shame
ame
me
shhh...
sorry bunny
Friday, July 17, 2015
Thursday, July 16, 2015
well, im going to memphis
gary gray goose gary
fine leather he gave to me
laced it, made a purse for my lips to swallow
these fine small palms made to glitter
nails so oily, excrete oil
sold in bottles, pre-mixed martinis
with olives
they float near the top as buoys for my death
the head lies under
above water
i can't handle the meniscus
it curves whilst i see a line
six feet under,
it curves,
six feet above
i swear
the angle seems buried
but to me
well these lips aint aimed to please
anyhow
as soft as they might be
anyhow
diverted energy
anyhow
true love as rough as keying into
it hurts
they bleed
keyed cars do underneath
poor babies
i wonder as this formative coming into age true story embarks
how his grave might feeel
i mean the dirt
will it still be soft?
i don't remember kissing him ever
not how his lips felt
or his arms
but i remember the soft Tennessee grass
the ground that bounced
i hope some remnant pain is removed
when i see his face
etched in the soil
where once we both stood
and the locked gate
white
i was blind.
now i've forgotten.
this is true.
upon his grave i will kneel
maybe actually not at all, drive. ball.
my eyes out in a bathroom stall.
now.
that's my style.
to cry and hide.
in a bathroom stall, piss and all.
hide.
shy eyes
eylash eyes
cry cry cry my eyes out
see i'm b;lin d
cry cry cry
until im black & blue
under the new moon
and the only hope is
i'll be alone
it's only right
like a march you almost die with
alone
well. he never even believed in a soul.
but i am so determined.
i'll meet him yet. again.
dearest
aaron.
fine leather he gave to me
laced it, made a purse for my lips to swallow
these fine small palms made to glitter
nails so oily, excrete oil
sold in bottles, pre-mixed martinis
with olives
they float near the top as buoys for my death
the head lies under
above water
i can't handle the meniscus
it curves whilst i see a line
six feet under,
it curves,
six feet above
i swear
the angle seems buried
but to me
well these lips aint aimed to please
anyhow
as soft as they might be
anyhow
diverted energy
anyhow
true love as rough as keying into
it hurts
they bleed
keyed cars do underneath
poor babies
i wonder as this formative coming into age true story embarks
how his grave might feeel
i mean the dirt
will it still be soft?
i don't remember kissing him ever
not how his lips felt
or his arms
but i remember the soft Tennessee grass
the ground that bounced
i hope some remnant pain is removed
when i see his face
etched in the soil
where once we both stood
and the locked gate
white
i was blind.
now i've forgotten.
this is true.
upon his grave i will kneel
maybe actually not at all, drive. ball.
my eyes out in a bathroom stall.
now.
that's my style.
to cry and hide.
in a bathroom stall, piss and all.
hide.
shy eyes
eylash eyes
cry cry cry my eyes out
see i'm b;lin d
cry cry cry
until im black & blue
under the new moon
and the only hope is
i'll be alone
it's only right
like a march you almost die with
alone
well. he never even believed in a soul.
but i am so determined.
i'll meet him yet. again.
dearest
aaron.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
ebb-flow
zeb un sail away from disfiguring mindset breeze
un sunset away from dismembering prostrate angled legs
in ecstasy steam heat, waves hands, fingers stuck together
burned together, held together, move only faintly apart
waves
undulation, separate from autonomy
when once autonomy made light part itself out into different and far away corners
hand outstretched
hand clenched
hand outstretched
hand clenched
hand outstretched to touch receive
hand clenched, holding, and not enough room to breathe
the bird in one hand, a bush in another, suffocates in spindly dirt dreams
you fall asleep to escape
hand outstretched
broken waves
fingers spread
autonomy, now as a net
the liquid inside one's body sways
the root of balance
the sea inside a cavern
the waves that actually keep still
to separate from all this spinning
to see straight, as from behind closed fingers
a courage to see in between self-created lines
and peek out into a nightmare
that by looking
is clarified with sight
when you can stare at your hand all day, hold it in front of your face, be a child on the ocean
when you can use hands to gather, hold together, each one's autonomy
what dream it would be to wake up into
not the one i fear when the sunrises
not the one i flee from at the end of the day
am i removed? from this holding? just me?
maybe actually i am the creator
every time I decidedly parse my fingers
and let them lay out-let passages for my sight
to clarify the nightmarish waves of heat-obscuring-vision
and feel the undulation as a pointed arrow
un sunset away from dismembering prostrate angled legs
in ecstasy steam heat, waves hands, fingers stuck together
burned together, held together, move only faintly apart
waves
undulation, separate from autonomy
when once autonomy made light part itself out into different and far away corners
hand outstretched
hand clenched
hand outstretched
hand clenched
hand outstretched to touch receive
hand clenched, holding, and not enough room to breathe
the bird in one hand, a bush in another, suffocates in spindly dirt dreams
you fall asleep to escape
hand outstretched
broken waves
fingers spread
autonomy, now as a net
the liquid inside one's body sways
the root of balance
the sea inside a cavern
the waves that actually keep still
to separate from all this spinning
to see straight, as from behind closed fingers
a courage to see in between self-created lines
and peek out into a nightmare
that by looking
is clarified with sight
when you can stare at your hand all day, hold it in front of your face, be a child on the ocean
when you can use hands to gather, hold together, each one's autonomy
what dream it would be to wake up into
not the one i fear when the sunrises
not the one i flee from at the end of the day
am i removed? from this holding? just me?
maybe actually i am the creator
every time I decidedly parse my fingers
and let them lay out-let passages for my sight
to clarify the nightmarish waves of heat-obscuring-vision
and feel the undulation as a pointed arrow
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
a different prayer to myself
the same ideas the different ideas
the same ideas stretch the string, until it gets thin, then it breaks. It always breaks at some point, no matter what elasticity it holds. That's how things go.
the different ideas get new strings, tie old strings to one another to new strings. The different ideas follow a pattern, weave together to make a cord.
you cannot doubt yourself.
the same ideas, the different ideas, you stretch the string, you cut the cord. you tie the strings together. again. the cycle is re-born.
what happens when you deny your own power? the power you have to know what's right for yourself. the power to be an arrow, to point in a single direction, to move, not hover.
a hovering power holds others.
may you be lifted by the wind of your own cord.
may you un-plug the one on your hovercraft merely holding you because you are so light.
may you move into the darkness fearless to light the path. to untie the strings. to believe a shadow is not the entity out to hurt you.
who even gets to walk that dark path alone at night.
who even gets to be led by their own miniature black panther.
who even gets to sing and dance with power.
who even gets to fly like a machine built to fly, with even the schematics under the hood.
you fly now.
you hit yourself in the head.
you birth now.
you birth your own very wings.
you choose your own very path.
you let yourself take the one you walk alone, in the dark, in the brightest of lights. who bears the weight of light and dark so gracefully.
who whispers to the shadows, and speaks to them with honor, because it is all so obviously alive.
who twists their fingers in the air to catch the sun.
you do.
you do not.
deny your will.
you scream your will.
you give patience and patiency to your will.
you give agent and agency to your breath. to your fingers.
you do not stick your fingers to muffle your screams, because you are afraid of bothering someone.
you fuck it.
you fuck yourself.
you fuck.
thee eye in thou, you eye see thou is thee.
spell rivers with numbers.
spell patience with nimbs.
nubs.
elbows these sorts of things.
nodal expectorant.
hop-scotch. one two three four five ten toes.
one long pointed nail up to the sky, down across the sea of water, that you are blessed to not have to cross with the imagery of falling in and suffocating behind you.
you blast your shame into your hair.
then . you. cut. your hair.
and praise your lips suck on them sweet as they are the most divine taste that takes no hands to lick.
you excise your dependency on external utters.
you reach with your family, who bear your cross like extra supportive limbs.
you believe you are a ball, whose center is nowhere, and circumference is infinite.
dear one.
dear one two three four five six seven ten fingers.
dear five hands swathed in latex gem-ery.
dear effervescent nimble feet, that float on air like ice.
that dance and always have danced.
to tell a lie.
to tell a lie. that you must hide your head in the sand because you are too god damned bright pink.
then taste your lips once more, as many times as you are able to, to under-take the wind's current.
to read the signs how else when you have a map that fits into the space which surrounds you.
the map you breathe. the map you see when lights go dim.
the map you inhale through your godly nostrils.
so godly because god-breath smells everywhere.
you use these legs that hobble and you make the hobble, wild, like candy fire.
like secret rainbow bridges.
like closing your eyes and believing in what you see.
you see a future.
you watch yourself lift your feet up from swampy mud.
you smell the air passing beneath you.
though you listen to wolves, though you hear words from fathers.
somehow you smell it off in the distance glowing.
free. will.
free. dom.
hands that bend to allow your growth.
that allow you to believe you are a special plant.
one who is conscious of its self and its place. and that's nothing to be ashamed of because that place isn't some stale white grey picket fence in south Africa overlooking tall building after tall building like your friends in new York.
you love them all.
and it's okay.
because with these lips the words your big eyes. you figure it out all the calculations with glee.
the syn-energy
it is okay to separate your autonomy.
with a light string onemuch like a kite's.
it catches the wind.
it does not own that power.
it rides it with love and ecstasy
inside the feet of angels.
dear heart.
the same ideas stretch the string, until it gets thin, then it breaks. It always breaks at some point, no matter what elasticity it holds. That's how things go.
the different ideas get new strings, tie old strings to one another to new strings. The different ideas follow a pattern, weave together to make a cord.
you cannot doubt yourself.
the same ideas, the different ideas, you stretch the string, you cut the cord. you tie the strings together. again. the cycle is re-born.
what happens when you deny your own power? the power you have to know what's right for yourself. the power to be an arrow, to point in a single direction, to move, not hover.
a hovering power holds others.
may you be lifted by the wind of your own cord.
may you un-plug the one on your hovercraft merely holding you because you are so light.
may you move into the darkness fearless to light the path. to untie the strings. to believe a shadow is not the entity out to hurt you.
who even gets to walk that dark path alone at night.
who even gets to be led by their own miniature black panther.
who even gets to sing and dance with power.
who even gets to fly like a machine built to fly, with even the schematics under the hood.
you fly now.
you hit yourself in the head.
you birth now.
you birth your own very wings.
you choose your own very path.
you let yourself take the one you walk alone, in the dark, in the brightest of lights. who bears the weight of light and dark so gracefully.
who whispers to the shadows, and speaks to them with honor, because it is all so obviously alive.
who twists their fingers in the air to catch the sun.
you do.
you do not.
deny your will.
you scream your will.
you give patience and patiency to your will.
you give agent and agency to your breath. to your fingers.
you do not stick your fingers to muffle your screams, because you are afraid of bothering someone.
you fuck it.
you fuck yourself.
you fuck.
thee eye in thou, you eye see thou is thee.
spell rivers with numbers.
spell patience with nimbs.
nubs.
elbows these sorts of things.
nodal expectorant.
hop-scotch. one two three four five ten toes.
one long pointed nail up to the sky, down across the sea of water, that you are blessed to not have to cross with the imagery of falling in and suffocating behind you.
you blast your shame into your hair.
then . you. cut. your hair.
and praise your lips suck on them sweet as they are the most divine taste that takes no hands to lick.
you excise your dependency on external utters.
you reach with your family, who bear your cross like extra supportive limbs.
you believe you are a ball, whose center is nowhere, and circumference is infinite.
dear one.
dear one two three four five six seven ten fingers.
dear five hands swathed in latex gem-ery.
dear effervescent nimble feet, that float on air like ice.
that dance and always have danced.
to tell a lie.
to tell a lie. that you must hide your head in the sand because you are too god damned bright pink.
then taste your lips once more, as many times as you are able to, to under-take the wind's current.
to read the signs how else when you have a map that fits into the space which surrounds you.
the map you breathe. the map you see when lights go dim.
the map you inhale through your godly nostrils.
so godly because god-breath smells everywhere.
you use these legs that hobble and you make the hobble, wild, like candy fire.
like secret rainbow bridges.
like closing your eyes and believing in what you see.
you see a future.
you watch yourself lift your feet up from swampy mud.
you smell the air passing beneath you.
though you listen to wolves, though you hear words from fathers.
somehow you smell it off in the distance glowing.
free. will.
free. dom.
hands that bend to allow your growth.
that allow you to believe you are a special plant.
one who is conscious of its self and its place. and that's nothing to be ashamed of because that place isn't some stale white grey picket fence in south Africa overlooking tall building after tall building like your friends in new York.
you love them all.
and it's okay.
because with these lips the words your big eyes. you figure it out all the calculations with glee.
the syn-energy
it is okay to separate your autonomy.
with a light string onemuch like a kite's.
it catches the wind.
it does not own that power.
it rides it with love and ecstasy
inside the feet of angels.
dear heart.
"i heard thunder once." oh yeah, there was thunder!
what you seek for, you don't find
{she by the bayside water, in pin-striped coral shorts, wears the weather by her waist, as a sash that accidentally dipped into the toilet water, as she sat down, now she she just stands there wading.}
what they called eveil was a scrawny boy in cut-off jean shorts, not too short, covered in freckles, with a reddish beard hardly growing in at 22 years old.
the kind of face with one eye closed revealed feminine, with the other, masculine.
wonder if this half-vision sat in him deeply on the daily, now in the aftermath of his death. on this day, over 3 years ago, now.
(please don't red my blog please don't read my blog, please don't read my blog.)
no it wasn't just him that taught me how to recognize that look, some of you only see in the movies, of when you're doin' something but you're not saying nuthin. you're feeling some things. but you're not there. no. you're somewhere else. you're in the space that collides with the heart you left somewhere else, and that place ain't a nice place either. in fact, both places twined, spare your mind the extra javelin thrust. (you know where too, or do I have to explain what centered is)
it's a certain look, one could say, "out of it"
it's what you do when you don't know what to do, when you don't even try to know.
I will find that mother fucker in my dreams. and I will take him to my bone-teeth-jaw.
I will find that mother fucker. and I will reveal his sins, but not so much that I like that ice-cream so slanted sugary sweet off the ground and reach dirt.
no i'll stop right before ice lifts above ground.
I won't lick his sin.
or her sin.
yes, i'll be open minded.
and when you see that look, that face, that far-off glare, and the holding still of eye-balls, and holding still of body-cage, you know what that face is.
that's the the the face of yer child self trying to get out but trapped in by imbobilizing horror.
{she by the bayside water, in pin-striped coral shorts, wears the weather by her waist, as a sash that accidentally dipped into the toilet water, as she sat down, now she she just stands there wading.}
what they called eveil was a scrawny boy in cut-off jean shorts, not too short, covered in freckles, with a reddish beard hardly growing in at 22 years old.
the kind of face with one eye closed revealed feminine, with the other, masculine.
wonder if this half-vision sat in him deeply on the daily, now in the aftermath of his death. on this day, over 3 years ago, now.
(please don't red my blog please don't read my blog, please don't read my blog.)
no it wasn't just him that taught me how to recognize that look, some of you only see in the movies, of when you're doin' something but you're not saying nuthin. you're feeling some things. but you're not there. no. you're somewhere else. you're in the space that collides with the heart you left somewhere else, and that place ain't a nice place either. in fact, both places twined, spare your mind the extra javelin thrust. (you know where too, or do I have to explain what centered is)
it's a certain look, one could say, "out of it"
it's what you do when you don't know what to do, when you don't even try to know.
I will find that mother fucker in my dreams. and I will take him to my bone-teeth-jaw.
I will find that mother fucker. and I will reveal his sins, but not so much that I like that ice-cream so slanted sugary sweet off the ground and reach dirt.
no i'll stop right before ice lifts above ground.
I won't lick his sin.
or her sin.
yes, i'll be open minded.
and when you see that look, that face, that far-off glare, and the holding still of eye-balls, and holding still of body-cage, you know what that face is.
that's the the the face of yer child self trying to get out but trapped in by imbobilizing horror.
Friday, May 29, 2015
emotional blob seeks emotional robot:
emotional blob seeks emotional robot, spots emoto-iconic robotic hu-man walking across a busy new york L.A. sidewalk corner, a diagonal cross right-left to achieve maxium efficiency
underneath asphalt is screaming childhood white lines and yellow lines (denoting various areas of patience)
emotional blob watches closely as emotional robot crosses the street, overcomes past and reaches towards the future.
in the never before seen will have been going to have been, emotional blob with future-past inclinations rises then sets like a presently cooking quiche
and crosses the street only after every designated zone of childhood is processed.
emotional robot is many blocks away by now, and emotional blob in suspended patience manages to elastize outward and inward for what we call, 'the snap', which sends emotional blob forward through space=time and standing right next to emotional robot.
they meet. emotional blob says, "hello"
emotional robot says, "hello"
emotional blob takes out a diagram of arrows and circles, many lines describing movement, and physics of hovering to explain to emotional robot.
"won't you look at this? i'd like you to analyze this for me. this describes my constant hovering. the way in which i can fly. does it make sense to others? it feels so simple to me."
emotional robot takes the paper in their hands and reads it lovingly, swims in it, submerges its mind with the material plane, and hands it back to emotional blob.
"it means i love you. in a cloud offering. stillness."
"are you the blue spirit? the one that visits me in the womb? i've only written plans for flying."
"i only see clearly."
"and all my thoughts are vague scribbling."
It's like a wave-cloud. The gift of hovering. One simply picks up their feet when the wind comes by, and in the grooves of the air=ether spins inward and thru-wards, round one way then another to go straight. It's like a wave-cloud.
"I must teach such scribblings!" screams emotional blob.
And emotional robot spins wildly at this. In such. A. way. to kick up the sand=dirt, create a cloud and disappear.
They do.
with heavy breathing make love.
make love of teaching.
all the hovering.
breath which falls out of their mouths and dissipates to make bread.
for the children.
who now are born on wet land.
the moisture of love their mother father brother lover.
practical analysis and intuitive knowing.
join when steel and glob meet once on a street corner in new york L.A. Johnson City.
emotional blob seeks emotional robot, spots emoto-iconic robotic hu-man walking across a busy new york L.A. sidewalk corner, a diagonal cross right-left to achieve maxium efficiency
underneath asphalt is screaming childhood white lines and yellow lines (denoting various areas of patience)
emotional blob watches closely as emotional robot crosses the street, overcomes past and reaches towards the future.
in the never before seen will have been going to have been, emotional blob with future-past inclinations rises then sets like a presently cooking quiche
and crosses the street only after every designated zone of childhood is processed.
emotional robot is many blocks away by now, and emotional blob in suspended patience manages to elastize outward and inward for what we call, 'the snap', which sends emotional blob forward through space=time and standing right next to emotional robot.
they meet. emotional blob says, "hello"
emotional robot says, "hello"
emotional blob takes out a diagram of arrows and circles, many lines describing movement, and physics of hovering to explain to emotional robot.
"won't you look at this? i'd like you to analyze this for me. this describes my constant hovering. the way in which i can fly. does it make sense to others? it feels so simple to me."
emotional robot takes the paper in their hands and reads it lovingly, swims in it, submerges its mind with the material plane, and hands it back to emotional blob.
"it means i love you. in a cloud offering. stillness."
"are you the blue spirit? the one that visits me in the womb? i've only written plans for flying."
"i only see clearly."
"and all my thoughts are vague scribbling."
It's like a wave-cloud. The gift of hovering. One simply picks up their feet when the wind comes by, and in the grooves of the air=ether spins inward and thru-wards, round one way then another to go straight. It's like a wave-cloud.
"I must teach such scribblings!" screams emotional blob.
And emotional robot spins wildly at this. In such. A. way. to kick up the sand=dirt, create a cloud and disappear.
They do.
with heavy breathing make love.
make love of teaching.
all the hovering.
breath which falls out of their mouths and dissipates to make bread.
for the children.
who now are born on wet land.
the moisture of love their mother father brother lover.
practical analysis and intuitive knowing.
join when steel and glob meet once on a street corner in new york L.A. Johnson City.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
spittle
when i close my eyes
visual grid grind absorbs into my body
i become the night sky
lines of neon steam exhaust
feathered movement
nothing is clear
fuzzy
bananas
skin is no where
yes
there is no where
i see heat cannot feel one another
ive lost my voice
little birdie singes
ive lost my voice
and it sounds like screeching and i know im in not the best care
oh oh well
in the best care! not my own
hands of an angel!
cloud
while they wait in the hot hot heat
hear them
in the a/c manufactured calm
hear them in the boxes inside on top of boxes
find some confidence that
the anima is alive while sufferring
waiting for you to leave comfort for fortune
the fortune of allowing animals outside by the side of the road
to die or live by some feathered gift and luck
hands of the angel!
cloud
hands of the knobby kneed boy in the sky who makes stars with his scars
and skateboard marks
hands of the angle!
when i close my eyes
a ribbon wraps it up
wraps my tongue and a bow on top
a present for my present.
a node for my knot.
visual grid grind absorbs into my body
i become the night sky
lines of neon steam exhaust
feathered movement
nothing is clear
fuzzy
bananas
skin is no where
yes
there is no where
i see heat cannot feel one another
ive lost my voice
little birdie singes
ive lost my voice
and it sounds like screeching and i know im in not the best care
oh oh well
in the best care! not my own
hands of an angel!
cloud
while they wait in the hot hot heat
hear them
in the a/c manufactured calm
hear them in the boxes inside on top of boxes
find some confidence that
the anima is alive while sufferring
waiting for you to leave comfort for fortune
the fortune of allowing animals outside by the side of the road
to die or live by some feathered gift and luck
hands of the angel!
cloud
hands of the knobby kneed boy in the sky who makes stars with his scars
and skateboard marks
hands of the angle!
when i close my eyes
a ribbon wraps it up
wraps my tongue and a bow on top
a present for my present.
a node for my knot.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
ode to delaware
foul smell wrapped in flowery antique lace
historic historic historic river
made of endocrine disruptors
fuck it...
you can't swim in a river made of money
founded in gunpowder
they say you can't i don't know why
when the fishies seem fine
but it's all a lie
when we grew up we knew we had to leave and leave we did
catch and release
and each time we get caught we scream to ourselves who forgot
jesus christ there are some
who will die when they bake too long
foul smell wrapped in flowery antique lace
historic historic historic river
made of endocrine disruptors
fuck it...
you can't swim in a river made of money
founded in gunpowder
they say you can't i don't know why
when the fishies seem fine
but it's all a lie
when we grew up we knew we had to leave and leave we did
catch and release
and each time we get caught we scream to ourselves who forgot
jesus christ there are some
who will die when they bake too long
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
soul mating season
soul mates are a farce
in fact the soul-mate is a truth
in fact the soul mate is a fictional reality one that rises up like steam through the actual reality
the soul mate represents an individual with as much idealisation as you have
how much you hold onto that idea how long you hold onto it
it falls away as you see it's foundation-less spring of wealth
there is no soul mate, no soul mate feelings, no counter part
love is contra intuitive
built on hard work and hard nails and hard dirt
in fact the soul-mate is a truth
in fact the soul mate is a fictional reality one that rises up like steam through the actual reality
the soul mate represents an individual with as much idealisation as you have
how much you hold onto that idea how long you hold onto it
it falls away as you see it's foundation-less spring of wealth
there is no soul mate, no soul mate feelings, no counter part
love is contra intuitive
built on hard work and hard nails and hard dirt