Now sitting in a hospital, eye institute section.

Now sitting in a hospital, eye institute section. Am thinking of my huge eyes, feel deja vu rub against me. It is not always comforting to feel familiar. I pity myself over my eyes, and wish I wanted to right sweet sweet poetry with ambi-sextra form and pharma of communication. No, but I am a scientist.

There is a grey wall to my left, made of plastic, with some texture added. Everything is smooth in here. The tones are light, the colors, variations on blue and grey.
Above the textured wall, a smooth one, some shades lighter blue/grey/sea foam green. There are doctors in shirts and pants, all uniform. And doctors in long white lab coats. We sit around a silver metallic circular table, and post-modern styles of wood grain. The natural made unnatural, has appeal. It appears cleaner than nature, and yet susceptible to the most terrible of diseases. Because after you enter a hospital, you enter some sort of underground world, one where people gather to and from to be healed, to heal, or to make money off of the two.

If, I look around and think: This is a place of healing. One would wonder, why does it feel so stifling? But health has always been confused with control.

And as i look around with my robotic eyes in the eye institute of OHSU, I feel a sense of belonging. This institutionalized setting, I remember. I am you. We sit here on this rotating table, and they look at us. And touch us. And we let them, metal parents with hind noses. It's okay they're old, and remind us of Pa, and we feel a sense of comfort. This is familiar. I remember the last time I stuck my surgical steel into your fleshy folds.

I see hopeless mind, who are being steered by others. A mix of revolving winners ( scuplture school for the blind) and falings drive.

Yesterday, I watched a movie about a society who created a brain that was so smart and foreword thinking, it could not control its rapid growth, became greedy, and chose to continue growing. To maintain its dead cells, it killed other living beings and used their vital cells, but in exchange turned them into empty metal shells who killed upon demand.

Created from creatures that later would was try to destroy themselves, inadvertedly, as if their future selves were enemies of a past selves that put them that way to begin with.

At odds with one's self.
s
ends

A: This is a pity! I pulled out mud and blood with concrete, building this house to house your emotions that get stuck down.
B: Brilliant!
A: Well of course, I am simply the best thing ever. How does one measure value?
B: In inches of fingers. The measurements on your arm.
A: Yes, I hold down the angle of my elbow to the ground to measure your feet, which are unfounded by the way.
B: I have to go.
A: Finish this house. Finish this cage!
B: I am the matter of this wall, and the mutt of this star!
A: I will fine you or find you if you go.
B: Chel-out. Chelate. When ether and air rise, one can purse their lips and blow a pearl straight through bubble barge and blow 'dem down the hole. Ha.
A: Well, goodbye.
B: I'll be only out here allowing you to be vulnerable.
A: How does that work again, matter?
B: ....
A: Mutt?
B: I'll be gone, I, your emotions, sacrificed, and only vulnerability..
A: Remaining. I let you go?
B: We allow each other to run out sometimes, with the unknown chance of some other fluidity filling the space. That, is vulnerability. And it shows us how to be truly comfortable, in the wave of time as they nap in their own globbultaing universe, hammock.
A: Ham & Muck!
B: Muckker!
A: Matter!
B: Mater!
A: Mad Mad Hatter Hater!
A & B: BLurn blurn boiling ina pot of boiling matter.

What is it that they don't tell you? That even when you feel settled you haven't figured it out? that there is no figuring out... That when you pull on my hair and love me like that, did I want it?

Like hair through a pulling. Woken up shaking. Kept raping myself. Incredibly sensitive. Triggering. Lower the gaze.


little liar.


these are some of the harsh words spun out of gold hearted lions.

spun gold, so hair, can lay, and be pulled, through holes, with pull, and pain, so when loosened.
it rains. ruptures. ovarian blood. i imagine, it pumping off and out flowing over and never ending.
dog. hair carpets. veins pumping with blood or vomited wine,
On my face, I hold up my hands to cover the wine or blood, for you, not to see, for me, who do not want to be feared. ALl I can say is not what is going on, but what is going down. my face on the concrete, bled white from my throat king.

down with poverty. down with immobilizing confusion. down with allies.

deliberately he ignored me. deliberately my mouth was shut. screwed shut frankenstein.

neon yellow glow (this is a story now), came up shimmered and let her sparkles fall. She knew that this world was old, and she needed something new. Yellow glow entered her heart and kept it warm with the digestive fires and joys of life. She remembered how to open and believe in warm hope. To be honest in words and action. And little baby blue who was sad released from the cavities. like muccuus in the morning, when we wake, and breathe again.
are we all dead in our dream anyway well are we or arent we...

and held him tight like a baby to coo him back into his story. just a hole. do i look like a person? i certainly don't act like one. And there are certain things you can do to dehumanize yourself. Please at all costs, always say yes, do what you're told, and enable others to complete their goals, but never, never under any conditions steer straight ahead your own ship. Remain in the enclosure, as it tightens, around your hairs, encapsulating to take to the lower intestine, all aboard the magic ship, the magic blood, hey hey, the magic blood.

let me tell you how the world works, what you ask for is gone, what you wish for comes years later, when you feel discomfort in your heart it grows as you imagine it. a small gift may mean a lot to you, the giver, and nothing to the one who shall receive. there are dualities that spear through you and puncture wounds, there are things we like to accept, like gravity, it makes sense. it makes sense. we have skinned knees and need to play basketball.
I am associated punky hair colour. I make dark look brown. I wear multiple references to animals. I clown around and look. All I feel I don't know how to express. i only feel it as a beat in my heart as A sliver of thought already passing. I wanted us only to msush our veins up against eachother and meld our blood. I was afarid to become a father, always being blamed by the mother. I will have a child that is dead and stillborn. It is sad. I am glad for patronage in tickets, and picket lines. White picket fence fine time line or find a time to see me? No.

BECAUSE IAM JUST A DREAM YOU SEE AND DO NOT SEE .

What is this feeling inside that makes me bleed sunshine? Who is too colorful for the ones who suffer baldly.

What is this new form of vanity. To bleed vanity with painful dollops of wasted blood. My menses. And I am unsure why, I need to make sure you have a place to sleep. I blindly care as if wanting or knowing (they are one? two? blue?) I want to help for the sake of you having been helped, not for cause of me helping. I am blind and talk too much. Mouth opens to squueze thought I could not calm. I am angry at you Oh father for separating your seed out, between boys and men. I am boy again. I am a boy who is agirl. ANd I want that to be okay.


I love you. And it will take so long to live with you.

poe about the rapture

we love to die
it is for all people
we are all equals
and i loved her as a people
and i loved her as an equal
and i pushed her from the steeple and i loved her as a people

Is there any such thing as a true voice?

I am bumbling around. I know what to do, and don't do it, I figure it out, and wait. I write, not caring how I sound, just that it comes out. This will lead no where.

Yesterday on the bus, Miguel and I asked each other the question, "Do you feel like an American?"
I explained, "Well, I didn't even think I was white until someone told me."
This correlates to also how I didn't recognize that my mother had a somewhat thick arab accent until someone told me. This especially becomes clear when she uses the wrong words or others say they just can't understand her accent, and I not only understand but can fill in the words she graps for in conversation, I know how wide her vocabulary is. The mind is curious place.

We share an understanding of my faith, my blood, it's not like an identity. And I want to make this clear. My mother did not instill in me an identity. I mean of course she did.

blah blah blah...


New story: later

Thoughts on Ugly People

There are no ugly people. I would say most people fall under the category of being perceived as normal, plain, or beautiful. There is only a small percentage of people who others view as ugly. However, all it takes is one time for someone to call you, UGLY, and for the rest of your life you will view yourself as ugly. I would assume the percentage of humanity who views them self as ugly would be much greater than who is generally viewed as being ugly.
There are no ugly people. There are no ugly flora. There are no ugly fauna.
Popular to cultural belief, I believe people as they grow older make BIG decisions so that they can be perceived as normal. Their bodies do not magically conform to some set of illusory standards, set by evolving opinions of beauty, so that "somehow" "most people" fit.

What I have observed, is that peer-perceived beauty is largely based on whether an individual has or has not any "mark" or "spot" of supposed weakness, or of assumed universal sign of ugliness, or of abnormalcy. When one does not have any "mark", their "beauty" is thereon guided by how often they delve into cultural behavior that seems normal, but most of all "beautiful. Such as, beautiful clothes, jewlary, beautiful behaviors, non-awkward social ability, etc. And when one does have such a "mark" (which can be quantified in how prevalent that mark is in the community), their "ugliness" is only overcome with cultural behavior that is seen as "normal" or beautiful. For example, A fat person is perceived as being beautiful when they have smooth hair. Or, a very short person is perceived as beautiful when they wear beautiful clothes. Or a trans-person is seen as beautiful when they maintain other socio-politico-cultura-global standards. A person with a nose a few millimeters away from where a nose "typically" is, can appear normal if they wear a tight shirt, or loose shirt, whatever's in. If you flaunt your sexuality you get BIG points, because now that someone can fuck you, they don't even need to open their eyes.

But for now, I will speak of a personal example.

We will talk about what I believe to be one of the most prominent separators of class, of people, of cultures, etc. aka Normalcy:
TEETH.

I say, our perceptions of beauty start at the mouth.

I have never seen a group of people have mis-matched teeth, aside from the groups I am in.
I feel like because I am confident, dress colorfully, and am generally happy, my "flaws", my "spot" of weakness, is overlooked. I get often, "I like your teeth." Well, I hate them. They do not represent me, and I resent that I have begun to understand that to my peers they do represent me.(I guess we should all be aware that how one looks should not ultimately be used to identify them, to draw identity from. Another example of this is that I identify as being multi-racial, but to others I will be "white", I identify as being christian, but to christians I will be, "an unbeliever". )...

Okay i think Im begging to lose conduct. Deep down this is all about how I want to rip my face off, and often can't look myself in the mirror. But I so want to be able to look at myself and think I conform to beauty standards. I so want to be identified as how i feel inside. And I so want everyone to be "ugly" so I can feel a part of community.




TAG: "We Like Ugly"
A direct reference to the observer.

i miss my jaw i miss my jaw i miss my jaw i miss my jaw i miss my jaw I MISS MY JAW!!!!!!!

How do they make the pastry so striated?
Why is a breadstick reminiscent of muscle?
I'm not sure when I learned the term 'gristle', I called it cartillidge.
In between my teeth.

There are some very hard lessons no fancy language can explain.
How and why you keep repeating homelessness. How and why you keep running in cycles away, closer, away, farther away. How and why you return to men. How and why you burn with anger trying to find couches and pianos that won't burn. How and why your mother your mother your mother kept repeating the same mistakes you will repeat, the same mistakes the same mistakes the same mistakes. And we got sick-lick.

Tongues are a measure of health. I'd like to have breasts.
White sludge = not good. May be a sign of thrush.
waves, and surfing bodies, so tan and bikinied. Sun-kissed hair I repeated with thirty volume developer, a perm, bleach, broken bonds to get blonde.
Big bang curls. Afro-centric hire.

Nails like wax. Dripping the red all over my hand on a church retreat, only thinking, GORE.
[NUR IS GOR OR GOD]
And holding it up to others like look how cool I bleed brothers.
Rolling play pretend cigarettes out of proclamations of God, Pslam to the Palm. Smoking G.O.D. Hey wanna get high on some G.O.D?
.OD. on G.O.D.?
Ha. A joke. Because you can't, because God is Infinite.
God is Love.
God is Infinite Jest.
Laughing at you... Brushing your back...

The wind sings to my skin, resonates with my specific vibrational tones.
It is more than metaphoric. It is prismic. It is spherical. It radiates. It glows. I see it. It shines with time entwined. I see it. I see lines crossing like feathers, strands of wind, ether, metaphor, blind judgment, and all marks on the high seas. Swashes of strokes into the water. Faltering. Falling. Enclosing water. Drowning, decomposing, molding, becoming stone.
Cycles as sick as the taste buds, as lick as the flower buds, as buzz as the bee bugs. Dancing. To the beat of their own direction. With arm to angle to sun to cloud.
Triangulate that shit. Ju-ju-ju-just triangulate that shit.
With arm to angle jungle cloud.

I can say with all honestly: My father grew up in a jungle. Now, I'm talking his formative years into early adulthood. Barbados. Little baby monkey pet maids and butlers. I see leaves on branches and dark beneath the shade corners in warm pockets of thrusting green life. I see my father as a young child, escaping into a dream world where movement became brain matter.
[Mate. uh. Shook. yell. Moot. uh. Point. shot.]

I am caught in the cycle or grid-like fantasies.

it's a very scary day out there. we all know we can give each other a grand ol scare. there's a heavy hair today out there. we are raging in our cells with lairs. made key to key in the key of eee!. forgetting deep sores. they come out, when you can handle them coming out, or through explosion when you hold in too long.

today is a weird one. you got no place to let you go. strung on a cord from the high seas. gab and grief bout the coming disease. my gut has more neurons than my brain. are we all going crazy from drinking? i wanna enact a huge sign that reads PLEASE, DON'T HURT ME.

blog style please dont get mad at me

i want to live in a world with no gender and no race and no diversity. i want to stop being predjudice around "women" and thinking they all hate me. And avoiding them. I can handle female cats, I'm not sure if I can handle female people. One time I slapped Jill on the ass. I was drunk, and had started feeling comfortble in my community. I think this was wrong, but at the time I felt it was an impulse I have a habit of repeating (and usually received very positively) when i begin to feel comfortable. But as it is with Olympia, a bubbling pot of disappointment, and betrayal. Where no one is comfortable, unless they are blind and blissfully ignorant, and no one is okay, unless they've been empowered by a minority group to feel as such.

I suppose I'm kind or angry. And I can't stop inward crying everytime I think. In my head. I believed, before, that If I tried to love evrything, andd was guided by hope and acceptance that would be enough. And I spend all my life trying to just keep people happy, feeling like the threads of your skin wavering in the wind, only to be plucked out like my experience doesn't matter. But I thought we shared it. But you say that's not true. And I'm crying every moment like a child. I can never stop feeling abandoned by everything I love, and can never stop being chemically addicted to YOU abandoning me, and telling me, no matter how separate I was expected to be from American Society, and how sheltered I was kept as a child in my uber-arab tone OF HOME, that because my skin is pale I will always have white privalage, and my people will always have to SUCK IT UP. I'm sorry illusion. I thought this was the coming age of realizing that we all hold trauma, and a body can NOT be valued, good or bad. I'm pretty sad and been crying in my chest a lot lately.

Honestly, it's very hard for me to even not shut down and stop expressing myself. I got shut down. But then again. They wanted me out. or whatever. It's hard to transform stuff into love, when you feel guilty for existing. And also like you must be some sort of hitler in a past life, because people just seem to be offended by me.

My mother is a loud palestinian woman. her hands are hard and soft. She is very strong, especially her hands are strong. She is very white. She grew up in a refugee camp. I feel like I am her, but it doesn't count because my single mom raised me in America. And when people took advantage of her because of her accent, it didn't mean anything REAL to me, because I dont have an accent. And when she yelled at me everyday because she can never get over being divorced by a husband, well that didnt affect me either. And my personal opinions and experiences don't matter if they are not logical. And I really feel sometimes that I might be the calcified clog in the machine you were trying to wash out. er mostly. Just some teen angst. i often ponder if somehow they want me to kill myself. Because maybe, I could take their pain with me when I go. I must have done something real bad in a past life. Maybe I was hitler. I feel ashamed to raise my head in public, often, and when i feel happy, It's almost like I am fooling myself, or letting myself be fooled, so I can at least remember what it feels like to have the power of love in me, before I let go of it, and remember how bad I make people feel.