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.

Most of my poetry had to do with blood

Most of my poetry had to do with blood, I am were will be going to have been four years old
I am has will be going to have been the sage in the moonlight that keeps you safe
tie a red balloon a thread an inkling, around yer index finger
blindly holding a similar large ball
red like a clownose
pouring it over the tallest building with the tallest elevator
we jump so high
through
we de-accelerate in the opposite direction
and float
lil' balloon
pricked finger
on a wrinkle
tied 'round your corners
that makes me love you love you
only sometimes,
because i'm off in the clouds
i'm gone
pulling the cotton over my ears
(she fills her head with cotton and floats to the top)
we know everything
we see everything from here

was she they her him turning touches edge of a false flower
Bouquet?

never says goodbye dear flower
smells 'em
drops them
pity
says she.
Was she they her,
HIM?

A PINT OF HONOR
ON YOUR BATHROOM/BALLROOM NAPKIN?
v.i.p. section
JUstice(the DJ)
is here, and so is the flaming Grey Goose
that we shot
in Duckhunt (NES)

Rewind to real life

A poor bunny, a gift in the eye.
Some red string pouring out of it.
So I buried it and smoked its burial ground.
A PINT OF YOUR HONOR, dear friend.






***TBA*****

Class Free write 7 Min

You make the same you make the same mistakes you do.
A song repeating in your head and a strongsong at that.
You make the bread to make the paper to make the fire a little lighter
Another random thought built out of stories the wind weaves through the trees on eerie dusky nights from when you lived on the farm on the suburban street on the big rock under the willow tree.
Childhood smiles and swells with words and frothy mouth and rabid dogs that bite you while roller skating and
No matter how many times tongue twisted and battered and fried, I grew up in suburbia. It was largely white and multi-cultural,we were segregated from the black communities downtown and so were our schools, sothey bussed kids oin and yes our schools were always mixed with kids from every neighborhood in Wilmington, but at school,the segregation continued. As I got older and older,Middle school to High school lessandless people of color were in my class. Back then, I thought it meant Black, of African descent and I didn't think to incorporate the brown kids with scientist parents in my neighborhood into the same category.i didn't include Asian kids,Included whoever was poor and seemingly struggling, so the poor white kids too,and those kids lived in smaller houses than me,and in my world. I felt this huge divisions between simply what was upper class and lower class,what could you buy,what could you show off,did you have fancy adult parties at your house? Did You hold sleepovers? Was Your Dad living at home?
Because if you lived in apartment and didn't have that much of a yard but your Dad was home.
the lillies and spindled things ornaments and rings
and walks in the park,meant alot to my dear child heart.