
stillness.

and in nothing i am
not more than nothing, but
not less either. and in everything
there is no such heinous word:
it is the ugliest word
that everything
that one thing
could be more than one
thing.

what glimpses the future
eyes that have no eyes
ugliness that can only begin
and tantalizing verses
singing and depleting you
until you are yes full again.

new poems

i hate things so much
i am going to list the hateful things i hate
even though i don't want to
i don't want to know they exist
i don't want to register color
i don't want to be able to count
i don't want to achieve lines or rebirth
i don't want to know or to feel
different things touching me
i want only to know unknow
i want only to feel unfeel
i want only to think unthink
i want only to be nothing.

you want so badly to be noticed
that you'll do anything in silence
you'll think any thought that hates you
you'll drive through any nightmare
and still are the voices behind your eyes
the ones that have lasted and lasted beyond you
wait they say another day it will
outlast you these voices and you
will be alone; the want and the pictures
they connected you to your loneliness
which amounts to one simple friend
who cannot understand you
the same way that you selfishly
can understand no one and nothing
but the loneliness that makes you unique.



i am happy
because life exists in an egg
swollen and brittle
as a new house.

I see colors as numbers
and hear numbers as voices
I forgive outlines
for being more than myself


parts of my body
overlap in time
and time
edges along me
crushing each component
into recognition or dearth

only in a lack of color
do i identify
with swimming color
the mind borrows from day

and only in the morning
in the neutral heart
is fathomed the richness
in being able
to forgive itself for being broken.

weak coffee
in the morning
i listen to
music videos
i type about
these things and
the fingers they
connect to me
there is heart
there is a light
that comes through
the white sheets i can
see it through
my eyes but also
other parts of me
that see they see
it too and the music
it hears and i hear
at the same time
we hear


will my number come up
eventually
like love's some kinda
lottery
where you scratch and see
what's underneath
its sorry
just one cherry
play again!
get lucky.

wishing is not right
when i have tenderness
reaching its orby nuetrality
down my useful throat.

oh to love again--to bring
heart's worship to peace.
takes broken backs and
tipped over dreams, i guess.

i want to know: why in love
do we find so many parts
of the unloved self come
buttoning up for the cold.

and i need to know: why
can it be that way, when
earth has green cold silver
turn and turn with nighttime.

who told me i had to be false:
that love couldn't be cold and
graceless, that love had to snag
its shoulder on the plug of night.

i admit i spend most of my time
questioning faith and love
what matters i guess is the ordeal
i surround myself with.

ruined, i am ruined, only to
back up again, into an empty
space i have never collected
and it is new to me.

i ask myself why did i never know
the part of me that could truly
give love? it was because
it goes beyond knowing.

Alone and Not Alone

You lay in bed you
Watch TV.
The color of his clothes
Does not matter; but how
Does one remember how to see?
I alone I not alone.

Last comes the white night
Under me breathing steadily
Something groans and I sink
Laughing into its green net...

Oh, wake up in the middle
Of the night, to feel less
Alone. On the computer
Feeling less and less and less
Of yourself, less alone of course.


Create and the night comes frothing.
Mix up labels and dreams
Come fighting. Take
A little time to scratch out
The leftovers, of time, forgotten
You have forgotten all of yourself.

Remember: the option of refusal
Does not belong wholly to oneself;
Remember: the sheets the bed nagging
Oneself to get inside. A nightmare
Claws with mirror-teeth, a seething stupidity
Reserved only for your legs
It rides and cries in silences
Alone you are not alone.

Yes, I have cleaned the beaureau;
I have holy notes of winnings
In my pocket; pockets
That offer simple dearths
To be filled by what was once
Easy and is now an option.

Alone I am not;
Agree with me night;
Face the turbulence of unwritten air
And blank the faces in this game
Which move steadily in single
File lines groaning, O
You are not alone like we all are.

time can never erase time

see if memories wrap around you like this... they stand up tight and singing, next to one another. i lay in bed next to old memories and we wrap our little legs round one another and then the silence pricks me and i suck down and out of myself... and in my dreams, yes, yes, that is the only word i know how to use. there is something strange alone my spine as i drift in and out of myself--it is a knowing how to unknow and a being unreligious and unwanted and unnatured. i was looking at my hand today--together, wrinkled hand, the low and the dark and the filter of it, its color groaning, and i thought, wow! this hand this very hand has been with me since i was born, this hand will be with me when i die. this hand is not going anywhere--and even now it has to be repeated, this hand will not, will never leave me.

aubade

living in
and then i walked
to the and then i no shit dude?
demon sailing and cool numbers
the sound of couches sitting
and a scraping awesome here he goes
morning evaporates
what time will he figure this later than so i day
and there is
there is a meeting i have to meet
all of obviously
nice and surely certainly pencils of notes
what morning level headed stink of insanity i have hear
hear here wonder wander
and i have
and i stop in dreams.


aubade listening to brian on the phone and i have
no thoughts of my own and the music
revolves around stomach lining
wonder what he is thinking
wonder what my stomach wants to say
wonder what this pen is thinking
wonder how long time will last today
the music speaks of old old

redux

There is a hole in the sky
where i come thru
the clouds just spread and there i am.
It was so easy to excavate the self
from bleary light and mindless color.
Now I lie in bed wondering
whose facts are these that surround me like logs
and why can't i remember
anything that happens under this net of skin.
i guess, tho, who would
remember the trundling postures
that flounder beneath daylight, ruptured by a toothy decay.
i prefer to know the grim kiss of barriers
as i jump blindly from them.

aubade at the shore with mom

There is a hole in the sky
where i come thru
the clouds just spread and there i am.
it was easy to excavate the self
among the bleary color and wind
it was easy. but here i am
sitting, writing in bed
at 7:57 in the morning
and facts surround me,
facts, simple facts like logs
and i have a body, i know that
i stare at it, finding and seeing
nothing at all. and time passes
and music collects into my ears
but the sound goes nowhere
and i find myself, no, i don't
find myself at all
in a body, in this net of skin
but there i am
leaping boundlessly
over the grim barriers
the toothy decay of time.

night is bleary

i sleep all day
a fan whirring over my head
and when i don't sleep
my heart asks a simple question
without an answer.
I don't want to be called this name
I don't want to bang my bones
against this hard wet rock
anymore. But my body, oh,
lingers in the cool notes
of the fan, letting the blanket
collect me into unfathomable night.

women and men

women and men: they are a fickle duo. here is what i think: why does one sex always have to have the power? in so many relationships i see either the man or the woman is the one who has the backbone; the other just listens and does. of course there is a balance of power in other ways but still it bugs me to see one person sort of be colonized by the other. is there a way to unify and become one with a person without completely losing yourself, or without losing yourself at all? is this why so many poets (marianne moore, for ex.) didn't like marriage? because it took something away from the self? and must be always take something away in order to add?

how can you fuse yourself to another person--i am thinking physics, i am thinking chemistry or what have you, but really it's a matter of tending your garden--if you don't water one part of it it's not going to grow. but metaphors are not life--they are not like life and that is a point. they carry you away from the point. the point is that people need one another to grow but sometimes people hinder their growth as well. it is a difficult road to travel.

there are people in my life who both hinder and encourage my growth. i dont know why this is. when you think of a plant there are clear things that take away growth and give it--sun and weeds, for example. but in my life there are things and people who are clearly not just the sun and not just weeds but have some of both. i guess that shows are depths and complexity but it just confuses me. not that i want everything to be equal and easily explainable--life would not be fun--but i have trouble untangling the weeds of a person when they also give me light and sun. maybe it is not about the other person but me--i am my own weed, strangling myself alive, and why do i do this? because i am also the sun. i shine and let myself grow. we are all perhaps both things. can there be a duo, a moon and a dark side, a sun and a shadow, a coin with a face and an amount? two things that are one are also two. i always knew there was no point to math and yet it is everything we are--i look at trees and see numbers climbing straight into the sky--i see everything as metallic and unpretty--and i hear voices plaintive in the dark, calling out numbers, calling out uncertain breathing techniques.

once you open up your boundaries a little bit you feel as if something has died. and why is this? im not really sure. because you are open--when you are open i guess you are open to the elements, to letting harm in. but of course this is the only way to grow, to have harm threatened. i guess this makes sense. how can you grow if you have no reason to grow, nothing for which growth is productive? of course there are different directions of growth. a person can grow towards death, towards life, towards love. but plants only grow in one direction. is this our choice, part of our choice, that we dont always have or get or know how to grow towards the light? we grow in other directions and perhaps they are not wrong or right or anything at all really...

growth is human but so is not growing--if you look at how many humans are not growing you would see that it is a pretty human thing to stave off growth. i wonder if this is evolutionary in some way--to not grow as a technique to protect. probably. but there are consequences. in other words walls must be broken down and techniques will fade--nothing is true, truth is a bleeding valve, and tomorrow again tomorrow we must go home, to go home to go...

mas

Nothing satisfies me
Therefore, nothing, I let you satisfy me.
Pain is indistict, without borders
Beginning and ending outside of me.
I know I am not responsible for my pain;
I feel it grasping from deep inside the earth, an angry mother.
And yet in its mouth I am broken
Through cracks of myself I view small changes taking place
But they are too far away to make out.
Whatever person lives in this pain
It is not me. Whatever time has freed
Cannot expect to make a home in time.


*

It is 3:30; by 10:00, I will be a new woman
But I will not recognize what changes have taken place
And also I will not remember the woman I am now
So I think I should document
What I feel, how I have acted
Sitting here, typing, trying to name things
As they decay.
Allowing something so simple as rain
To penetrate me, I realize how small I am
And how far off from the world I can be
Despite these endless channels I swim
Away, away, toward, toward.

*


Sorrow comes disguised as yellow leaves
A green lighter and a phone: this is my allowance of pain.
Cigarette butt speaks the only truth I know
And that is that all craving ends in the destruction of self.


*


First, I will tell myself all that is not true
And then I can begin again to meddle with Tuesday
Having faith in the outstretched and ungrateful sorrow
That rounds out my flesh; though as I am ended
By leaf, rain drops, traffic noise,
I remember my only duty is in delivering the unsaid
Into what has no knowledge of sorrow
Cannot fathom bliss, shakes pain from underfoot
And extends its root into the sky.

somebody somebody sent this to me

Poetry
You reverse me
Endless gravity sinking into sun
Of mindless thoughts
Thoughts of their own little minds
To shelter me from diseases
Which I lift and drink in.

Oh death, I crave you—
But I do not allow myself time to sink in
What dearth does not remember
The lifting of its brew
Cannot, should not are the features
Tremulous stones thrown down to the bottom of me
What mishap shapes this face
Crayon bicycle nervous system
A toothy miracle spitting systems
And staple yourself to yourself.

Fruit of wisdom
Cries full of nutrient
Element of deathly decay
Shelter in roaming lethal concrete
And I suppose you want more out of me
That is fine; what does not cling to earth
Vanishes into your words and your breath.

So write about him:
There is nothing to say.
Don’t think about him;
He will come out anyway.
His name flits around in silence
And his face hemorrhages in the dusk
You cannot know what his map
Has blistered into your skin
There is no system for understanding
A rope that he has strangling
Tooth by tooth, your words
Your mirror of yourself, and your fantasy
Which don’t meet up anymore
Elastic and undrinkable.


What doesn’t touch is
Still capable of hurting.
This is an easy concept:
Pain which mirrors I guess
Some soap of destiny
And made up words which offer
A route to fantasy
And cups of soda to level
Your thoughts into green gray day.

First I will wake up
And then I will fall back asleep.
And then I will begin my day:
Falling into endless pattern
Repeating smoldering movements
And stapling myself to the day’s edge.

That body you left alone with him.
That body belongs in his bed.
That body does not belong to you,
Or to him, but it lays in his bed
Motionless, and crying for energy
Listening to horns and music in the night
And saving itself for death and ruin
Where it knows how to begin again.

What gets saved up
In the little remainders of what was once
What was once, and is now unsayable.
What and where it gets placed
And how it may rise
And how and how
The unsayable and the outside of understanding
Comes up to speak its bleary hello
And sink its fathoms into a blue face
Which is either your face or the sky
And which you no longer tell the difference from
And which now owns you and your thoughts.

There is a line
We draw
We walk over it
We sometimes dance over it
We like to breath and watch our breath
Wiggle towards the other side
Where a pair of eyes wait
Are they our eyes?
They are always our eyes.
They are his eyes. But still they are our eyes.
Because what can breathe without you?

This is outside of emotion.
This poem does not have an emotional happening.
It will run its course only in words.
It can speak only in dictated sounds.
And you will understand it by rote memory.
And as it forces its way into your mind
Remember, that you were once forced
Into being as well. So you have that in common
With a poem.

what is hard

singing thru your teeth.

and merging into endlessness.

and craving brokenness.

and forcing repetition.

today i end and begin outside of me
a tree does not say hello
a tree i cannot love
or i can love
only if i am willing to take the extra hate

gross statues in my room
their curt stretching
graphs ripples onto skin
i swear it was mine
it was all mine
once

is that all we are?
an item--filling up space.
blankness overturned
shells or coins unnumbered
and toothless beckoning
become one of us
become a number
because easy
and never expose oneself.

i do not want to share
myself with today--
a bottle of pills and a
container of contact fluid
a ticket for speeding
a black purse and a spoon
on top of a box
filled with cell phone
chargers and things
i share i share
out outlines cannot merge
they be and begin
they touch and do not
they fragment and dispose
of beginnings, rotten beginnings
and all i see around me
are endings, and more
where i could never fall
where the light once never
shed, where now faces
stretch endlessly
but only in my mind
in the real world faces
do not exist anymore.

why is it that
everything i feel around me
crushes me--i cannot share
today with these things
my apartment meddles
in my consciousness
becoming me
i dont want you!
i want to scream
but then i know i'd be lying.
because i do, and i did
i needed something
intricate staring me in the eye
and i needed to believe i was that thing.

once, you begin
later you throw away
this part of yourself;
once, you swallow holes
later you burn at the outline
once, you believed
and later you come to consciousness
wicked and grieving
and you grow from fantasy
into submission
and your imagination
shuns all outsiders
and your dreams
belittle the truth.

i have exhumed
three other selves
this morning--sent them scorching
out of me, their burned bodies
crumbling into ash
and blowing away
without a breeze.

there is a shelf
and on it i store
what was once a little
version of jill summer time
she rose and fell and
navigated wheels and time
and then the little hair
of earth crawled onto her shoulder
and she was forced to see
what she could not see.

don't bother
opening any doors
they are all closed
they are all closed
they are all always closed
and so will you be closed

further from faith
we strain our voices
further from understand
we plant our sweet bodies
and further from distance
we cannot mask our sadness
living in sorrow and tomorrow

what time is it
i have plans to rise
i have to court air
i have a new route to control
i have to arrange tragedies
and damn options
i have forgotten
that a deal is a deal is a deal

aubade while listening to eminem

i like the day
to land in
and fragment
sills and window
views that let me in
still and infinite
i carry waste and load
a truck full of
heavy undertow you
wanna get pulled under
the lack retreats and pulls you in
feel a crossroads of animals
stranded on a leaf
and make chances
to jump branches
take a smoke
upside down and crawling
battered and sheltered
cars veer headless
while morning blue
soaks lines like anger
and crunches out the heart
until it beats colors
carry fortunes
liberal in pockets
burn truths
until they coat like
blankets of smoke
siren orange
in a box of speak
to shit on eyes that stare
and i dont care
fuck time
and bleed out elements.

june 16 2010

to be in love with death
death as fragments of virtual
fantasy retroactive
and spelling out a murmur
don't we all know that what loves
comes to us twice, once
in our pain, and another
through the laughing
annointance of day to night, night
to day, and in between
we are lost, alone
uprooted, we fathom ourselves
beginners of some virtual oath
and crave a skeptical light to worship
our plugged up souls.

whatever gives
whatever gives
you already know the rest
of the equation
but take it away
take it away
be left alone in your heart
be alone and still
wide open and free
let a little voice
wind a door or trail
through screaming hills
once we go back
we can never go forward
but once we begin to
want, there exists nothing
that will ever again touch us.


first, the pain of living.
then, the remorse of others death.
and then, the hero of our own end of life.
once it comes, a blissful voice, we trill
a note along the sorrow of clouds
again and again our hello
screams to the void
and emptiness follows
and virtual truths impose themselves
on your fragmented, collected
body.

what shame we have
in fleeing or wanting death
death cannot overtake us
without our consent
we like to tell ourselves
well death has already come
to your door and plugged
up its ear to listen to you breathing
yes death has already made you a friend
when will you say hello back to him?

we unite
in our world
with faces full of hatred
and noises that pollute battered silence
and then again we might take a turn
reaching out
there might be an arm
something solid to grasp
or a picture
a photo to remind you
how to nestle in the space of life
and to live is to run away
to run away breathing your words
internally to emptiness
and to always collect spaces
like they were yours, because
they were, mine and nobody's.

aubade june 15

what turns over
my filthy little heart
its broken doors
run hiding from neutral announcements
i have allowed six things
to pass discretely through me
shunned the rest
although what is tangled
between earth and love
comes unbroken through shelves
where i do not pluck from.

hidden neath underside of heart
why blackness
what has rotted and what turns and turns
roiling in fantasy and sickness.
what you do not know
laughs and sticks to garden
voices and plummets downward
into the frozen tundra of you.

i have not allowed
morning to come
unbuckling through me:
but yet it melts
over skin and feeling
returns me to time.
another time would lapse
and i would fracture my understanding
for a little light
a little dose of what we should call hurt
fathomed as light well yes
they are the same thing: hurt and light
come cradling the same voice
and yet we do not know them
by the same name
only they know us
by our broken triangles.

shelves present:
morning, silvery digits
i have not yet woken
words scream utter silence
i have fingers they blink lights
and in the trees my toes curl objectively
mine and not yours
mine and not yours
today is celestial
the broken tooth of sunrise
commits errors and i screen the voices
of tomorrow for their dirty silences
once again i come crawling
out of some face
belligerent and posing
allowing me to ask for neon
and bending me toward the moon.

aubade june 14

this morning is the insatiable urge
for insatiable urges.
this morning a blackness follows me
round and round until we meet
where lines dissolve.

this morning everything i have ever known
dissolves.
and this is good.
i don't know what i would do without a good morning
to rob me of wit, wisdom and faith
to remind me of color and only
of color
to help keep me blank
to bring me home.

A Tragedy

I don't want to die.
But there are the black letters
Telling me so.

I have fear and shame
In my heart
That have made a home.

I hear whispers
Of eternity all the time
And in them I admit
I drink freely.

I own nothing;
And yet in dreams You come to me
The tongue and salt of my wounds

And I am unbroken
And noises dangle like letters
I swear I listen to your faith break
As true as I was born alone.

GMORNING

here i am awake. i should be thankful. already lists are running away with me in my head. i wish i could have a moment of peace. i probably could, if i tried a little harder. i am fucking lazy. but that's okay. be gentle on yourself.


i dont have much to say. bla bla bla. i am listening to john mayer. he makes me happy. i feel for him. what else what else. am going to the beach today. should be good. the last time i went it was gorgeous. im excited.

im moving to atlanta. i hate just repeating things im doing on here. what a waste. here's a lil poemmmmmm:


good morning morning
hello day day
what ever ever
today today i will be
i will i will i say
things things they repeat
oh and numbers and colors what else what
little beginnings remote remote we fall
we fall we say we own
other things things
together together
nothing else even
exists exists

trying to develop a character for a story

evie:

She: blank ---

and words like

WELL HELLO ALL THE EASIEST

words.

gore and sure and juror

there is no NOTHING you are not random you not even but she

this is not even fractured

a little bit of well you and me

coming and going and

shelves: put me on

and sell me

and hold the thought: hold HER IN YOUR MIND -- tickle the death of

Her.

Because SHE might not breathe unless YOU

DO.

i wish i could come up with titles for these damn things

Waking up
And wanting
And waking up only to want

How do I know
Today well it greets me
Its simple skin and mine

Once a girl woke up
Her legs were asleep but
Her mind was not

Oh tree how you hold
Thoughts in
Green leaves throwing
Words back at me without
Judging, hanging back
And listening

Yes is the answer
Always the most simple
And agreeable
And if you use it
Always
There will be freedom

may 31 2010 monday

O world
Simple and slow
Not world in me
Not world in me


When will I know
I ask the wind
I ask the rain
I ask them every day
Questions, questions

We are here:
This is the numbing
Of my soul
This is me
Smoking a new cigarette
Silencer of thoughts
Listening to the rain
Beat the hard ground in punishment.

Once I could not
Remember me
I was driving
I call my parents
I go on a bike ride
I cannot remember
The world, the past
It stretches out blankly
In black. Or in white
It is an absence
Or it is the filling of everything.

Today his name is a poem
Today I feel love and tomorrow
Tomorrow I will feel

Last one to know
Is always me
Last one to strip away
The protective vest
And feel the velvet
Of moist words
Or feel without them
Feel the blank
Voiceness noise
Of nothing, it coos
My name, it hears
Nothing back
And nothings
Join together
And I stretch out to meet them
I stretch out
And I listen to emptiness.

See we all know
How this goes
The day being like a prayer
When you wake up
You get down on your knees
You waking up
Today
Is nothing less than a miracle
Nothing less
And yet a miracle
Isnt that something to behold
Isnt it something to remember
Not to regret
But a miracle
How do you know yourself?
Miracles do not go by
Names, miracles
They just exist and then
Scrape back along the intangible
And you are left remembering
What it is like to be touched
In darkness.

Me oh her
Oh six fingered
Oh counting
Oh what is simple
What is never simple
Oh this time
Stretching out
And the rain
Here we go
A listing of things
Always brings about
A memorium of thoughts
On this day
The day that is a memorial
The day that I forgot
Ringing truth like a newspaper
A black and white dampness
Stretched across hands
And clouds
They speak natures to me
And the ex boyfriend
Who lives across the street
He begins to end
In the voice
In the emptiness of voice I guess
Here is she still
She does not know
The writing flirts
With emptiness
The writing tries to make sound
And does it fail?
And would this be succeeding, then?

Rain is fat and hard
Rain is all those things I hate
And I love rain
I love the way it beats
I love the way
It never curves
Knowing just what it wants
Hit the ground
Hit the fucking fucking ground.

Lips stretch out to me to speak
They carry within them
Well nothing but we call it
Yes we hear our own names
Every day in this silence
I hear my name
In my head in the shower
Am I schizophrenic?
I think again again
Am I god? I think will God
Know its me and how will I know
When I meet God?
How will I know how to tremble
In front of something I have both
Always known and yet never
Been able to fathom?
The answers
Are always easier than asking.

Blurring the beginnings
Here I exist
I am typing
I make noise
A noise I don’t hear
No one else hears it
But I know
It’s there
How you ask? Well you
Are reading this. You have
Fingers and toes like me
You live and you will
Die, maybe
And then we will
Begin to count, souls
The souls they have voices
And the souls they have colors
And we cant see them
They exist in the thunder
They spin and collect
Dishes of hardness
Shattering shattering
You cannot hear their noise but
It hears you and their noise
Well its enveloping of you
Is simply how you exist.
If it weren’t for their background
Of simple white noise
There would not be this blur
Of you, stretching into shapeless
Shapes, you would not be
Typing their words.

sunday may 30 2010

Knowing yourself is a tool:
You crouch and use it
You dig and crush and mix
Yourself around
To see yourself
In some relief
But really
All that we build
It breaks down
That is the definition of life:
Breaking down.

If I could live as a tree
I would.
I would have leaves
And grow up and out
And I would regret
Nothing
And I would sing
Silently.

This wasp wants to build
Her nest in my deck
And we will have to
Crush it again
The nest built of her spit
We will get rid of it
I don’t like wasps
And I don’t like you
I will crush you too, certainly

Another relief is
Thinking about impending doom
But looking at the sky
You cannot help but
Relax into death.

I like phases
Things moving
Like the colors
In that sky over there
And like my foot
Which grooves over
Flat concrete
And sticks to dirt
And brings it everywhere.

Hanging
From a branch
Oh delicate assuredness
Of nature
That does not want
That does not fear death
That does not break
Without growth

I wish for a breeze
And I wish for nothing else
Just a breeze
I wish for nothing else
But a breeze
Please
I wish for nothing but that.

Jill's angsty poetry part 1

I have to hate this, I say to myself
Sitting here with the sun in my hardy little eyes
I have fought and I have fought against
It
This permenent feeling of wantedness
Of being somewhere and of their being
Love available
Straight from the source.
And now that it is here
And I am craving it’s open space and it
Sips in little forgiving motions
From my heart, I know
I am edged out of myself
I know I feel myself fading
Wit the love
The love it takes me away
From myself
From the girl I know I had to be
And here I am
Ripped over and given to love
And I hate the way it hurts
I hate how I have to crack and burn
T feel something that might be good
But that right now is just awful.



















The heart it will wait forever
Just to be filled for one portion of a second
And forever it will remember
How that second felt
Comparing every other second to it
So that they may stack up for years and years
And never be equal to the one
Never ever coming even close.



Love it burns and opens
Like a wound
It grafts its name
Onto the skin of your heart
And you feel it and for some sick reason
You still want it after and through its pain
You still realize that it will make you grow
The sickest part is that you insert yourself again and again
Into the love game
Knowing that your heart will burn and forge itself
Into a new disease each time and time
And that the disease is really you
Being happy.

Love cannot be anything other than
Addiction
I guess,
And I am unwilling
To see this for a little while
Because addiction is
Inherently bad
But love isn’t or so we’lre told
But why do we know
We are less than love
Why do we let it beat us into submisison
Why do we do exactly what it tells us to
Even if we don’t want to
And even if it doesn’t sit right in our souls
We do it again and again
For love
As if love would beat and hurt and even
Kill us if we did not run after it
Well I want to tell love
Well I don’t need you
You ugly tramp
You sick villian
Not even that I can make my own
But I can live without it
But I know I can
And so I have nothing to do.
But sit and not die, not yet.




It will begin one day
When you are alone
Completely along
You will feel it
Like a train from faraway
Only the passengers
On it are all you
Yes those are your faces
Up against the window
And the air is composed
Of all the yous breathing
And you can feel it coming
Feel all the bones shaking
Yours and the other yous
And their voices mingle
With yours, you guess
An the weather it all
Multiplies as the millions of
Your eyes see it and they all
Want to scream out how much
They want to love you
And each other
But then the train passes
And you feel the whoosh of your
Own bodies slipping away from you
And you know now that you
Are truly alone in the world.


I am afraid
Of leaving love and never having it
Know where to find me.
So I put myself in its place
Here I say, dangling myself
Befor love
And wearing bright colored clothing
Reds and blues
So the heat and the coolness
Knows how to get into me
Knows which path to take
Through my eyes or through
The fingers, through the toes
I don’t care, I am a giant
Welcome mat for love
But then I lay around
And I sit here typing
And I know I fight it
I have dug a moat, know this
All the bodies love has flung at me
Floating dead into it
And I have put up iron gates
And thoes gates have spikes
And on them are my heads
And all of them are laughing
And I don’t know what to do
To take them down
They have been there for a long time
I guess I will wait
And see if anyone
Knows how to get around
My elaborate traps
And maybe I can show them
Maybe I can begin to reveal
Some of the secrets to the labyrinth
That is me
And hopefuly one day
It won’t just be me inside of
Me anymore.
Hopefully.

pensamientos

voy a empezar a escribir completamente en espanol. porque no? no tengo que preocuparme que voy a aislar a mis lectores porque a ser honesta no se cuanto lo tengo en este momento.. y los que tengo probablamente entiendan un poco de espanol. si no, me digan ok?? de todas modas.

mi espanol es muy SHITTY lol pero esto no te importa.. lo que me importa es practicar, poder ser and entender el mundo a traves del otro idioma. creo que me falta mi libro en espanol ahora y esto me molesta, voy a tener que buscar un libro en el internet en espanol, quizas un cuento, me recomienan algo, mis lectores???

estaba pensando en unas cosas de recien.. algo es lo que significa ser y tener (sigo escribiendo AND por y!! arg) un SELF no se como decir en espanol. anoche escuche un lector para AA quien dijo que hay que abandonar o algo el ego, el self, y ... no estoy segur si primero, me gusta esta idea y segunda, si es possible o algun saludable. porque.. y otra cosa que me interesa... hay tantas personas por la historia, todos hombres, quien habian encontrado la paz o su spiritud a traves de abandonar todas sus nociones del self, pero nunca he oida de una mujer quien hicio esto.. y esto me molesta un poco tambien. las mujeres no capaz de llegar a un alta nivel del espiritud? no estoy de acuerdo. pero hay un rompe entre esto por las mujeres y hombres y no se exactamente porque.

el lector tambien dijo que tiene que abandonar el self y dios va a venir... pero esto quiere decir que el dios es una criatura separade quien puede venir como a pie or algo... y realment, en mi opinion, esto no es una saludable manera de pensar de dios, porque algunas personas dicen, a el fe es como un regalo, y el dios solo los da a algunas personas muy especial... y hay ellos que pasan todo su vida esperando a algo como un tren cuando realmente no tienen que esperar, nunca... y no soy de acuerdo con esto de abadonar su poder, so capaz de ser human. que es el punto de ser, si no tengan estas cosas? quizas ser mas cerce de dios pero no es esto mas lejos del mundo? abandonar el "self" no es algo mas dificil que ojear una flor or cocinar su almuerzo, besar algien, porque en estos momentos siempre te vas de tu mismo, por algunos segundos. y quizas es mejor tener esto calle entre nuestras mismas y el mundo---porque si abandonar nuestras mismas completament no tengan selves, y creo que en punto de esto es no tener que experimentar el dolor.. todavia no se el punto de no experimentar dolor... el dolor es necesario para crecer... pero hay algo mas que dios, y esto es tu. y no puedo ignorarar esto concepto, y cuando una persona trata de decir que el dios es mas poderosa y mas importante que TU, me pongo enfadada porque es una mentira en mi opinion.

random

hi, i just woke up. well not just. i woke up like a half hour ago. i made myself a lil snack. i think my body wants me to be nocturnal right now. not sure why. but i have started eating less and sleeping a lot during the day, and waking up repeatedly in the middle of the night and eating more then. who knows. i guess i will have to listen to it for now. i have no real obligations to get up early for anyway.

the birds are up this early. so i dont feel so alone. not that i really feel alone when i wake up in the middle of the night. i feel more alone in the daytime. at night you feel this sort of sadness wrap you up and it actually makes me feel a little less sad, if that makes any sense. also in the dark it is easier to be fixated on one moment, i think, because you can't really see that far ahead of you.

so when the light comes in i am reminded of all of my obligations. 1) finish my thesis. 2) figure out my life. 3) figure out myself. pretty hard tasks. i know most people say oh you dont have to do those things it takes an entire lifetime, but for me it's not really like that, to some degree i do have to do those things, and now. it is highly uncomfortable otherwise.

which brings me to a new point: people don't like to make themselves uncomfortable, even though i think this state is one of the primary ones from which growth can occur. im not going to give a for instance because i think it's relatively obvious and everyone could probably think of an example within him/herself. i think i would rather be sad, angry, lonely, depressed, etc than uncomfortable, which really makes little sense when you think about it.

i guess i should practice being uncomfortable. i'm not sure how. maybe i can put myself in positions that make me feel that way just to show myself i can endure. i but i cant think of many that a) wouldn't be dangerous and b) would make sense in my life right now. however i know there are probably millions that i'm just not thinking of. for instance (here's one) sleeping all the way through the night. not snacking in the middle of the night. not sleeping all day. etc etc. not that i always did this, this is all fairly recent for me, but who knows where it'll lead.

tho at one point those things made me uncomfortable too... what i'm doing now. it's all about change i guess. constant evolution and change. however it's one thing to be aware of that change and force it and another to just let it occur naturally. i'm not all that sure people change naturally, besides their bodies and maybe their minds a little. most people i know... well actually, they probably do put more effort into not changing, than changing. i think if we let ourselves we would all change naturally all the time. but this would be uncomfortable and inconsistent and confusing not only to ourselves but to others so we don't let ourselves do it. i think that is silly.

new post seth

to be honest life seems absolutely hilariously meaningless and meaningful at the same time. it's like how can something with so little meaning have so much at the same time. i have no idea. this is just how i feel. its' kinda hard to reconcile. the worst part is that i know deep down that both of these things can be true at the same time.

then why do i fight it? i dont know. if i know it can be true, why does it hurt? i dont know, it just does. i think when i look at people it just breaks my heart. when i look at our town, yeah that is pretty depressing, but when i look at people i just see these hopeless fragments, these bundles of dust, but yet they do have so much hope and nobody can deny them. there is always this balance of however far it goes in one direction, it goes just as far in the other, and this makes me doubt everything i hear anyone ever speak around me because unless they can understand that people are nothing and everything at the same time then i dont want to hear from them or talk to them.

head hurts: seth

hey everybody. i have to keep this stupid thing so i'm just going to write...

today i smoked pot for the first time. haha. it was really fucking weird and i liked it. we smoked with my friends brother. he's a musician. we sat on his roof and took hits off his bong. it wasn't dave's first time and obviously not his brother's but it was mine. after that we sort of just sat in his room and i stared at his posters and a weird looking blanket on the wall. i didnt actually feel much in my head but i felt different, almost like a change in my identity. i'm excited to do it again.

so the second time i did it, we went walking out side. this was where things got really weird. we started making up shit about the trees being people or alive and for a couple of seconds i think i actually believed it, and then when i caught myself believing it, or just convincing myself it was true, i got really, really scared. i don't know. but other than that it was cool.

so we pretty much smoke every day on our way home. dave gets shwag from his brother and also he bought a small bowl off of him. he carries it around in his pocket which i dont think is too smart esp because that thing is going to smell soon, but he doesn't care, he wraps it up in this little cotton rag.

recently it's started to hit me harder, maybe because i'm more accustomed to it, that's what they say anyway, is supposed to happen. what happens is that right at the beginning i feel myself sort of loosen up and then something in my brain sort of snaps apart and i start seeing the world in a new, interesting cool and somewhat scary way. it makes me think or wonder if i could handle anything harder; because sometimes even pot makes me think things that i hate. like for instance we were walking home from the bus today and i was stoned and just staring out at our neighborhood everything looked so sad and stale, it was like we were all some project and everyone was just failing, and even the colors were useless, and the air was all filmy, and it was like everything was running under this huge static, and i was just there to zoom in on it all and figure out how i was supposed to fit in a useless world and it was just impossible. of course this only hits me for a second; if you get me focused on something i forget all about these terrible thoughts and start to enjoy the effects it has on my mind. for instance, food. i love eating grapes stoned. probably my favorite thing. and last night i was laying on the couch watching some special on bridges. actually i was trying to distract myself from those other thoughts. my parents dont have any clue when i come in stoned. i dont think we make eye contact much.

the worst is when i'm stoned around other people. i feel like i can practically hear there thoughts. everything is so loud and hurried and time passes in this strange fast-slow way that i realize that nothing is happening but it is a nothing so thick that everything is happening; i am just standing there but standing there is everything, there's not much more that i can handle. i am very quiet when i'm stoned. i just can't stop my mind from thinking things. and when i'm around people i can't stop thinking about them and all the possibilities of things that could happen between us and them and one to the other and it could go on forever and it takes up all of my energy and time. i dont know how people say that pot relaxes you, it does just the opposite for me.

a lot of time we get stoned at night and drive around. it does make the night a lot more fulfilling, real, open, vast, deep. i feel like i could go swimming in the sky at night; i feel like the night sky is alive above me and it communicates with me in some vague but real way. it's possible that i go slightly crazy when i'm stoned but i think i do it to myself; i think i want to feel so badly i play tricks with my mind. and i know when it starts to shut down; things go back to normal, people become people again and not so much noises, tho not that they're noises i can actually here, but it's almost like a noise i can feel, if that makes any sense. people when i'm stoned are noises i can feel.

but just sitting there and being open and stoned makes sense when i'm stoned. which might not make sense. but like there is no need to be you can just hang out. you just let your mind open and wander. and that is the one thing i really like about it; you're allowed to have a mind you dont have to squish it into your stupid little body, you can let it wander all over the place and it does, it wants to go anywhere, it's like this little animal, this pet you have, and when it's stoned you're letting it run out all over for a while, and then inevitably it has to come back and be in its little cage.

so the first time i got stoned before soccer practice was an absolute disaster. it would have been hilarious if dave was there bu the ended up not going, which i was mad at him for but didnt say anything. but we smoked a fat joint his brother rolled for us for some strange reason and then i went to soccer practice two hours later still stoned out of my mind. i kept absolutely quiet in the car and my dad turned the music up and and and it was one of the most hilarious experiences i could never reproduce not even in my own mind. i just remember i was loving every second of being alive in that moment. it was awesome.

and then when i got to soccer practice my brain started making all these weird connections, some of which it had made before and more that it'd make afterwards, like strange sociological or philosophical revelations kept happening one top of the other, and not that i even thought that they were that brilliant, it was just i knew deep down that they were true and that there could be no other truth. and the scary part was i knew this truth was limited and that i could only see it in that moment, that eventually the truth would stop becoming truth and some other stupid truth would come to take its place and this ripped me apart inside, and i dont think i'll ever really understand why this is the way things are, it's a hateful way to be, to live, this falsely. i dont even care.

but what i saw at soccer was like, the world had turned into machines. everything was streamlined into this impeccable math. it all made some malicious sort of emotionless sense; like everything had some cold purpose it had to be constantly fulfilling and anything apart and beyond this focus was a dream and a ruinous one at that. i felt like even me was this cold being fulfilling its cold purpose; i saw all the soccer players as little uncomfortable dreamers who had no clue that their lives were being lived inside of them by cold machines. i thought that the sport of soccer was a destructive force used to keep peoples' minds quiet about how machine-like and cold we all are. i could not see people as people; they just looked like a blanket of facial features over a clownlike face, a description of nobody that we could all identify. my coach talking to us was just the saddest thing. he wanted us to think that soccer mattered and for the life of me i could not figure out why it did; i could not figure out why there was any use to me kicking that ball; but then when i looked at the ball, i saw more than just a ball. i saw something that i felt i needed to touch. anything touching brought up a strange sensation of life in me, life where there was no life. it's like, everything felt like it was glued together in a dream. there was no cohesion to anything, it was like it all fell apart and some cold metal threads held us all together in something like hell to keep us from breaking. that is the one main word i'd use to describe it, hell. because it really felt like all that was holding us away from the great abyss of doom and nothing was a giant lie that we'd all have to subscribe to for the rest of our lives, a place we agreed to live in and that would take us away from ourselves and essentially into nothing. it was like when adam or eve bites into the apple; they have to do it but they know that it's going to destroy everything including human beings. but they do it because they have to; they have to die in order to live. if that makes any sense. i don't know. i look forward to those highs being over but they leaves me with lots to think about, however uncomfortable it is at first.

as seth

this is seth from a short story of mine:

i hate writing. but michael jackson is awesome. that's all i hafta say for now.


it's so late. i have nothing else to do. i'm not sure the point of writing but i'm going to do it anyway. maybe one day someone will read it, ha. i guess i could just list things that happened to me today. but i think that'd be boring. i will just go around my room looking at shit and you can decide if it's interesting: there's my hellraiser poster. i love that thing. all the pins in his head. that was a great movie. i like how people can take on other peoples' skins. that would be freaking awesome.

oh then there's my desk. i hardly ever sit there; it has some trophies from soccer on it, and a couple of things i bought on vacation, a snow globe, all that crap. it reminds me.. of being a kid. and of how crappy growin up is. it's funny because it should make me happy, but it doesn't, it does the opposite.

i have some books but a lot of them are old. a lot of the stuff in my room is from when i was younger and i just never got rid of it. kinda wierd, i know. for example, one of the books is called The Giver. i actually like children's books better than other ones. i think all books should be written at a children's level. well, no, but those are the only ones i like to read. they are simple and you can understand them and they use clear and vivid descriptions. i think they have a lot more to say than the books we read for class, for example the jungle. they try so hard to use "themes" and "symbols" and shit when really that stuff exists anyway, you don't have to try and put it there. for example, the theme of this post is my room. the symbols are, like, all around me. they are all symbols for me. see, i just did it without even trying. people think that to make something great you have to be thinking really hard, but i think not thinking hard or at all has just as much value, if not more.

there's my computer, which is pretty old but i still like it. i play computer games a lot. well i used to more than i do now. mostly now i just use it for schoolwork and to go on the internet and download music. let's see..the last song i downloaded was called Fire by Jimi Hendrix. I want my parents to get me a guitar, but my dad just says i can have my uncle's old one. i dont want his old one, i want my own. he hates getting me new things. i hate him.

then there's my bed: it has a blue comforter and gray sheets. i love my bed. i picked out the sheets, they are jersey cotton. i like to just lie in bed wiht my window open some mornings when i dont have school. in fact that is probably my favorite thing to do. we have a big oak tree just outisde my window and i swear I spend like hours just staring into its leaves. well not hours but probably a long time. that is where i do all my daydreaming. oh, and i dont have real dreams. they just don't come. it's weird. i dont think i sleep well, or normally. so i have to dream when i'm awake. it's funner that way because i can control it.

Sum

once
upon
littler times
another beginning
another face
yes and no
three four simple words
and a highlighted
back road
into yourself

disregarding plans
allowing faith
to mingle
in little pieces
of light with shadowy
pictures of death
yes i know she says
but they cant hear
they are already tomorrow

this is the first earth
wow i breathed
and these are the primary
beings, the new golden
outlines, you are here
to wring trees faith
to listen to jibbering
birds at ungodly hours
yes and i suppose
also to make some sense
or to listen to its unwinding

what came to her
on a simple night
was enough to cause
a simple pain:
yes a blue monday
yes an ordinary
tuesday, it all
wracks molten
through her hair.
the way the body knows
it never knows.
the way the skin cups
fragrant, useless blossoms
however; i am not
given to breaking;
i am stuffing
shelter back up
through my nostrils
the way of the world
given to waking up.

first of all: a heat exposes
and a cold withdraws
the one simple law
completed with an oath
shelter strangles the past
freedom unleashes the vat
and allows faith to come
galloping through wider
pastures of green bodies.

who doesn't understand
that what cannot exist
without lines is because
voices post secrets
unallowing of their own
fantasies; i have scripture
in the back of my tongue
but nobody hears or sees
it; what little routes
function repeatedly
to enlist my heart and its
hickory beats
i guess i will never
know besides a hand
besides a courteous
overview of birds' noises

never knowing how little
in his eyes:
which way to meet
me; of course there is always
myself overloading, there are
twelve versions of guardedness
to untangle
a flower
a petty little flower
beeping her horn
hello you must be a survivor

wishing someone could tell me
all this before hand
hello was this supposed to be
on the exam haha but no
i am unsure i am trying
to not have to understand but it rings like
a lake full of brown noises i guess
let the time steal someone
else's voice i will couple mine
to the earth's brown glue.

today earth has stretched out
her fat fingers and i dance
unfurling horrendous clowns
of thoughts in the direction
of a muted sun. laughter:
the closest version
of a horizon
begins in me: and the severe
graduated outline of me
a basketball sheet
pressing a doll shaped
pattern over toes, over thoughts
however: one would not like
to be understood, one desires
completion, one desires
to be known on some level
or felt, like wind in trees.
being alive depends on it.

je peins

just started painting water colors for first time in years. its a very nice medium i think. you have an optimum amount of control but you can also get a more abstract feel and less precise, but it still looks precise, it is an elegant mess. i painted a branch which took about an hour. and i painted a shitty (hour under the brain)? rereading--what the fuck is this? funny, i dont know why i wrote that--a shitty house under the branch i meant!!-- but to be honest it's way better than i'd have expected for my first one. i did the whole thing in blue. i understand why picasso painted all in blues (well maybe): i think if you're going to paint in all of any one color blue is the color to do it. not sure why, but it's better than black or anything else. it's almost nuetral; maybe our eye sees blue underneath everything. when i see the painting in blue i don't see the blue i just see the painting. maybe it's because i am blue!! haha. also painting is a very strange experience on the mind i must say. i feel like i am a little manic but also relaxed. quite different. it was fun, i'm going to keep painting, i hope i get better at proportion bc i must say if i hadn't fucked up the house several times and had to paint darker and darker lines over it it would be a real nice painting, maybe one i'd even give away to someone special, but now i guess i'll just keep it.

ciao!

just blogging as me lil ole me

sittin on my porch just made myself a fab dinner. i'm a suzee homemaker.

just chillin with my off candle my new best friend.

and youtube a constant companion for music.

trying to enjoy the evening without having to think about making some connection via writing texting facebook phone etc etc
and i've failed, here i am on the blog.

i guess it's too much i just have to let some of it out: so here it is.

edit yourself

strap me in
hello press enter
corrosive noises
latin in the palm
however;
lying under blanket
plated
suffering dynamic
breathing
shit i said
runs its course
track me down i
might not stay


*

descriptions silver and plain:

tumbly black weeds of clothing and
filthy frogs of book cover
shattering vise of phone
longitudinal intricate eloquent long white cord
holy shell of a blanket
perturbed computer
shellack of printer
grip tonged fan
sheltering peas of feather
noise of color of paint of number of white of black of

*

if you were a wall
what would you look like
here let me spill a little
fingers jutting into frigid
and sore swollen eyes
and ripple tool breath
whatever has happened
to the noise
of coming into being:
it stops, being in its place
are chins swallowing motions
place behind or in front
of eyes where everything
stops you say stop stop!
i have an outline
around me: edges of me
i cannot jump from
they wrap me up
stay two steps outside
of me; she plummets she
cannot purge these
frigid little
molten outlines they
underwhelm and
subtract her they
capture the breath use it
to draw infinity lines
in tangible black and white

when i'm feeling wretched i just imagine backwards

it's raining. yep. i'm sitting on my bed. yep yep. things in my mind; they make no sense. such a cliche, i am, such a such a. i am a total; i am in total; i am the one thing; la la la.
supposedly; the one remark i had to hold onto was: this one. uh huh he said: yes she said, i thought that too. and the two of them; and the three of them; oh and their memories, they all held hands and in the grass; and in the holes they were digging; yes the two of them, we thought we would make it to china! and one day; was thought--one day they thought, yes yes

hear a dog bark; hear a finger or two triple digits; hear a lil music spinning into this one ear; hear the time and it's jagged porpoise skin; hear hear and i hear what simply allows drip drop drip into my ear; i am a number, i am nothing but a simple number. what number complex real and allowable figure two pointed three and conversible and recharagable disposable retractable fraction division multiple and quotient, a beginning, a decimal, a square and a prime. only what is true can be traced back until it was nothing, nothing nothing

backwards thoughts; is who he i am nothing link hello girly fathom star jiggle yours train gift harry broom tank fifth vinegar teeth ruth yarn fun volcano

forwards is no fun

allie

hey world:

today was planned to be a really good day, and then of course it didn't turn out to be. i don't understand why stupid people have to go and ruin my life. oh well.

i have what i like to call the loneliness disease. i don't, i know, i'm not really lonely. i have so many friends and i have a great family who loves me. i do really well in school, bla bla bla, and all that jazz, so i know that there's nothing to cause it. so why do i feel this way, world, your guess is as good as mine. it's funny, but i thought college would be so different from how it is. i couldn't wait to get away from all the bullshit of high school and into somewhere where people might care about what you had to say even if you weren't in their social group, but i guess it's not really all that different.

take my english class for example: i sit in the front, but not because i care so much what the says, she's actually not that good, but because i can't see well. so now of course i'm labeled as a brown noser or someone who cares too much or whatnot. and so what if i care about what i get out of my education. i thought that was the point of coming to college. i thought we were all supposed to be mature enough to care.

and i can't help myself when she asks stupid questions and nobody answers, i'm going to answer, i'm not going to let her just sit up there like an idiot. i know she feels like one. i would too. i don't mind her really. i know some of the other people in the class can't stand her style of teaching because it's almost too laid back, but honestly that is what i came to college for. but all these little cliques formed behind and around me and i'm not going to be rude and talk over her, and plus i always come in early with my headphones on anyway, which people probably think makes me untouchable, but really i want to be in their conversations, sometimes i even respond in my head when i know what i would say, but i never say it out loud because i don't want them to think i'm creepy.

the class gets so incredibly boring. i just stare out the window. all my classes are like that. i thought they would be so much harder. maybe i should be in honors. i'm just afraid of the work load. my parents told me to take it easy because it's my first year, and i don't want to not have time to go out. but going out has turned out to be a totally different ballgame too. well, i was going to join a sorority until i discovered the girls in them are all dumb. so i nixed that idea. but i do have to join something. i wanted to join campus cru, and i still do, but the people in that, for some reason, are starting to creep me out. they all have the same "dead eyes" as that comedian calls them, which is ironic because they're supposed to be connected to God or some shit. I prefer just to worship by myself.

so now i've started going out with my roommate, emily. i used to like her, she seemed really cool at first, when now i figure out she's a coke head, which is just great. she's probably going to start bringing other cokeheads into my room. i already know i'm not going to do it but i don't want to be at the scene when illegal shit like that is going out. i mean drinking is one thing but coke is another. and i desperately want to talk to someone about it, but the only person i can think to call is my mother, sadly enough, and this isn't something i can really talk to her about, or if it is, i don't want to. i don't know why. not that she'd think i was doing it, i'm certain she wouldn't, but i just want to be able to handle it on my own.

and then there's this guy i really like. his name is actually fernando, he's from barcelona. he's really, really hot, and i think he might like me, well i'm not really sure, but he always looks and smiles at me and stands next to me whenever he gets a chance when i go to parties at his frat house. he's in KD. i don't really like the rest of the frat and i can't see why he's in it because he's so smart, but whatever, i want to get to know him better. i want to be his girlfriend, haha, but i don't say that. he still hasn't asked me out or tried to kiss me though, and i've been pretty drunk over there on several occasions this week alone. i dont understand what he's waiting for. i'm sending him all the signals. i even sat on his lap the other day. i hope i didn't make a fool of myself. i didn't feel like i did, but who knows.

so yeah. college is lonelier than i thought. it's worse with so many people around to be honest. sometimes i just take walks alone and it kinda calms me down; actually, studying calms me down more than anything. thank god for my calc class or i just might go insane.

i think i'm gonna clean a little. my coke head roommate is out for the night. i hope she finds some guy to bang and stays with him. i know that's horrible but she'd do that and i'm sick of her already. i dont think this is going to be a fun semester for the two of us. i have to find new friends, soon.

love and trouble,

allie

fyi

those last few posts are in the pov of a character from a story. i'll prob do that for a lil while. that was sophie, this next one is allie (for now, i'll prob switch on and off but will label clearly)

makes me laugh

(clap hands)

(clap clap***)

*

Hallelujah

Hallelujah, the earth is gone

the earth is gone the earth is gone

Hallelujah, the earth is gone

its gone

Hallelujah!!!


(Clap Your Hands)

buried beneath

buried beneath me several children wail. no one beings to know the noise of their voices. it fragments and shudders and carries itself in a hissing, steaming wind. when the world drops its course i am a dim sinking rock placated by dreams of waning. what is allowed to be beneath me: rulers of gaping eternity and shelters for ruinous corpses who've burned relocated massive heirarching negative saturns. what pours forth tangles in eyelashes: what names in a bedspread i hear i even see myself in the simple beginnings of it all: who goes hoarsely all in this mountain; a wish, a little coin dropped in a fountain; i see myself, my noise my trifling eyes, they sit a little longer; what nearest to me is the closet to bursting, what knows me is the farthest from carrying me away; what levels me is the least likely to grow, what talks me is the only ritual i have; how then do we know, the knowledge of truth quacks and i am lost; a mourning develops and i i i ; whatsoever this talking is about i have no prim identity with faith; the punctuation flatters me but really it knows that what is lost cannot be found find fringing forth from matter --- correct i assume that pieces of me fall delicately wind tokens or sky notes urchins of losing sweltering bodies cabling tree top insanity - a shelf a broom a label a torch

sophie:


hi i am wandering wandering wandering
in the morning we are all linked: by fissures by cavities by death
hello this is the end she says she screams

okay maybe that is a little horror story esqe. what have i been reading?

once again i try: in the morning to relieve the toothy grin of smiling hemmorhage day

it wrangles with fish delivering words to the path of christ

well okay

six things enter my mind in no particular order they go off giving lessons

pretend that i am going to

pretend that i am going

once again i opened the box: the box it stands there and i lift open truth out of it it goes it goes

if i were a girl a little girl

again

if i were she

and she opened and she danced

well see it would begin in me

----- : : : :

lookin at shit thru my window

hi::::::::::::::

tryin to get into character for this story...

just lying down watchin the trees. for a split second watching all the leaves wiggle around i wanted to jump out my window into them!!!! am i insane? i watched for a while longer and then decided, no, i think i just want to be a leaf. i want to be a leaf and sit on a leaf hanging by a little piece of wood and just flutter and flurry with the wind not having to think, only having to move lightly and slowly and sometimes fast and brush up and down against other leaves waving little hellos to the world

ugh

it's raining. quite nice. has a fresh smell.

things are bad...

but that is always true.

such boredom, day after day, how to get around, outside, underneath it...

i am not alive, or am i...

there are things in my room, little things, glaring at me. they stand up tall while i drift under the sheets like milk

la la la

i had a thought

or it had me

oh the sun! it comes piercing through hearts o steel

and yes, there is little sun

amidst fragrant waves

of motion, dreaming

rain echoes

off itself

came to itself

there is

but one

way to live

on this earth

and that is

as a flower.

Jupiter picture

Oh Jupiter - mouth of love
spread wide spit tangled red remission
alone fathomed out there wonder
a cape a leg a frog
an upside down waterfall
trees giving birth
a lake a tree-stealing
feeling you are
in a little girl's palm
in a porcelain bathroom
where white means to forgive
and red, to hold tightly.

huh

you
you get lost in mirrors
who?
what is that noise
that light in the corner
it reminds me of
a little person
a little person gesturing
i think
and oh
in my dreams
all these people they say
they say things it is cute it is fun
dreams they provide me
some narrative some structure
and i read and reread
and i reread
each of my words, my words
trying to
well lets see
let's slow
just down
let's
just
begin.
i try and try
with the words
ahem, cough, gulp
the words the words
here they go and up
and down the page
yes they have
their own little clicking
feasting and waiting
to be read to be
sanctified
i can read i can read
and oh
the branch
in the window!
it is like a little man
waving to me it is like
god just now said hello
but it is a jumping
fear in my chest
and i type words
they come they come
out of me out of
things and light
the most boring
day is the one
you touch but you cannot
begin to feel--see that is why
you reread words
you have to find
to go to find sound
to begin meticulous
to understand
a backbone a sufficient
energy of out of you
curving thought and nascent
being you i guess
the wave branching
or other way
around the day
the light tracking
skin well i guess
words they sound
as empty as anything else
and that is why i keep
i keep i keep
reading them
where am i in them
i wonder where is
an answer a miracle

some poems

i have starred
once, in my childhood, as
the bird that does not sing, and
the rock whose weight
is felt
only by itself
and the ground it pushes
into. i have counted
days, trees, anything
waiting for the day
when I was allowed to
breathe, breathe
though i didn't know
what stopped me: all i knew
was that i can't have myself
and everything else at the same time
now i know
it doesn't matter, you don't have to have
anything and it doesn't have to
be yours, and isn't.
Even love
isn't yours, loves belongs
to the world
and I am here
only to keep it circulating.


Slipping

Stop! Oh, the
--sinking
of it.



Supposing the world
supposes I am
here. Oh, the world
supposing I am here.



Lump of me.
Oxygen battlefie.d
Cropped home.



All of it
leads back to me,
I think.
All of it
thinks, hears, feels
is full
is total.



Sight of
generous
opening--



Sand shifts.



Leapoard
exposes no
spots.



The fragile
length between
myself and my
self runs
away with me.

*

Long parenthetical
marks deplete me--
a drip, a running
tail of language
oxygen-free, allowed
to the beginning
to the first
notion of time.

*

Course, dependable daylight
sinks nose down
into me.

*

You are wrong
to think man
cannot expose
himself.

He breathes a wire
film, shares thickly
the sink of his
modern beginning.

The Way The Light Finds Me

Count to ten,
slowly.
Take a step,
a deep breath.

Run your voice
through the air
listen to leaves
shake out
their own voices.

First,
I have to find me.

Light creeps
around me, slowly.
Listening.

***

new poem:

light
does not have knowledge
of the sun
but moves through and about
from it, enacting
color and performing
day and time
a morning, a silver
beginning, could be
diseased, could be
could be
who remains
underneath broken pieces
of light
light that runs trails
light that shudders
and quivers and
furtively touches
of knowledge,
light ruminates
noiselessly
and we listen
but nothing ever
speaks, it is only ourselves
our voices offering
plaintive answers
when nothing has
ever been asked of us
anyway.

a haiku

Stands watching the rain
and pretends she understands
other than herself.

crappiest day ever

welcome to the world's most depressing blog, sorry folks. had a shit day but i will write about the high points


well i was at a farmers market. i knew i didnt want to go but i gave in anyway and went. why? because i like colors, simply. and at farmers markets there are always lots of interesting and new colors.

so i walk up and i have to strategically avoid a few tables with old men at them who stare at me, not because i am drenched in my own sweat and wearing close to nothing, but because i carry my little black wristlet. i stop to smell a soap and then try to move on, but i've already made my mistake and the owners of the soaps rushes over and starts talking all over me about this soap and that i decide to be completely honest, half because i want to, half to put him off, about which soaps i think smell like shit, and half of them he has me smell do. like all the incense crappy ones. i hate that smell. that is why i almost didnt go to the farmers market to begin with. he shows me a few that i really do like, and when he tells me they're six bucks i'm thinking yeah okay, but the cherry blossom one was really, really nice.

then i go to a granola table because i see she is giving out samples. i wait and wait and finally she gives me a sample, and it tastes like a butter cookie, so delicious, and i let her give me the big schpiel and i act interested but really i just want to ask her the price, and it's seven bucks and i'm like hell no lady but i smile kindly and walk away.

then i go to buy some bread or first look at it. i have just ran five miles so bread is looking pretty tasty. this guy is tall and grayish with a bristly beard and grayish bristly eyes and i dont get a great look at him because he intimidates me from all over; i think he has his hands in his pockets, he is acting all casual but its the way those people look at you that you know they are trying to ensare you and it makes me feel uncomfortable. i pick up some bread and comment on how heavy it is and how good it looks, and i guess this is my mistake, nobody understands why you should not buy anything you see, of course i have the money to buy a measly loaf of bread for five bucks, it probably will be the best i've had in a while, so i find a really teeny loaf and say i'll take this one, and it's a buck, and he shows me another whole wheat with flax that's two bucks and i say give me that and he says oh with the other? and i say no just that one and he's all aggravated and i feel both smug and horrible for denying him that dollar.

then i buy some bibb lettuce which tastes actually a little too velvety for my tastes, and some of the best fucking tomatoes i've ever had, none of those seeds in the middle which are green and look like snot, it's all meat, they are bright red and delicious with some salt. and i almost buy some cheese but i don't. i just help myself to a few, four, samples and scamper away while the dude is distracted by another customer.

a half an hour decently well spent i'd say.

this is a bitch whine vent

nothing to do, so i'll keep posting.

writers and publishers are crap. i dont like being a writer. all you care about is that somebody gives a shit that you're writing and what you're writing but you'll never ever get this, most likely. i should be writing for myself like salinger did at the end of his life, but i can't now, bc i'm in stupid grad school and we're bred to think that the only judge our value for our words are if some lit mag says they are good. i dont know those people, i dont trust any of their aesthetics, i only trust my own, is why i'm a writer. i konw some of the shit i wrote already is the best i'll probably ever write and i shouldnt care that nobody cares but i do, becuase i'm a fucking writer. now if i were something else, i woudl not care. if i were not in grad school, i would probably care less. i would be out helping people rather than thinking my words alone are worth more than peoples lives. because that is essentially what we're saying; i could be out physically helping bodies instead i write happy little snappy or sad emotions and hope they make someone feel something. sure they are good for the "soul" people say. my students write about souls all the time and it is the most cliche bunch of bullshit. nobody knows what or if a soul exists. why dont you leave that up to god if there is one.

and yep still im going to write. if i dont i will feel myself dying inside. but is a selfish way to live and i dont like it. and i dont want to be a narcissistic asshole but i am one anyway, by virtue of the fact that i'm writing about myself, even if it's not about me, it always is.

counterargument: writers are unselfish collecters and passers on and interpreters of societies deepest symbols it needs for the soul to move on and grow and survive and understand itself...


exactly the thing we tell ourselves to make ourselves feel so much better than anyone else. what about the man who comes and unplugs the shit from my toilet? he makes sure i can go to the bathroom and it passes cleanly through the pipes. give me one good reason why what i do is better for humanity than this guy, and i dont think you can.

writers are full of shit and i am one. hmmm

bored

yes i'm posting again wow so many words out of me recently... i am just bored and just woke up and need a quick distraction and it's too early to take a shot of vodka. so instead i'm waiting for my clothes to dry so i can go to the gym. and after that i will grade papers. and after that.?? maybe go for a walk. the weather is lovely this time of year in tallahassee warm and crisp like a honey crisp apple. i love apples.

my room is an absolute shithole, yes, i step over some of my nicest dresses as I make my way to the bathroom, no i do not care, they are just clothes. i need new clothes but i dont really like clothes. they make me a greedier and vainer person so i don't like them. however it's fun to look at the colors and shapes and cuts and whatnot but in terms of what i can afford, it's none of the fun stuff. which reminds me i have to check out lauren conrad's line in khols. but even khols is expensive.

things are happening in my life right now, things are changing. it's quite scary and i'm sure at any moment this huge gaping black hole earthquake is going to open up beneath me and i will fall fall fall... hopefully that doesn't happen, but it's the fear. i always feel unsteady unstable and this is just me. i wonder if it will ever change.

but when i work out i feel powerful and in control and i love it. and i love to eat. and i love laughing and making jokes. i love people. i love the sky. there are lots of things i love, almost as much as things i fear.

i wonder if love and fear are connected. it seems fear and hate are and i think hate and love are sorta connected, maybe in the same way anxiety and depression are, the separate sides of the same coin or some bullshit like that. here is me just spouting off theories, it's not supposed to be correct, it's supposed to be fun, don't take it too seriously. it is hard to love something you are afraid of, that is all i can come up with for now.

it's sunday; someone made a really good joke about sundays always sucking because they are spent anticipating the whole goddamn week, and i think that's only partially true. ps i dug out an old cd that i love; it is full of get up kids and old jimmy eat world and lotsa other cool crap and i can't stop listening to it. i remember being in like eighth grade and loving that shit. and so because i listened to it i had the most wacked out dreams last night. so crazy and vivid and full of interlocking or just overlapping narratives. in one i was on a vacation with some people and we were listening to this guy talk to us about science... right down the sand was a bar where people were going at noon to get drunk for the rest of the day... i was more concerned with finding lunch... i ate two bowls of a really delish mac and cheese... then i went into my room and shoved some stuffed animals into a suitcase and called my mom crying bc i said i hated it there.. (reminds me a lot of now haha) and then after that we watched another video and a boy was like fondling my sides...?? waist area. this boy was a boy i dated when i was in fifth grade. very very strange.

the second part of the dream involved me being on a boat of something in a big room that was filling up with water... actually it started out as a classroom, first i was teaching and then i was the student.. but some big crisis happened and it turned into like a water world and then my roommate was there and i got some notice that said i was her only family and had to take care of her? and then we were on a train and she was very sad and I was trying to make her feel better bc she had no family.. and i swear it had this like war time feel to it very gray and depressing....

and then i was at this rally and i shook obamas hand. and my dad was there and he made some rude comment about why would i shake his hand only it wasn't that overt it was like something else, referring to his clothing? no clue. and then i woke up tired as fuck and made myself a bowl of cereal and went back to bed for a dreamless one hour sleep.

GMORN

just woke up. it's not even super early but it feelz it. i am awake. awake awake.

had a party last night. twas chillin. we had cornhole. it is a dirty vulgar sexual game. involving bean bags.

and we had lotsa southern food. i stuffed my fat face. was quite pleasurable.

it is too early for real sentences. FUCK YOU PHONE ALARM SILENCE!!!

things i miss right now:

my old lifeguarding job. the smell of chlorine in the morning. little kiddies asking me to watch them swim the deep end test. god my hearts about to burst.

and... well i just had a memory that is about it.

things i don't miss: my current situation. bc it's crap to the nth power. oh well. gotta finish the damn degree.

wanna write wanna write wanna write wanna wanna wanna

i wish i knew more spanish. this is the beauty and ugliness of life: you get to know about all the lovely things you could do and then not do them. you know how capable you are and then you get to promptly put knowledge of that away and do something else. you know what you love and then you say see ya!

maybe this is depressing. i love florida for it's regionality. and not making sense. for it's rugged wholeness. for its. ... ability to cross section any mood i am having and make me feel like a little kid again. florida is this thing i can't reach out to and it makes me feel small small small. i guess when i leave florida i will miss it too.