Oro / gold stuck in my throat

Oro / gold stuck in my throat 

she ate and left no crumbs

is a new metaphor for the

oro-boros

burro

burros

a pierna suelta

there could be a heart and a loose leg

no brain activity

maybe it is in the other world where

you and i live

under covers and layers of lace so think 

thousands of fine silks between my heart and yours 

the clouds thicken and clothes up my throat

asthma

my best friend

a good friend who

will run you to death

will hide yer inhaler

will get you

to eat raw onions

steal 'em from your friend's fridge

a symbol of true friendship

is

waking up in the middle of the night to give your dying non-breathing-well friend a clove

of raw garlic

only to find 

she is a cage of her flesh and bones and breath and blood

and empty inside

years pass and she is no longer shaking

the way a tree is no longer alive

and from afar looks whole

and only one little itch a scratch she can't reach

and it all falls down

now broken pieces of the aforementioned shell life

but what a life she led! little shell of a person!

little wolf in sheep's mink fur coat

and silk heels

and gemstone clips

a necklace everytime she squaks

a shiny piece of leather

a sheep's collar

and inside but did you know

layers and layers of fluffy cotton, gauze, lace, silk

in-between her voice and the air

what you heard that sounded like speaking 

was only her 

wheezing

seven sunrises later

 it hurt so much

stone stomach

critical hit

critical mass

nothing but an empty space in the driftwood

framing a texture of waves

and a memory of a summer

that was spent lonely

driving 

flea market

estate sale

before you

worked

and before you

had 38 hours of part-time work

and a fire pit you bought for $5

and that one successful turn

after watching the colour of pomengranates

you had hope

it lasted for 5 years

and faded like a polaroid left in the sun

free write

Alive and Waiting   There was a boy i once loved named Abe Hmiel. He taught me about R. Buckminster Fuller's book to the Children of Earth. His own girlfriend once thought him and me must be the original man and woman. On a swing set, past midnight, by the grandfather and grandmother tree, on the playground, by his house, where we would play in the middle of the night in our early twenties- Then Abe grew up and he became a nano-scientist and he studied, for a few years, the hardness of things. He studied the hardness of diamonds. He told me something I will never forget. That, in order to study the hardness of something, you MUST observe and measure the bouncy-ness of that thing, and that value would lead you to a way of describing its hardness. hardness the absence of bouncy-ness, bouncy-ness the abscence of hardness, but in reality everything has both. I am waiting I am waiting I am waiting for the bouncy-ness of whatever material my life is made up of, to resurface. become less hard.  There is silence and scratching a heart pounding under the ground for these earth faeries/earth angels bring our dream out of blood-root rot Rot is not pretty. But rot is gentle. ly fer ment ing and we do have to wait, a long time but if we wait too long it will eat all its sugar and die and apparently this growth has to be living

human

 three or five swords

three or five hands

five fingers

Fire wasn't good

 1.

Studio studio studio

2.

Jesus Jesus Jesus

3. 

Remember Remember Remember

4. 

Where is the cheese? Did you leave it in your fanny pack? Was it Munster? Was it smoked American?

5.

Is there a statistic for how much suffering is happening today?

6.

Where is my Dad? Is he still a ghost?

7.

De-acceleration. 

You fools every time you slow down or EVen turn! you deaccelerate, but it can be momentarily. Would you want your deacceleration constant? NO. Would you want to be stuck to a motion? No. What about acceleration how come acceleration is not good enough anymore... (kicks the dust and walks away, seen wearing T shirt that says, "Fire wasn't GOOD enough for LIFE."

triptych triple therapist

 The “harmful” therapist:

She meticulously tie-dyes scarves and wears glass beads in her hair positioning herself as “down to earth” and never allows the client to be late, even when they are working class and even when they are sick. She is strict and numb to the human response to the human emotions of her client. Or she sits with her legs perfectly crossed, never blinking. She swears like a sailor even when her client is morally conservative. She talks about her life, her pets, and her favorite movie, and talks more than her client. Her client is afraid to speak. She bawks at them, “You should really try XYZ!” Gleefully she expels information only she knows, “The neural network composed of ganglion, dendrite, and the gap through which different channels, different salty ions create a polarization that attracts the electric signal from one side to the other…” “See it all makes sense!” “You’re simply a robot. A mixture of predictable behaviors based on your environment.” She takes the hand of her client and presses it to her own heart, “Feel that beat.” She reminds you that she is this well of knowledge and the client disappears in comparison. 

The “ideal” therapist:

the "good enough"

TODAY sucks

 Today sucks like so many other days because today is another day my emotions are not allowed to be here. But they are here, They're being quiet, It's what they want.

They can yell, kill, cutt off, be angry, be passionate, be loud, tall, big, wide, forceful.

They can do anything but you.

You are small and forgetful.

They won't let you forget it.

They won't let you forget that they are "normal".  They are what you should be.

i hate them and I love my emotions.

It's good to write almost every second of the day

NOTHING

It is good to write nothing 

and be nothing

and do nothing

and see everything

Like some chalk on the sidewalk

It's good to stare at the sun and be nothing

doing nothing

eating nothing

slipping away

New feet, old feet

calluses on your feet, calluses on your hands

directions curves taken so many times

you can see the grooves in the air from the last time

If you catch the right groove you can spin in circles

and it sounds like feet rubbing up against asphalt

it sounds like

it sounds

it

stops.

Somewhere up ahead

Oh hello blog. Hi there. it's been a while.

Hi there folks, I haven't written in a while and certainly have felt down in the dumps for what's felt like years now. I think I lost sight of my art a bit but I always held in there, always still creating now and then and in times when I was alone, and then, nothing again.

This is the first post of a new era.

We have to begin again.

What are we doing her and why? Answer: We are making the private public, and the reason is for liberation.

So that's what we are doing. Oh.

Culture Container

Blog Entry #3333

Three is the number infinite divine dive right in femininity.
3 is the third eye pyramid intelligence.
Three fingers.
Triangle.


Refining my dead poetry fingers: I cover myself in red KoolAid. Bloody from an hour of sweat underneath Mama's bed.

Trying to wrap my head around my desire to push away. Feet off the side of the pool. You, the tiled wall under-water.

Something about putting on a grand display of confidence much like the peacock's flaunting feathers.
Something about compulsively blurting out repulsive statements as a means of overcoming my female expectations.
Something about bearing too honest statements as to create distance and garner selfish attention.

All underneath Mom's bed, playing hide N seek, sweating, covered in red KoolAid.

I licked my fingers in Threes.
Red triangle, fingers bloody and sweet.