Wednesday, September 29, 2010

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.

Thursday, September 23, 2010


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!

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

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?

Saturday, September 18, 2010


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.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

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.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

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.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

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

Saturday, September 4, 2010

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


akk ! !! !
you live and you die.
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

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


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

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

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.