i dont know where to begin
because there is nowhere to end.
and events are not succinct
when you sleep through tv episodes,
ice cream sundays and the game of
charades.
In confusion and bemusement,
an old man waits for my mail to be returned
to his future. when he dies,
we will no longer be alive in the same world at the same time.
isn't that something worth
singing about?
coming down is easy when you're happy
and being happy is free
for poets.
blurry posture on a dance floor, I remember
love and loss and my mediocre shoes.
placing a bet on the sleep of a night when everybody loses
in the end of sight,
so don't tell me not to reference my life
in my poems or my poems
within my poems.
I am awake and I am alive.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
nevermind
they had hand prints
on hand, that said the government has blood
on their hands! when I look down
at my own clean fingers.
Against abortion? one screaming side then
have a vasectomy! glaring for my not caring.
I have walking disease, I can only
walk away and not with
the cool crowds of change, telling my
uneducated gait that Stonewall was a riot
not a brand name! deeming my impossible
human existence a conflict of interest.
how do you choose between grocery lists,
fucking the man, or getting to bed on time?
does my scratchy low voice
sound enough like a man to choose?
photos of dead Evelyn surface,
i go beserk because i knew her murder
was not an accident, but an
incidental incitement
for the press of change,
for the face of a cause,
for the politics of righteousness,
for the iron curtain drawn
between your fire-lighter passion
and my cold indifference;
your politics and my poetics.
Thought she could change the world, Eve,
by opening her legs
to unready public radio stations, screaming
her side to change policies, please!
Thought she could change his mind,
Eve, try kicking them instead,
try unlearning sexist bullshit before you scream
obsceneties into my ears,
before you call it ----ism
It will not be a movement in banter
or blood, it will not take the mass
with well-intended propaganda,
it will not be where you see this is what a feminist looks like!
But I shouldn't pretend I know better
when I have no idea where to go or how
to lead, so I will take my leave
as quiet as you are loud.
on hand, that said the government has blood
on their hands! when I look down
at my own clean fingers.
Against abortion? one screaming side then
have a vasectomy! glaring for my not caring.
I have walking disease, I can only
walk away and not with
the cool crowds of change, telling my
uneducated gait that Stonewall was a riot
not a brand name! deeming my impossible
human existence a conflict of interest.
how do you choose between grocery lists,
fucking the man, or getting to bed on time?
does my scratchy low voice
sound enough like a man to choose?
photos of dead Evelyn surface,
i go beserk because i knew her murder
was not an accident, but an
incidental incitement
for the press of change,
for the face of a cause,
for the politics of righteousness,
for the iron curtain drawn
between your fire-lighter passion
and my cold indifference;
your politics and my poetics.
Thought she could change the world, Eve,
by opening her legs
to unready public radio stations, screaming
her side to change policies, please!
Thought she could change his mind,
Eve, try kicking them instead,
try unlearning sexist bullshit before you scream
obsceneties into my ears,
before you call it ----ism
It will not be a movement in banter
or blood, it will not take the mass
with well-intended propaganda,
it will not be where you see this is what a feminist looks like!
But I shouldn't pretend I know better
when I have no idea where to go or how
to lead, so I will take my leave
as quiet as you are loud.
water signs
triple chocolate ice cream
in the afternoon,
indulgence heavy on my tongue,
crushing hard candy as if it were medicine
for some fast-approaching fatal disease
or just a sugar high
to counter a sleepless night
when i thought i might be, could possibly have been
dying,
on the phone with some nurse named Deborah
who kept forgetting my name.
isn't there some famous line
where the world ends
not with a bang
but with a sigh?
that is how I feel
at the fault line,
seek to deliver my soul
offer only defenses of the deepest scars
free for anyone
from afar
i draw veins trailing from my heart, a roadmap
of love and tragedy in the rain,
standing in the rain,
standing,
forgetting
that we do not live upon the skin.
sensations fail
i comply
the tips of my nerves
burn.
Last night,
I had drawn myself a bubble bath
I had made a list of better memories
(belong in others but)
slipping off their tongues
into the air
when
I had taken a knife and meant to suicide
but the warm water was your voice
and i touched myself instead
speak softly into the dark, the imprint of their love
lingers in my watering ears and
i would be pure,
but for the wake of such intensity
just a shadow here.
And i would be whole,
but for this life.
in the afternoon,
indulgence heavy on my tongue,
crushing hard candy as if it were medicine
for some fast-approaching fatal disease
or just a sugar high
to counter a sleepless night
when i thought i might be, could possibly have been
dying,
on the phone with some nurse named Deborah
who kept forgetting my name.
isn't there some famous line
where the world ends
not with a bang
but with a sigh?
that is how I feel
at the fault line,
seek to deliver my soul
offer only defenses of the deepest scars
free for anyone
from afar
i draw veins trailing from my heart, a roadmap
of love and tragedy in the rain,
standing in the rain,
standing,
forgetting
that we do not live upon the skin.
sensations fail
i comply
the tips of my nerves
burn.
Last night,
I had drawn myself a bubble bath
I had made a list of better memories
(belong in others but)
slipping off their tongues
into the air
when
I had taken a knife and meant to suicide
but the warm water was your voice
and i touched myself instead
speak softly into the dark, the imprint of their love
lingers in my watering ears and
i would be pure,
but for the wake of such intensity
just a shadow here.
And i would be whole,
but for this life.
visitation
I count the tears of the sky
they call them cloud lines but I know
better, live higher than bed-hopping bunny rabbits,
and eat the same celery stalks.
"Shut it, Diane." he says,
diagonally.
bead by bead in strands strung up to save the lives
of dead hair, insists it's for the given
gratiutious time wasted by chemical cleansing.
we'll leave
when my laptop finishes charging
his plaits settle into polish
and four outfits come alive to die:
we take so long to walk.
there's enough minutes by the door
for me to wear more mascara.
"don't forget the knife in my shoe"
I say to him, unsure of what either of us meant,
slip a cellphone down my pants
to a september street, not far from home;
in a vast and empty prose,
buttercups he bought spill yellow
trees all apple blossom, warbler call and
flutter, I linger
along tiny berries glow
like rubies in the grass,
raindrops, red lips and fingers on each patch.
In my head, I couldn't see
Aphrodite in the neon night,
black-and-white scenes in Revelations
or in pursuit
of each sun-plump, compassionate moment.
white-teeth of a woman's face telling
my story to her son, singing
about school children on bikes go
ping
as they pass along once-in-a-lifetime,
alighting the right birds to watch
take flight,
we stay and we sit and we choose to resist.
Ghandi sits alone
on a pedestal or a square stone
depending on the angle
and we like to visit him on our way to the Institution.
he was twenty once, like me and my friend,
arguing to change the world
smartly dressed in a British suit while
sending wind to distant stars, unfamiliar like
we're in camphor smokes,
marigold garlands ring the neck of my dress,
hold my molecular hands as
we walk towards vermillion ash,
getting closer to Ghandi's dhoti,
which is neither exotic nor alien,
and every day he asks us the same
question:
"Can you be still enough to change the world?"
but we must turn from black forests,
damnation temples lit by flickering wicks,
scathed in heat and brightness by our own encounters,
exposed.
return to bus lines
drawn not in orange decadence,
return the rags used by brown hands below,
validating the village we live
where there are good times in lights, music,
unrefined apple juice, forget the
berries he collected spill pouring into my palm,
spill into tangled weed blades
i come home to cut -- it was my turn this week.
we'll do this again next month, he turns away,
when there is another silence in heaven
for half an hour.
my laptop is draining out of energy with each step gone
and I can no longer find in memorandum
what was burned sacred and wild
into the backs of our eyes.
they call them cloud lines but I know
better, live higher than bed-hopping bunny rabbits,
and eat the same celery stalks.
"Shut it, Diane." he says,
diagonally.
bead by bead in strands strung up to save the lives
of dead hair, insists it's for the given
gratiutious time wasted by chemical cleansing.
we'll leave
when my laptop finishes charging
his plaits settle into polish
and four outfits come alive to die:
we take so long to walk.
there's enough minutes by the door
for me to wear more mascara.
"don't forget the knife in my shoe"
I say to him, unsure of what either of us meant,
slip a cellphone down my pants
to a september street, not far from home;
in a vast and empty prose,
buttercups he bought spill yellow
trees all apple blossom, warbler call and
flutter, I linger
along tiny berries glow
like rubies in the grass,
raindrops, red lips and fingers on each patch.
In my head, I couldn't see
Aphrodite in the neon night,
black-and-white scenes in Revelations
or in pursuit
of each sun-plump, compassionate moment.
white-teeth of a woman's face telling
my story to her son, singing
about school children on bikes go
ping
as they pass along once-in-a-lifetime,
alighting the right birds to watch
take flight,
we stay and we sit and we choose to resist.
Ghandi sits alone
on a pedestal or a square stone
depending on the angle
and we like to visit him on our way to the Institution.
he was twenty once, like me and my friend,
arguing to change the world
smartly dressed in a British suit while
sending wind to distant stars, unfamiliar like
we're in camphor smokes,
marigold garlands ring the neck of my dress,
hold my molecular hands as
we walk towards vermillion ash,
getting closer to Ghandi's dhoti,
which is neither exotic nor alien,
and every day he asks us the same
question:
"Can you be still enough to change the world?"
but we must turn from black forests,
damnation temples lit by flickering wicks,
scathed in heat and brightness by our own encounters,
exposed.
return to bus lines
drawn not in orange decadence,
return the rags used by brown hands below,
validating the village we live
where there are good times in lights, music,
unrefined apple juice, forget the
berries he collected spill pouring into my palm,
spill into tangled weed blades
i come home to cut -- it was my turn this week.
we'll do this again next month, he turns away,
when there is another silence in heaven
for half an hour.
my laptop is draining out of energy with each step gone
and I can no longer find in memorandum
what was burned sacred and wild
into the backs of our eyes.
eighteen copies for monday class
bring us the pieces
she asks
of your soul, you must show
an exhibition
of how young you are and how old
you must feel,
of the exposing bone and sinewy
you must dare to show
in eighteen different places
to eighteen eager ears
waiting for an itch
you must
bring us the feel of a fingerprint or
cotton candy entanglement or
crimson berries plump in a tummy or
bottle rockets, home-grown hearts.
you must
bring us the dangerous thoughts--
that when surfaced, we'll have lost our skin-sticking will,
have pushed the rough thread count
out too still or in
too far,
you must
offer us your secrets
not just the commonplace,
you must rip them from you
raw
make them beautiful, languish them
in this life
they will fight
for air
you must
surrender the effacement of you
unto them
surrender pulsing desires
unto them
we will not betray you, we will
whispered them meekly instead of
screamed,
letting your secrets seep
into our pores
into our own forging desperations,
you must
give us something more
than you would give to him, to her, to them, to those who
have not shown up in time
to hear our voice
in yours
to witness
this exhibition of the dead soars
taken and fallen
of the cloud castles
dreamt and forgotten
you must
come onstage, demanding
dig holes dig holes dig soles
you must
expose the technicolours of your blood
you must
demonstrate the the vinyl sounds of your heart
you must
exhale the stale air from your easy breathing
bring us the meaningless meaning
strike us a chord in our humanity
bring us the pieces
she asks
and let it resonate
until there is nothing
left
she asks
of your soul, you must show
an exhibition
of how young you are and how old
you must feel,
of the exposing bone and sinewy
you must dare to show
in eighteen different places
to eighteen eager ears
waiting for an itch
you must
bring us the feel of a fingerprint or
cotton candy entanglement or
crimson berries plump in a tummy or
bottle rockets, home-grown hearts.
you must
bring us the dangerous thoughts--
that when surfaced, we'll have lost our skin-sticking will,
have pushed the rough thread count
out too still or in
too far,
you must
offer us your secrets
not just the commonplace,
you must rip them from you
raw
make them beautiful, languish them
in this life
they will fight
for air
you must
surrender the effacement of you
unto them
surrender pulsing desires
unto them
we will not betray you, we will
whispered them meekly instead of
screamed,
letting your secrets seep
into our pores
into our own forging desperations,
you must
give us something more
than you would give to him, to her, to them, to those who
have not shown up in time
to hear our voice
in yours
to witness
this exhibition of the dead soars
taken and fallen
of the cloud castles
dreamt and forgotten
you must
come onstage, demanding
dig holes dig holes dig soles
you must
expose the technicolours of your blood
you must
demonstrate the the vinyl sounds of your heart
you must
exhale the stale air from your easy breathing
bring us the meaningless meaning
strike us a chord in our humanity
bring us the pieces
she asks
and let it resonate
until there is nothing
left
Monday, October 6, 2008
my best friend today
maybe, just maybe or perhaps
it won't be so bad to sit with her another coffee date
my best friend a mirror to my
inner river-twisting hateful soul
mate. but what if it was me all along?
if my moods are as contagious as her
size eleven shoes
that i steal with three layerings of stockings.
liars and writers and thievery between the best of
ourselves. the way we connect is at
worst - nothing to regret and at
loss - nothing to pretend.
i feel guilty for looking into eyes and
still, i can lie so lie next to me and sleep twelve hours into saturday
night. take drugs and make mixes to take drugs to
or don't.
see if i care. see if i leave. the only thing
we know how to do
and do well is
leave
each other in mutual dust. Bite me
before I suck you dry, give me all you are before I
accidentally take it from you dry.
who am i to tell you who you are
as if i could distinguish our waking days,
bedrooms across sounds and creaking halls
do not seperate the soulless from the fake from
you and me.
it won't be so bad to sit with her another coffee date
my best friend a mirror to my
inner river-twisting hateful soul
mate. but what if it was me all along?
if my moods are as contagious as her
size eleven shoes
that i steal with three layerings of stockings.
liars and writers and thievery between the best of
ourselves. the way we connect is at
worst - nothing to regret and at
loss - nothing to pretend.
i feel guilty for looking into eyes and
still, i can lie so lie next to me and sleep twelve hours into saturday
night. take drugs and make mixes to take drugs to
or don't.
see if i care. see if i leave. the only thing
we know how to do
and do well is
leave
each other in mutual dust. Bite me
before I suck you dry, give me all you are before I
accidentally take it from you dry.
who am i to tell you who you are
as if i could distinguish our waking days,
bedrooms across sounds and creaking halls
do not seperate the soulless from the fake from
you and me.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
stop touching me
because i let you fuck me
ugly
post-paid dinners on saturdays with
other girls
pretty
and easy
to please but hard (your dick) to get (her)
come
home
another evening please and take it out on me.
tasted at sixteen on a second turn, never learned
to go slow.
like photo-framed girls who like rear entry and yellow roses
like being told un-photogenic or
on your knees, slut.
i validate
-glossy girls matte girls framed girls blown up and cut up girls locket girls happy girls-
they validate
-salacious boys, animal fucks, anonymous purpose, name mistakes, my lovers-
who validate
-hand on head fist over mouth nails across chest slap sound face wrists pressed bound names dirty/called-
validating I.
And that is why
while we wait
the prologue is unmade and unmaiden
unsuited for this grateful bedroom with red
because all he ever said was
I like to get head.
ugly
post-paid dinners on saturdays with
other girls
pretty
and easy
to please but hard (your dick) to get (her)
come
home
another evening please and take it out on me.
tasted at sixteen on a second turn, never learned
to go slow.
like photo-framed girls who like rear entry and yellow roses
like being told un-photogenic or
on your knees, slut.
i validate
-glossy girls matte girls framed girls blown up and cut up girls locket girls happy girls-
they validate
-salacious boys, animal fucks, anonymous purpose, name mistakes, my lovers-
who validate
-hand on head fist over mouth nails across chest slap sound face wrists pressed bound names dirty/called-
validating I.
And that is why
while we wait
the prologue is unmade and unmaiden
unsuited for this grateful bedroom with red
because all he ever said was
I like to get head.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
again (say yes)
there is too much pressure, mister
distance can sing songs, mister
space inbetween souls sit in silent notes across a
treble clef I studied in suspended breath.
seventh grade diminishes, and the latest will take
twice the dissonance of the last
embrace. To feel a thing. Things that do not
feel to me like a thing to feel
but they come and they go
for what or for the why does a chain stop a clink clink clink
sink my sly smiling legs, shaven
for the women,
jean attack a mission and messy hair a meaning,
the popular and the culture ain't my
ain't. grey shirts. major scales. A line of love
platonic to my sea-salt shaker, i forgot to bring you
my sugar addiction. my
salting and icing and must have forgotten from reading fiction.
I am surprised you never knew
from the times I drew love and conclusions in
our ships and sex.
Stoned fixes in first-year death by gaining
fifteen pounds of wisdom - none the wiser they say to my
face. They say many things. I stay many things.
one thing is clear.
When you come in accoustic, I can hear
library sounds in a staircase backdrop, backing up
drops in my throat, wipes on my knees, the night
behind a quad park.
the auto-saving no knows how to stay low
but I did not - pinky swear on a breath, never to
say yes.
there is too much pressure, mister
distance can sing songs, mister
space inbetween souls sit in silent notes across a
treble clef I studied in suspended breath.
seventh grade diminishes, and the latest will take
twice the dissonance of the last
embrace. To feel a thing. Things that do not
feel to me like a thing to feel
but they come and they go
for what or for the why does a chain stop a clink clink clink
sink my sly smiling legs, shaven
for the women,
jean attack a mission and messy hair a meaning,
the popular and the culture ain't my
ain't. grey shirts. major scales. A line of love
platonic to my sea-salt shaker, i forgot to bring you
my sugar addiction. my
salting and icing and must have forgotten from reading fiction.
I am surprised you never knew
from the times I drew love and conclusions in
our ships and sex.
Stoned fixes in first-year death by gaining
fifteen pounds of wisdom - none the wiser they say to my
face. They say many things. I stay many things.
one thing is clear.
When you come in accoustic, I can hear
library sounds in a staircase backdrop, backing up
drops in my throat, wipes on my knees, the night
behind a quad park.
the auto-saving no knows how to stay low
but I did not - pinky swear on a breath, never to
say yes.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
intelligence? irrelevance.
like a thing could mean a thing, saying
smoking is for quitters
since i quit you:
it has come down to fire lighter flesh
seven am fall asleep to
soundless tones in a sunrise by birds
i am a bird,
british and fictional like metal chemistry is to
fish. i am a fish,
five second songs about love and magic
is not
ripe
enough critical inquiry and belligerent "my theory"
glasses make without your hands on my head.
we had plans to watch
hush
make molasses
and there were good times.
splat splat egging splat.
ten pounds of refuse or ten pounds of
show me a bruise.
show me a single stray pubic hair.
talking goes
and goes.
scar tissue - it all fades, all fades, all fades:
like a thing could mean a thing, saying
smoking is for quitters
since i quit you:
it has come down to fire lighter flesh
seven am fall asleep to
soundless tones in a sunrise by birds
i am a bird,
british and fictional like metal chemistry is to
fish. i am a fish,
five second songs about love and magic
is not
ripe
enough critical inquiry and belligerent "my theory"
glasses make without your hands on my head.
we had plans to watch
hush
make molasses
and there were good times.
splat splat egging splat.
ten pounds of refuse or ten pounds of
show me a bruise.
show me a single stray pubic hair.
talking goes
and goes.
scar tissue - it all fades, all fades, all fades:
Monday, September 15, 2008
(bad bloggers are my heroes)
how can i describe in zipped files, flying,
coding, signifying, the raw insides of gracious
hatred: study groups failing my poetry sales,
and walking passerbys stare, like
America's police of my waiting day-job and
his shirt is white with "I'm A Keeper"
but all I can think about is Harry Potter:
going green and tissue paper. Scrap.
Giant furniture stores selling my modernity away from me,
the day my mug stains reek of Ikea's wooden,
Sweden, sweet-virgins in sweater shops, the day I
stop.
Still. Standing, but I have no legs to offer
under the table. Why,
I am not undatable. Look,
I share my soul
on data correlation studies (ones and zeros)
and I like starving homeless beggars
because their connecting limbs still connect and they do not
marginalize the alone.
Oh my god.
Oh your god, what?
Oh give me a second to gather my thoughts
alone - will you?
People glare because I am not pretty and only
pretty girls sit solo.
Only pretty girls look straight at baguettes,
smoke cigarettes,
but they don't die young like the
unrest rest.
"[Eye]
might be ugly, but we have the music."^
^FOOTNOTE: L.C. set it as a mantra for the very obvious
and oblivious best of us.
how can i describe in zipped files, flying,
coding, signifying, the raw insides of gracious
hatred: study groups failing my poetry sales,
and walking passerbys stare, like
America's police of my waiting day-job and
his shirt is white with "I'm A Keeper"
but all I can think about is Harry Potter:
going green and tissue paper. Scrap.
Giant furniture stores selling my modernity away from me,
the day my mug stains reek of Ikea's wooden,
Sweden, sweet-virgins in sweater shops, the day I
stop.
Still. Standing, but I have no legs to offer
under the table. Why,
I am not undatable. Look,
I share my soul
on data correlation studies (ones and zeros)
and I like starving homeless beggars
because their connecting limbs still connect and they do not
marginalize the alone.
Oh my god.
Oh your god, what?
Oh give me a second to gather my thoughts
alone - will you?
People glare because I am not pretty and only
pretty girls sit solo.
Only pretty girls look straight at baguettes,
smoke cigarettes,
but they don't die young like the
unrest rest.
"[Eye]
might be ugly, but we have the music."^
^FOOTNOTE: L.C. set it as a mantra for the very obvious
and oblivious best of us.
Lucky Ladies: From Sylvia Plath to Janis Joplin
is that tommy?
walking like tommy,
so tommy,
I hate tommy.
staring spatially to stardom and la bella vita
tattooed on baby bearing bottoms,
doing what you gotta do and will that
damn anorexic stop walking by my sky?
Terrence, I am with you on this bridging run of
release (one more night, one last time).
Morgan, I could blame you for altering states
of a anti-heroine's mistakes in
three's or four's - the roses come in dozens but
beauty not insofar as good as janis joplin's
voice like a searching heroine searching for
heroine. Howling in Khakis on a gap
advertisement - are you giving in or showing sin?
On a sunless day, I sat without sleep to hate the
tommy's, sucking
on Lady Lazarus' tits, jealous of teardrop size not stretch
marks. The audience will lose the actor to a staged
encore encore encore and never the before, or
for the absolute despicability of handpicked
divinities, choiceless like humanity, childless
like lesbian existence and everybody wants
spotlights' screaming PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
I tell bullshit stories.
Write from fiction wrists, covering up with speed
to be like a One. November leaves. I stay to gather
pamphlets about the nature of geniuses,
matte copied and finger brushed,
saying nothing about the struggle,
the
day to dusk to desk-light to "she dares to be different" that
Janis Joplin:
dares to death,
three times the nights in less than thirty years.
We'll attest to your songs and
tribute to your namesake.
I'll even wear a thong to your funeral because you would have loved to know we fucked your lows with
hunger and throes
dug our own sinkholes and buried you between the legs of
walking tommy's,
seething for your beauty,
seeing my own,
and knowing what we only know when we are shiftlessly gearing with the very ephemeral invincibility that smells like a secret under badly written book skins: Like we could have done anything else with public-spaced lives, like we could have summarized a night with "the nights" or written the ugliest poem of miserable, heinous, autobiographical poetry without committing the almost crime of
sullen
surrender,
salacious
sacrifice.
The tommy's smile in lectures and at slides,
they love the beauty and write the lies,
leave it to Terrence and Morgan to watch a western
sunrise.
The tommy's cry when lyrics break down
(the end of a sad song) (the end of a night)
(the end of a schizophrenic life) (the end of
.
just another lucky genius.
walking like tommy,
so tommy,
I hate tommy.
staring spatially to stardom and la bella vita
tattooed on baby bearing bottoms,
doing what you gotta do and will that
damn anorexic stop walking by my sky?
Terrence, I am with you on this bridging run of
release (one more night, one last time).
Morgan, I could blame you for altering states
of a anti-heroine's mistakes in
three's or four's - the roses come in dozens but
beauty not insofar as good as janis joplin's
voice like a searching heroine searching for
heroine. Howling in Khakis on a gap
advertisement - are you giving in or showing sin?
On a sunless day, I sat without sleep to hate the
tommy's, sucking
on Lady Lazarus' tits, jealous of teardrop size not stretch
marks. The audience will lose the actor to a staged
encore encore encore and never the before, or
for the absolute despicability of handpicked
divinities, choiceless like humanity, childless
like lesbian existence and everybody wants
spotlights' screaming PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
I tell bullshit stories.
Write from fiction wrists, covering up with speed
to be like a One. November leaves. I stay to gather
pamphlets about the nature of geniuses,
matte copied and finger brushed,
saying nothing about the struggle,
the
day to dusk to desk-light to "she dares to be different" that
Janis Joplin:
dares to death,
three times the nights in less than thirty years.
We'll attest to your songs and
tribute to your namesake.
I'll even wear a thong to your funeral because you would have loved to know we fucked your lows with
hunger and throes
dug our own sinkholes and buried you between the legs of
walking tommy's,
seething for your beauty,
seeing my own,
and knowing what we only know when we are shiftlessly gearing with the very ephemeral invincibility that smells like a secret under badly written book skins: Like we could have done anything else with public-spaced lives, like we could have summarized a night with "the nights" or written the ugliest poem of miserable, heinous, autobiographical poetry without committing the almost crime of
sullen
surrender,
salacious
sacrifice.
The tommy's smile in lectures and at slides,
they love the beauty and write the lies,
leave it to Terrence and Morgan to watch a western
sunrise.
The tommy's cry when lyrics break down
(the end of a sad song) (the end of a night)
(the end of a schizophrenic life) (the end of
.
just another lucky genius.
Monday, September 1, 2008
caught up on creativity and
relying on short stories
to live my own tales no taller
than a rat's tail
on a chinese boy so young so
awkward, trailing behind him
the symbolic value of tradition when
tradition is now non-tradition.
both hands make desk space
and trying harder than her smile
trying lesser than the seasons are
wild, where the wild things leave
to be captured by man and minds:
labels disguised by poets and
songwriters writing pop commentary by
making avril lavigne famous.
I play the past to pay the future
of a career or a failure: don't need to know
more than having had a say
in the present.
there are only so many poems,
and too many poets.
The next week could be bleak
and beautiful, or just
bleak. I could stop suddenly and so could
he start temporarily. The lines:
text, eyes and skirts; could become:
rhymes, cocaine, and strikes.
Be taken away, it could, by
myself from my days. So steal
a heart (have one), take a bill,
rape a body, save a small piece
of my poetry.
relying on short stories
to live my own tales no taller
than a rat's tail
on a chinese boy so young so
awkward, trailing behind him
the symbolic value of tradition when
tradition is now non-tradition.
both hands make desk space
and trying harder than her smile
trying lesser than the seasons are
wild, where the wild things leave
to be captured by man and minds:
labels disguised by poets and
songwriters writing pop commentary by
making avril lavigne famous.
I play the past to pay the future
of a career or a failure: don't need to know
more than having had a say
in the present.
there are only so many poems,
and too many poets.
The next week could be bleak
and beautiful, or just
bleak. I could stop suddenly and so could
he start temporarily. The lines:
text, eyes and skirts; could become:
rhymes, cocaine, and strikes.
Be taken away, it could, by
myself from my days. So steal
a heart (have one), take a bill,
rape a body, save a small piece
of my poetry.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Well tough. The vitamins and interviews going
down rough and shingles on the roof
burn bad luck into the soles of my
battered toes.
An application says no mistakes,
A degree begs over-qualification,
a sandal doesn't care for the casual,
and I am tired of fitting into small spaces.
Red lipstick confidence is confidentially
universal. Red pumps sex for the
amateur child.
I have more than bruises and scabs
on my legs and feet than sight and stars
after working a city night. Alcohol is
jealousy and I do neither for free
cause allergy season.. know what I'm saying?
Drugs come to talk to me
from you from me to you
but drugs will always be there
when poems are varnished to
vanish.
My friends call me the wind and
the wind calls me kamikaze.
LIKE WHAT??
down rough and shingles on the roof
burn bad luck into the soles of my
battered toes.
An application says no mistakes,
A degree begs over-qualification,
a sandal doesn't care for the casual,
and I am tired of fitting into small spaces.
Red lipstick confidence is confidentially
universal. Red pumps sex for the
amateur child.
I have more than bruises and scabs
on my legs and feet than sight and stars
after working a city night. Alcohol is
jealousy and I do neither for free
cause allergy season.. know what I'm saying?
Drugs come to talk to me
from you from me to you
but drugs will always be there
when poems are varnished to
vanish.
My friends call me the wind and
the wind calls me kamikaze.
LIKE WHAT??
a house of cats
She looked, "Queens has a
feminist review?
Ew, but," she saw,
"why?"
We're on a diet together over jealous bodies of chocolate fondue and raisin cookies.
I check kitchen cabinets when getting water,
to feel guilty,
to hit myself when a man can't tell,
to joke about the whore that I am when we both know,
you're the whore for selling
my body
out.
You're the slut for my sexual bragging rights,
you're the mouth to talk about my blows,
you're the reason
I am a feminist.
feminist review?
Ew, but," she saw,
"why?"
We're on a diet together over jealous bodies of chocolate fondue and raisin cookies.
I check kitchen cabinets when getting water,
to feel guilty,
to hit myself when a man can't tell,
to joke about the whore that I am when we both know,
you're the whore for selling
my body
out.
You're the slut for my sexual bragging rights,
you're the mouth to talk about my blows,
you're the reason
I am a feminist.
Monday, August 11, 2008
what?
you know I couldn't resist
raining. it's going to leave us hung
dry when it barely takes twenty
minutes
in the borrowed mornings
to wise up in rooms not my own.
Coffee and cancer go
through the motions together.
a stocked fridge means that I am
not the frigid one, means I have
a right to stay, though I never stay,
I have a say to leave
when I am always leaving.
I need a sundae with a nonday
to follow, so I can stay in bed
all day and wallow.
the computer froze playing chess;
black to move and the white queen
suicides like conversations
with dead people.
everything you ever wanted to know
i write down in a napkin note.
you, i whisper with my vixen,
and that?
It's a list of people standing too close.
raining. it's going to leave us hung
dry when it barely takes twenty
minutes
in the borrowed mornings
to wise up in rooms not my own.
Coffee and cancer go
through the motions together.
a stocked fridge means that I am
not the frigid one, means I have
a right to stay, though I never stay,
I have a say to leave
when I am always leaving.
I need a sundae with a nonday
to follow, so I can stay in bed
all day and wallow.
the computer froze playing chess;
black to move and the white queen
suicides like conversations
with dead people.
everything you ever wanted to know
i write down in a napkin note.
you, i whisper with my vixen,
and that?
It's a list of people standing too close.
Friday, August 1, 2008
summers
the pebbles skip like frisbees and
anti-depressants on a summer lakeshore
boulevard of hiking a day away --
strapped with a backpack of the city still.
though I try to breathe in the sea
and your dirty blonde hair is so easy
to liken to my mouth where the foam
forms i love you, in waves
that crush the crescent moon's reflection
and fishbones drift in
and out of season,
collecting sandy urns with gone eyes;
shells of a past sight, perhaps.
And now it is with a clutter of stones thrown,
each one taking a weight
away from my own
immeasurable, irrevocable, invaluable
importance, when
what is important is the shape of your
hair when the wind stops naked
and bare. We are looking for
the same stars as always
have before; in this dot, this thought
occurred infinitely
twice, thrice. Did the plane really crash
this day when my heart has been
rejected by my veins?
Do birds often collide when flying
with closed eyes? Does it take
poison and confusion and stale
beer glass to wake and take
us alone, home, again?
anti-depressants on a summer lakeshore
boulevard of hiking a day away --
strapped with a backpack of the city still.
though I try to breathe in the sea
and your dirty blonde hair is so easy
to liken to my mouth where the foam
forms i love you, in waves
that crush the crescent moon's reflection
and fishbones drift in
and out of season,
collecting sandy urns with gone eyes;
shells of a past sight, perhaps.
And now it is with a clutter of stones thrown,
each one taking a weight
away from my own
immeasurable, irrevocable, invaluable
importance, when
what is important is the shape of your
hair when the wind stops naked
and bare. We are looking for
the same stars as always
have before; in this dot, this thought
occurred infinitely
twice, thrice. Did the plane really crash
this day when my heart has been
rejected by my veins?
Do birds often collide when flying
with closed eyes? Does it take
poison and confusion and stale
beer glass to wake and take
us alone, home, again?
The i in team
You,
who would choose war in the guise of warning
You,
who would make mass the creed of masochists
You,
who would indulge in the meaning of her misdemeanor
You,
who would crown a trophy on eliot's apostrophe's
You,
who would talk verses in silenced conversations
You,
who would feign the lion of social rebellions
You,
who would simply be the is of the artist
You,
who would rope and use Caliope, your muse
You,
who would call the press on your depression
You,
who would rate in me a plead to ameliorate
You,
who would cook whirled peas and call it world peace
You,
who would feed your pet of repetition
You,
who would drink gin to touch the imagination
You,
who would deny its over from an ex-lover
You,
who would tap the last ass in the crack stains of class
You and me and me and you and you and me.
who would choose war in the guise of warning
You,
who would make mass the creed of masochists
You,
who would indulge in the meaning of her misdemeanor
You,
who would crown a trophy on eliot's apostrophe's
You,
who would talk verses in silenced conversations
You,
who would feign the lion of social rebellions
You,
who would simply be the is of the artist
You,
who would rope and use Caliope, your muse
You,
who would call the press on your depression
You,
who would rate in me a plead to ameliorate
You,
who would cook whirled peas and call it world peace
You,
who would feed your pet of repetition
You,
who would drink gin to touch the imagination
You,
who would deny its over from an ex-lover
You,
who would tap the last ass in the crack stains of class
You and me and me and you and you and me.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
grandmom maria and kepto marie
i feel guilty, i do
for the endless hysteria lines i cannot picture
like stealing mania and other people's treasure
of my grandmother's smile a walk home later
(seems alien and strange in colours that falter)
my feet scratching a lightling, indecent leaving
taking out trash from the lives we are not living
bought a basket of dollar-grade fruits and fuzz
one day, left it while rummaging an afterthought
win some, lose some; steal some, fool some
the playmates hard to come by when too young
or too far gone in a sixty-year decade of loose change.
poverty and the good fight gauged
and ingrained even as i listened to your withering winds
come back to me in the park, by the buried walnuts
bike rides you waited and i forgot
how ephermeral you are.
If you could read standup prose
if you could see that I share your nose
if you could know now what i never knew then
if you could hug me tighter than pornographic men
I love you like years in a single bed
humming nights to electric fan fights that left
when I turned thirteen, fourteen, seventeen,
and forgot the dream catcher you made with stories
and ticklish foot rubs i hated so you hurried
now, but for the expired food freebies, the only time I can touch you again
is when you are leaving for the last time
to the waves of the Earth and the wave of my hand.
for the endless hysteria lines i cannot picture
like stealing mania and other people's treasure
of my grandmother's smile a walk home later
(seems alien and strange in colours that falter)
my feet scratching a lightling, indecent leaving
taking out trash from the lives we are not living
bought a basket of dollar-grade fruits and fuzz
one day, left it while rummaging an afterthought
win some, lose some; steal some, fool some
the playmates hard to come by when too young
or too far gone in a sixty-year decade of loose change.
poverty and the good fight gauged
and ingrained even as i listened to your withering winds
come back to me in the park, by the buried walnuts
bike rides you waited and i forgot
how ephermeral you are.
If you could read standup prose
if you could see that I share your nose
if you could know now what i never knew then
if you could hug me tighter than pornographic men
I love you like years in a single bed
humming nights to electric fan fights that left
when I turned thirteen, fourteen, seventeen,
and forgot the dream catcher you made with stories
and ticklish foot rubs i hated so you hurried
now, but for the expired food freebies, the only time I can touch you again
is when you are leaving for the last time
to the waves of the Earth and the wave of my hand.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
the old in and out
And here we go again, she said,
the old in and out, the old inscrutable smiles that old men recall
that young men ignore
here it comes again,
the next bathroom floor for a fiddle, for a faker,
for the girl who can’t come and the boy who can’t cut
really,
they’re the same person
as the girl who can
and the boy who can
really,
it’s all the same person as the sitting sharpens like sudden rainfalls can growl:
as the bed hardens as the sheets can roll into themselves:
as the room of best-friends and faux lovers can feel more alone
than a room of one’s own:
as I am everybody in every moment of every emotion.
And here we go again, she said,
the future familiarity of red blinds and black tides – what I see when I read Kerouac page fifty-three concerning the utter unknowing
of Kerouac (footnote page 53).
Conversations going nowhere in my head, selfish reasons to be my friend,
a song by a beautiful boy who never realized what we had,
a battle and a penny, a bathroom light and a cellphone call,
an ex-lover and a new lie,
a misquoted guide who tries to tell us:
there is an answer when there is no question,
there is a song when there is no music,
there is a mosquito when there is no skin,
there is a slipper when there is no ground.
I can’t stand to be alone in a room not my own.
And here,
HERE,
HERE HERE HERE HERE HERE
we go again.
the screen of a staring contest and the worst,
if you can believe there is a worst part to all this parental guidance bullshit that I never had,
i never lose and I never win, but while you wait in the other room,
while I wait in a room not my own,
while I write in a house un-alone,
while I sit on a bed across a shared room,
i can’t do the things I do when I am at my worst and my best:
no cries and no cuts,
no slaps and no lust,
no truth written on mirror fogs
no bongs alone when I am sick of thoughts.
close the door and when you leave, the turning of the back and the swing the shoulder will make me love again.
the old in and out, the old inscrutable smiles that old men recall
that young men ignore
here it comes again,
the next bathroom floor for a fiddle, for a faker,
for the girl who can’t come and the boy who can’t cut
really,
they’re the same person
as the girl who can
and the boy who can
really,
it’s all the same person as the sitting sharpens like sudden rainfalls can growl:
as the bed hardens as the sheets can roll into themselves:
as the room of best-friends and faux lovers can feel more alone
than a room of one’s own:
as I am everybody in every moment of every emotion.
And here we go again, she said,
the future familiarity of red blinds and black tides – what I see when I read Kerouac page fifty-three concerning the utter unknowing
of Kerouac (footnote page 53).
Conversations going nowhere in my head, selfish reasons to be my friend,
a song by a beautiful boy who never realized what we had,
a battle and a penny, a bathroom light and a cellphone call,
an ex-lover and a new lie,
a misquoted guide who tries to tell us:
there is an answer when there is no question,
there is a song when there is no music,
there is a mosquito when there is no skin,
there is a slipper when there is no ground.
I can’t stand to be alone in a room not my own.
And here,
HERE,
HERE HERE HERE HERE HERE
we go again.
the screen of a staring contest and the worst,
if you can believe there is a worst part to all this parental guidance bullshit that I never had,
i never lose and I never win, but while you wait in the other room,
while I wait in a room not my own,
while I write in a house un-alone,
while I sit on a bed across a shared room,
i can’t do the things I do when I am at my worst and my best:
no cries and no cuts,
no slaps and no lust,
no truth written on mirror fogs
no bongs alone when I am sick of thoughts.
close the door and when you leave, the turning of the back and the swing the shoulder will make me love again.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
they die young, them
All the beautiful people die young.
Or they grow so old and withered and in a sudden outburst, they die
young.
The last time that happened, THAT happened, and
a sparrow flew across the sky to break a beak when a child on a beach
threw a lucky stone,
Fifteen years later, she’s sitting on a lakeside cry alone
and smoking cancer the way stone cold foxes do
when they are without an answer phone.
but it’s not the way she walks,
it’s the way she doesn’t.
It’s not the way lovers leave,
it’s the way they don’t.
It’s not the way I am alone,
it’s the millions of tactical terms that tell me I’m not when I am in a threesome or an ephiphany or a Sunday afternoon walkabout.
When you were always in love the whole time with the one guy you told him “No”.
(let alone a night apart after six nights together.)
That beautiful person in me, she died when I realized that the one thing I am good at is to
run
leave
disbelieve
I am like the sparrow that never saw it coming
and flew away straight after,
like the beautiful people are dying and leaving the ugly
to get more ugly.
And I’ll still be sitting on my ego,
and writing poems about other people.
Or they grow so old and withered and in a sudden outburst, they die
young.
The last time that happened, THAT happened, and
a sparrow flew across the sky to break a beak when a child on a beach
threw a lucky stone,
Fifteen years later, she’s sitting on a lakeside cry alone
and smoking cancer the way stone cold foxes do
when they are without an answer phone.
but it’s not the way she walks,
it’s the way she doesn’t.
It’s not the way lovers leave,
it’s the way they don’t.
It’s not the way I am alone,
it’s the millions of tactical terms that tell me I’m not when I am in a threesome or an ephiphany or a Sunday afternoon walkabout.
When you were always in love the whole time with the one guy you told him “No”.
(let alone a night apart after six nights together.)
That beautiful person in me, she died when I realized that the one thing I am good at is to
run
leave
disbelieve
I am like the sparrow that never saw it coming
and flew away straight after,
like the beautiful people are dying and leaving the ugly
to get more ugly.
And I’ll still be sitting on my ego,
and writing poems about other people.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
For Bukowski
Part I
The thing of it is
I just don’t care.
For the wet towel to get that rotting smell if I don’t hang it up
now,
or the sleeping on sheet-free mattresses and a plump pillow,
or the once romantic dream of riding on the back of a station wagon pick-up truck, going out to the stars and listening to the stars, resting upon a splinter from kicking wooden planks too hard,
we just made love and I just don’t care.
I lie there,
cigarette in my hand for proof of a good end.
The electric fan takes up another body’s space like the threesome
we should probably have,
Thinking about ex-lovers and the holding of hands and whether that meant
I ever wanted a white picket fence,
The mosquitoes live like disdain and dread, sucking from me as I suck from a new need,
(the next need),
The spiders die upon a phobic scream,
eating through their heads to terrify my brain,
The next-door housemate lives the nineteenth
century at moon age twenty, listening to my impurity
on Sunday, Thursday, Monday, Tuesday,
Friday nights.
Mornings, too.
But nothing is worse than being a perfectly shaped girl-formed girl in a perfectly shaped girl-formed world when you don’t want any of that New Orleans getaway (too late now for that anyway),
the promise of a second date,
the white slip under a white dress,
the soft laugh before drinks at last,
sharing a Nalgene bottle at soaking music festivals or licking an ice cream cone on a glossy brochure spread.
I just don’t care.
Wanting to be fucked in humid air on the cement stairs
of China.
I just don’t care.
Wet white tee-shirt in the shower when I’m not clean but
you are
I just couldn’t care.
“Sorry,” he cuddles against me, “Is that better?” like I wanted
anything.
I just didn’t care.
Falling asleep to wake up once more with feeling of needing
to pee.
That I do care.
I sit on strange beds and café stools when I tell the truth
with a lie.
I cry on shoulders and streetcars when I live the lie to tell
the truth.
If Bukowski was burning in water and drowning in flame,
If Burroughs was dining naked in his own throne,
What am I to say towards being alone?
If comic artists replicate and con artists imitate,
If Jesus was a man with both a soul and a mate,
What rhyme am I writing towards being alone?
Bunk beds sing three’s a crowd and I’d rather sleep alone in the same room than across the hall.
Impeccable taste in beautiful moments, I have
to pretend I don’t care about.
(Can’t have it, don’t want it.)
Morgan, you’re so much fun and I had a great time
is my favourite exit line.
Some people are born with greatness, some have greatness thrust upon
them,
and some will spend the rest of their typing lives, searching in
the meantime and waiting on
the sideline,
feeling less than allowed even in a safe place,
great love and great passion,
greater lives and greatest complacence,
I just don’t care.
Can’t have it, don’t want it.
I just don’t care.
Mascara massacre when I sleep over at night is the only promise three days’ pornography has borrowed for me.
He doesn’t see the little marks the way I don’t when I look down my
body.
When somebody does,
I will stop talking in circles
about bedroom boredom and fearless fucks (that I just don’t care).
I will stop taking the streetcar
to go straight to work in another boy’s shirt (that I don’t want to wear).
I will stop tearing the lights down
to find love alone in the dark when nobody else is around.
I will stop I will stop I will stop
One day.
Part II
That trembling surgeon and I, we will stop one day.
That sexy rapist and I, we will stop one day.
But the black cat keeps coming back to tell
the boys born on the cusp when the girls are trying so goddamn hard,
that chewing gum always loses its flavour and
fun.
Only in the poems without poetry that I write every night,
will we stop one day
when the world is a better place
for the martyr pressing a button on the next
atom bomb,
for the American birds hitting windex window screens
to travel America,
for the man who never wore shoes and the leper who never had a
good whore,
for the father and the son-to-be who gave me unmatched gloves
for a fee,
for the woman hiding under your bed and the man who feels almost
no pain,
for the coward waiting to inherit the world and the meek waiting for
the coward to die,
for the ticket-taker at a freak show who never forgets to clean
her fingernails,
for the boy in love with the Arts like a bulldog making love to a beautiful girl,
for the foot fetishists that seem only too easy to please
by feet!
for the most miserable man you can find in his
most miserable moment,
for the timid and the famous and the sullen, jaded lives
of twenty years,
for the Jewish spies about whom I am not allowed to write in
sad truth,
for the Peeping Toms and the city with the highest sale of
binoculars,
for the writers from whom I have plagiarized the most in their
post-partum lives,
for the single made-in-china tear I shed when my grandmom falls asleep on the toilet seat,
for the man who invented a cult and the men who pretended to
believe,
for me,
for you and me and me and you and
San Pedra, California.
Where Bukowski died when he was seventy-three.
The thing of it is
I just don’t care.
For the wet towel to get that rotting smell if I don’t hang it up
now,
or the sleeping on sheet-free mattresses and a plump pillow,
or the once romantic dream of riding on the back of a station wagon pick-up truck, going out to the stars and listening to the stars, resting upon a splinter from kicking wooden planks too hard,
we just made love and I just don’t care.
I lie there,
cigarette in my hand for proof of a good end.
The electric fan takes up another body’s space like the threesome
we should probably have,
Thinking about ex-lovers and the holding of hands and whether that meant
I ever wanted a white picket fence,
The mosquitoes live like disdain and dread, sucking from me as I suck from a new need,
(the next need),
The spiders die upon a phobic scream,
eating through their heads to terrify my brain,
The next-door housemate lives the nineteenth
century at moon age twenty, listening to my impurity
on Sunday, Thursday, Monday, Tuesday,
Friday nights.
Mornings, too.
But nothing is worse than being a perfectly shaped girl-formed girl in a perfectly shaped girl-formed world when you don’t want any of that New Orleans getaway (too late now for that anyway),
the promise of a second date,
the white slip under a white dress,
the soft laugh before drinks at last,
sharing a Nalgene bottle at soaking music festivals or licking an ice cream cone on a glossy brochure spread.
I just don’t care.
Wanting to be fucked in humid air on the cement stairs
of China.
I just don’t care.
Wet white tee-shirt in the shower when I’m not clean but
you are
I just couldn’t care.
“Sorry,” he cuddles against me, “Is that better?” like I wanted
anything.
I just didn’t care.
Falling asleep to wake up once more with feeling of needing
to pee.
That I do care.
I sit on strange beds and café stools when I tell the truth
with a lie.
I cry on shoulders and streetcars when I live the lie to tell
the truth.
If Bukowski was burning in water and drowning in flame,
If Burroughs was dining naked in his own throne,
What am I to say towards being alone?
If comic artists replicate and con artists imitate,
If Jesus was a man with both a soul and a mate,
What rhyme am I writing towards being alone?
Bunk beds sing three’s a crowd and I’d rather sleep alone in the same room than across the hall.
Impeccable taste in beautiful moments, I have
to pretend I don’t care about.
(Can’t have it, don’t want it.)
Morgan, you’re so much fun and I had a great time
is my favourite exit line.
Some people are born with greatness, some have greatness thrust upon
them,
and some will spend the rest of their typing lives, searching in
the meantime and waiting on
the sideline,
feeling less than allowed even in a safe place,
great love and great passion,
greater lives and greatest complacence,
I just don’t care.
Can’t have it, don’t want it.
I just don’t care.
Mascara massacre when I sleep over at night is the only promise three days’ pornography has borrowed for me.
He doesn’t see the little marks the way I don’t when I look down my
body.
When somebody does,
I will stop talking in circles
about bedroom boredom and fearless fucks (that I just don’t care).
I will stop taking the streetcar
to go straight to work in another boy’s shirt (that I don’t want to wear).
I will stop tearing the lights down
to find love alone in the dark when nobody else is around.
I will stop I will stop I will stop
One day.
Part II
That trembling surgeon and I, we will stop one day.
That sexy rapist and I, we will stop one day.
But the black cat keeps coming back to tell
the boys born on the cusp when the girls are trying so goddamn hard,
that chewing gum always loses its flavour and
fun.
Only in the poems without poetry that I write every night,
will we stop one day
when the world is a better place
for the martyr pressing a button on the next
atom bomb,
for the American birds hitting windex window screens
to travel America,
for the man who never wore shoes and the leper who never had a
good whore,
for the father and the son-to-be who gave me unmatched gloves
for a fee,
for the woman hiding under your bed and the man who feels almost
no pain,
for the coward waiting to inherit the world and the meek waiting for
the coward to die,
for the ticket-taker at a freak show who never forgets to clean
her fingernails,
for the boy in love with the Arts like a bulldog making love to a beautiful girl,
for the foot fetishists that seem only too easy to please
by feet!
for the most miserable man you can find in his
most miserable moment,
for the timid and the famous and the sullen, jaded lives
of twenty years,
for the Jewish spies about whom I am not allowed to write in
sad truth,
for the Peeping Toms and the city with the highest sale of
binoculars,
for the writers from whom I have plagiarized the most in their
post-partum lives,
for the single made-in-china tear I shed when my grandmom falls asleep on the toilet seat,
for the man who invented a cult and the men who pretended to
believe,
for me,
for you and me and me and you and
San Pedra, California.
Where Bukowski died when he was seventy-three.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
hipster
I am sick of going up
to come down to go up again
I am tired of knowing better (or worse)
like when you see the last chip with no grains of dip
before you even start the bowl
before you even smoke the bowl
(before you even shoot the smack, the celebrities know)
I am weary of waiting
for the makeup to turn to grease
I am sitting on a million black cats’ back
couch fibers less synthetic than my animal moods
I am not writing a poem to me.
If I were though, if I were to deny writing poems for not me...
if I could miss the diss when I minimize to hide,
if I could see my death proudly before my laptop light,
if I could smell the feces of my backspace key,
I am still not writing a poem to me.
Gary wanted to feel a connection but all he got was an excuse chord, an alley-way alliteration:
a manual to set time (press start to start time)
a wealthy assassin (press play to page down)
a new years’ poetry competition (press write to come in(come)
Still.
I am not writing a poem to me.
Not today.
Because today I hate writing poetry.
to come down to go up again
I am tired of knowing better (or worse)
like when you see the last chip with no grains of dip
before you even start the bowl
before you even smoke the bowl
(before you even shoot the smack, the celebrities know)
I am weary of waiting
for the makeup to turn to grease
I am sitting on a million black cats’ back
couch fibers less synthetic than my animal moods
I am not writing a poem to me.
If I were though, if I were to deny writing poems for not me...
if I could miss the diss when I minimize to hide,
if I could see my death proudly before my laptop light,
if I could smell the feces of my backspace key,
I am still not writing a poem to me.
Gary wanted to feel a connection but all he got was an excuse chord, an alley-way alliteration:
a manual to set time (press start to start time)
a wealthy assassin (press play to page down)
a new years’ poetry competition (press write to come in(come)
Still.
I am not writing a poem to me.
Not today.
Because today I hate writing poetry.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
i wait for a world where cats can come with me
to look underseas and the shrimp have tails
tasty and i won't taste like fish on my own self
where my lover will go on dates with pretty girls
good times paid off but not enough
good nights send off but only a kiss
where my lover comes home to fuck me after a miss
after drinks and times and walks from the car
where my lover calls me to fuck me after a diss
after carrying her books and waving from afar
where my lover tells me i'm just a good fuck
to look underseas and the shrimp have tails
tasty and i won't taste like fish on my own self
where my lover will go on dates with pretty girls
good times paid off but not enough
good nights send off but only a kiss
where my lover comes home to fuck me after a miss
after drinks and times and walks from the car
where my lover calls me to fuck me after a diss
after carrying her books and waving from afar
where my lover tells me i'm just a good fuck
Sunday, May 18, 2008
who stole the drugs
was it the king of hearts
was it the fear of sars
was it the single of beds
was it the white of walls
was it the lake of beer
was it me?
was it everything everywhere and the only places that exist outside of here and the shapes I take my thoughts in vials of clear and the youth brigades that believe in me and the magician's miracles of mornings won't sleep, and
maybe it was lost fifty years ago in scrolls and scripts indented with run-on recounts of the fifty years before that or maybe it was the next generation of who are we going to be and how are we going to find this person we are all right now, and
maybe it was packaged over the counter and sampled for free by family doctors and lou reed and they didn't think much of it except for at night in awful songs about distaste that sound good to ephmeral listeners who retain only ten percent of what they can hear, those goddamn useless human beings, and
maybe it was tested on monkey brains that we eat overseas and panda bears that we stuff with adoration and doodling spirals down spiral notebooks in the endless endings of every time we make time, we have time, or we don't, to sit down and don't think, and
maybe it was the invention of soap bars to wash the fingernails and toenails that crack under pressure or under skipped pills of vitamins and estrogen and daily reminders to be this and do that and play a song before it's too late to like that song for its complex ambiguity and ability to implode under, and
maybe it was the boredom and the boys in red shirts and wanting to be bored with everything we don't have in our boredom and wanting to take red shirts off of boys if only to see that red is not a colour you can find outside of their skins or their shirts, and
maybe it was the death of something great or the start of something nothing or the sex between layers of light waving from skipping stones and the best pees of our lives are yellow with doubt and hate of hate and tokens that cost more than the tokes you could have had without leaving the earth, and
maybe it was the self-writing novellas and the rhyming two-liners that come naturally like it was all meant to be discovered by us or by the officials who were us once a long time ago and have now forgotten what it means to be us, and
maybe it was a witch who flipped a switch and wrote a proverb against her broomstick dildo when nobody else wanted to drink potions not potions but rations of intake don't get carried away don't go away from us don't lose us because we are all lost don't be the intention or the superstition don't cry when it's gone don't cry because it's there don't die, and
maybe it was me.
was it the king of hearts
was it the fear of sars
was it the single of beds
was it the white of walls
was it the lake of beer
was it me?
was it everything everywhere and the only places that exist outside of here and the shapes I take my thoughts in vials of clear and the youth brigades that believe in me and the magician's miracles of mornings won't sleep, and
maybe it was lost fifty years ago in scrolls and scripts indented with run-on recounts of the fifty years before that or maybe it was the next generation of who are we going to be and how are we going to find this person we are all right now, and
maybe it was packaged over the counter and sampled for free by family doctors and lou reed and they didn't think much of it except for at night in awful songs about distaste that sound good to ephmeral listeners who retain only ten percent of what they can hear, those goddamn useless human beings, and
maybe it was tested on monkey brains that we eat overseas and panda bears that we stuff with adoration and doodling spirals down spiral notebooks in the endless endings of every time we make time, we have time, or we don't, to sit down and don't think, and
maybe it was the invention of soap bars to wash the fingernails and toenails that crack under pressure or under skipped pills of vitamins and estrogen and daily reminders to be this and do that and play a song before it's too late to like that song for its complex ambiguity and ability to implode under, and
maybe it was the boredom and the boys in red shirts and wanting to be bored with everything we don't have in our boredom and wanting to take red shirts off of boys if only to see that red is not a colour you can find outside of their skins or their shirts, and
maybe it was the death of something great or the start of something nothing or the sex between layers of light waving from skipping stones and the best pees of our lives are yellow with doubt and hate of hate and tokens that cost more than the tokes you could have had without leaving the earth, and
maybe it was the self-writing novellas and the rhyming two-liners that come naturally like it was all meant to be discovered by us or by the officials who were us once a long time ago and have now forgotten what it means to be us, and
maybe it was a witch who flipped a switch and wrote a proverb against her broomstick dildo when nobody else wanted to drink potions not potions but rations of intake don't get carried away don't go away from us don't lose us because we are all lost don't be the intention or the superstition don't cry when it's gone don't cry because it's there don't die, and
maybe it was me.
Monday, April 21, 2008
at the lake, saturday afternoon, last exam studying
birds up the lake
and outlines up my leg
the sun activities too exhausting to participate
too sweaty from watching the laught
set the field on fire with teh ends of lit cigarettes
tanlines to tell stories everyone has missed
photographs to steal moments everyone has missed
for a reason
for a granted request
i am celebrating, is my excuse, for all mistakes and intakes
celebrating what?
and outlines up my leg
the sun activities too exhausting to participate
too sweaty from watching the laught
set the field on fire with teh ends of lit cigarettes
tanlines to tell stories everyone has missed
photographs to steal moments everyone has missed
for a reason
for a granted request
i am celebrating, is my excuse, for all mistakes and intakes
celebrating what?
Saturday, April 19, 2008
And.
and i think to myself
crashing adn synthetically down
thank god for tomorrow,
for new days,
for at least the thought of difference
a few hours of sleep can make.
for the end of good times
and the start of the next
for this notebook and my dad's skipping stones
for being a kid
when i was
and still
and i remember to myself
perspective and the past
days: dank sinks picture burning
a history of violence of the past of the shame and of
the unspeakable truths never to be told
to be textualized
(to be real)
i deny all you and all you have been
this is nothing that cannot be cured
with
sleep.
A new day.
crashing adn synthetically down
thank god for tomorrow,
for new days,
for at least the thought of difference
a few hours of sleep can make.
for the end of good times
and the start of the next
for this notebook and my dad's skipping stones
for being a kid
when i was
and still
and i remember to myself
perspective and the past
days: dank sinks picture burning
a history of violence of the past of the shame and of
the unspeakable truths never to be told
to be textualized
(to be real)
i deny all you and all you have been
this is nothing that cannot be cured
with
sleep.
A new day.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
I
All of my friends sitting here in the sun
where does it all go when it all goes down?
All of my pens, coloured,
ratio: one to one
of stale art and lines of scroll
and ink stains on the pages below
Roots from the grass dirt stone, roots in the first inversion while stoned,
and the Roots playing in vain.
I like this day but this day isn't mine
it belongs to the setting sun
II
Fuck all to study, three hours to prepare:
a failure for the rest of the academic year
Baroque screws, indents and Oxford commas don't inspire
I'm sitting away the great start of summer
Black heat in the afternoon feels warmer on my head
than my heart in the after-dew
Pillow-talk, girl-spoke, covers that don't
Incandescence is the exact capture of intensity on a page, on a beach, on a Woolf, on a thursday to tuesday binge of the seedy underbelly of
lows
get up again to take a Kit Kat bar
wake up to drown and kill rockstars under the toilet seat water leak
look up to look down
write odes to writing odes
or stop.
III
I know how to skip rocks, too
and the stickmen fortress and the bug-eye mudslide - I know and
I know how to step over concrete to stone
it's the nature that gets me, it's the
"every step I take is murder"
so I murder
gracefully.
IV
It's the crunch and the sweetness and the disasters of songs
Free hours of beautiful rhythms to make a boy cry,
ten minutes of love to make a girl sigh
(this girl)
I've been doing a lot of thinking: life and why
we're here and doing what now that
we're here and doing who now that
I've been sitting more than still
where we are
it's not that i want to use sleep as an excuse, it's just that
I don't want to be here
(we're here)
anymore.
V
Don't think
don't think
dont think
VI
Dear Melody, Dear Alfonso, Dear Jenny
From Nate, From Patricia, From Lewis
I saved you a love letter from my ex-lover
she wrote it for me in a plane over seeing some red, some dead sea
but i'm as sure as the belly growls of this mass romantic beast
it was meant for you more than me
for Melody and Alfonso and Jenny
(from Nate and Patricia and Lewis)
Missed a connection in the supermarket greens
you crazy bag lady with books and paints
library cards are rental charges in existential pain
selling used tools for the beavertail industry and the nylon stock(ings) tirade
that girls
(this girl)
need to smell more like girls on a modern letter page
perfume over a wax seal
the mud does not come seal-fresh with spring and neither does this
laundry detergent
BAN feminine odors under hygiene masks
SCENT for seven scents a hit of Alzheimer's
WRITE me another already written letter.
VII
soon it will fade and soon there will be time
soon we will age and soon waves will stop the suicide
crime.
VIII
I am so chockful of serious shite to say
impassioned deeds of loving humanity
if it were possible to preface
all ships - relations, friends, and the numbered pages
with
Please:
never take me too seriously
if only to always take me seriously at all I would
but
there are still dots on my ceiling and dots on your leaves
how will i capture it all (the indecent glow and
the freefall low) if not to prelude this nocturne with a laugh.
IX
spent too long staring at the sun
when i was seven and more than that i was fun
more sights of the One, more looks all around, more anticipating and outgrowing,
and four more years and four after that
where am i now and where have i been
staring too long at the same April sun
to feel more cruel to breed these days than at sixteen
mixing takes the awake more catalysts to rain than body parts to break
I wake up tomorrow
and nothing means a goddamn thing.
X
Fart art. Let's talk turd blossoms in my underpants
Let's make mirth or merry or fuck some shit up and dance.
A little lady-like bug will curve the shape of your ass
sleeping and eating
but I will carve the shape of your urine
from the bathroom tile back up to your- YOU KNOW WHAT
my brother: functional alcoholic and always telling me to write it down,
as if script has some shadow of truth
able to overpower reality
as if memory has any ulterior motive
to overcome the past
my brother, Greg,
left home at seventeen (my seventeen)
and sold Gifts & Cards across the condo park
to asian women, stealing gum and sticking eyeliner
for the former and the rest of the day; for the latter and the rest of the life
my brother, Greg,
never existed outside my head.
XI
I am going through the filthiest of motions and I am enjoying them.
am i? do i? can i? will i?
I am going through the filthiest of motions
and I am not looking too closely
and I am enjoying them.
XII
Am I?
XIII
"you still smell like you."
"i still think about you."
"a lot."
But even on park benches, impressed in empty rooms, deserted on dinner spoons, wiped away on bums and brooms,
"i still smell other boys."
"i still think about them."
"a lot."
Everytime I have one, I can't just have one.
(I can't have one and so I will never be one, see my logic, Mr. So and So., see my opening up as your couch potato?)
It is never going to stabalise - his blood pressure is down when i don't care and mine when he does.
XIV
when he leaves, as she inevitably will, never ask him to stay because she just might.
there just might be the off chance possibility that
he will turn
she will stay
and the open door will never close after that demand
that day.
XV
The only thing I know I write on a napkin carried away by the red tray return turning wheel
pressing my lips on a stranger and the sun rises
and the moon ebbs
and i press my lips on a stranger.
All of my friends sitting here in the sun
where does it all go when it all goes down?
All of my pens, coloured,
ratio: one to one
of stale art and lines of scroll
and ink stains on the pages below
Roots from the grass dirt stone, roots in the first inversion while stoned,
and the Roots playing in vain.
I like this day but this day isn't mine
it belongs to the setting sun
II
Fuck all to study, three hours to prepare:
a failure for the rest of the academic year
Baroque screws, indents and Oxford commas don't inspire
I'm sitting away the great start of summer
Black heat in the afternoon feels warmer on my head
than my heart in the after-dew
Pillow-talk, girl-spoke, covers that don't
Incandescence is the exact capture of intensity on a page, on a beach, on a Woolf, on a thursday to tuesday binge of the seedy underbelly of
lows
get up again to take a Kit Kat bar
wake up to drown and kill rockstars under the toilet seat water leak
look up to look down
write odes to writing odes
or stop.
III
I know how to skip rocks, too
and the stickmen fortress and the bug-eye mudslide - I know and
I know how to step over concrete to stone
it's the nature that gets me, it's the
"every step I take is murder"
so I murder
gracefully.
IV
It's the crunch and the sweetness and the disasters of songs
Free hours of beautiful rhythms to make a boy cry,
ten minutes of love to make a girl sigh
(this girl)
I've been doing a lot of thinking: life and why
we're here and doing what now that
we're here and doing who now that
I've been sitting more than still
where we are
it's not that i want to use sleep as an excuse, it's just that
I don't want to be here
(we're here)
anymore.
V
Don't think
don't think
dont think
VI
Dear Melody, Dear Alfonso, Dear Jenny
From Nate, From Patricia, From Lewis
I saved you a love letter from my ex-lover
she wrote it for me in a plane over seeing some red, some dead sea
but i'm as sure as the belly growls of this mass romantic beast
it was meant for you more than me
for Melody and Alfonso and Jenny
(from Nate and Patricia and Lewis)
Missed a connection in the supermarket greens
you crazy bag lady with books and paints
library cards are rental charges in existential pain
selling used tools for the beavertail industry and the nylon stock(ings) tirade
that girls
(this girl)
need to smell more like girls on a modern letter page
perfume over a wax seal
the mud does not come seal-fresh with spring and neither does this
laundry detergent
BAN feminine odors under hygiene masks
SCENT for seven scents a hit of Alzheimer's
WRITE me another already written letter.
VII
soon it will fade and soon there will be time
soon we will age and soon waves will stop the suicide
crime.
VIII
I am so chockful of serious shite to say
impassioned deeds of loving humanity
if it were possible to preface
all ships - relations, friends, and the numbered pages
with
Please:
never take me too seriously
if only to always take me seriously at all I would
but
there are still dots on my ceiling and dots on your leaves
how will i capture it all (the indecent glow and
the freefall low) if not to prelude this nocturne with a laugh.
IX
spent too long staring at the sun
when i was seven and more than that i was fun
more sights of the One, more looks all around, more anticipating and outgrowing,
and four more years and four after that
where am i now and where have i been
staring too long at the same April sun
to feel more cruel to breed these days than at sixteen
mixing takes the awake more catalysts to rain than body parts to break
I wake up tomorrow
and nothing means a goddamn thing.
X
Fart art. Let's talk turd blossoms in my underpants
Let's make mirth or merry or fuck some shit up and dance.
A little lady-like bug will curve the shape of your ass
sleeping and eating
but I will carve the shape of your urine
from the bathroom tile back up to your- YOU KNOW WHAT
my brother: functional alcoholic and always telling me to write it down,
as if script has some shadow of truth
able to overpower reality
as if memory has any ulterior motive
to overcome the past
my brother, Greg,
left home at seventeen (my seventeen)
and sold Gifts & Cards across the condo park
to asian women, stealing gum and sticking eyeliner
for the former and the rest of the day; for the latter and the rest of the life
my brother, Greg,
never existed outside my head.
XI
I am going through the filthiest of motions and I am enjoying them.
am i? do i? can i? will i?
I am going through the filthiest of motions
and I am not looking too closely
and I am enjoying them.
XII
Am I?
XIII
"you still smell like you."
"i still think about you."
"a lot."
But even on park benches, impressed in empty rooms, deserted on dinner spoons, wiped away on bums and brooms,
"i still smell other boys."
"i still think about them."
"a lot."
Everytime I have one, I can't just have one.
(I can't have one and so I will never be one, see my logic, Mr. So and So., see my opening up as your couch potato?)
It is never going to stabalise - his blood pressure is down when i don't care and mine when he does.
XIV
when he leaves, as she inevitably will, never ask him to stay because she just might.
there just might be the off chance possibility that
he will turn
she will stay
and the open door will never close after that demand
that day.
XV
The only thing I know I write on a napkin carried away by the red tray return turning wheel
pressing my lips on a stranger and the sun rises
and the moon ebbs
and i press my lips on a stranger.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
english exam review
Here we sit in scruffle shuffle, in hurried laughs,
real witty interpretations of Woolf that Woolf
would have interpreted
otherwise
(for a sanity of her own)
One or two questions move somewhere in and out
wispy, whispering, willow-figured tress of knowledge
each of us our own
always ourselves and nothing greater
How my mental ailments must hide physical symptoms when I read myself -
the sickness that no one else shouts
disguises under coffee laughter and book stores
NO NO NO more more whore
we are werewolf folklores (changing with the months' moment and selling with the human fur trade)
behind sorrow in Wordsworth's memory
before nightingales in Keats' minefield
I masturbate, too
but not as much as you.
And Lethe is the River of Hades where you will forget.
real witty interpretations of Woolf that Woolf
would have interpreted
otherwise
(for a sanity of her own)
One or two questions move somewhere in and out
wispy, whispering, willow-figured tress of knowledge
each of us our own
always ourselves and nothing greater
How my mental ailments must hide physical symptoms when I read myself -
the sickness that no one else shouts
disguises under coffee laughter and book stores
NO NO NO more more whore
we are werewolf folklores (changing with the months' moment and selling with the human fur trade)
behind sorrow in Wordsworth's memory
before nightingales in Keats' minefield
I masturbate, too
but not as much as you.
And Lethe is the River of Hades where you will forget.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
true fucking say
douchebags in the ceiling tiles, i'm on my back every other day
teach toleration to kids who fake it everywhere else
(fake philosophy)
my guitar sits in my room
untouched
waits for the boys to come
impure
you laugh and say and point to the tall skinny man and his short fat friend
you laugh and strum and point to the hot skinny bitch and i laugh instead
well-dressed and well-impressed
can't touch this
i tried when you are so good at being who you are that you do not realise
you are being who you are
douchebags in the ceiling tiles, i'm on my back every other day
teach toleration to kids who fake it everywhere else
(fake philosophy)
my guitar sits in my room
untouched
waits for the boys to come
impure
you laugh and say and point to the tall skinny man and his short fat friend
you laugh and strum and point to the hot skinny bitch and i laugh instead
well-dressed and well-impressed
can't touch this
i tried when you are so good at being who you are that you do not realise
you are being who you are
Thursday, February 28, 2008
the truth and the lie is a blur i love to live
another day another last question on the page
wrote a poem today
about poets (writing poems during philosophy midterms)
and the tragic ways they lead their lives only to die
the coming alive when my cells bleed together under my skin
nerve tissue contracting in fear and
i terrorize.
the shape and the solitude stumble that alone in itself prescribes a sort of eloquent articulation -- if it could be so imperfect in the background of my forebody -- that any attempt at now articulating eloquently what it means simply existing in its plain old sphere of existing is
nothing.
pink red purple brown
under the soft light
under the black light
which one is the right light?
who do i live by and record aside?
i use to believe in digital memories and photoframe entries
but pictures don't capture the bare light
and details fade into pixels and
3.2's and 5.6's
numbers of times will be forgotten past the days between the prints
what matters is the now and the next then
what matters is the sleeping in between
what matters is the big picture and the love of the lost sight
so fuck the poets of the past,
my friends,
because there are no beautiful deaths
just dead corpses with shit in their pants
and the end of gifts
another day another last question on the page
wrote a poem today
about poets (writing poems during philosophy midterms)
and the tragic ways they lead their lives only to die
the coming alive when my cells bleed together under my skin
nerve tissue contracting in fear and
i terrorize.
the shape and the solitude stumble that alone in itself prescribes a sort of eloquent articulation -- if it could be so imperfect in the background of my forebody -- that any attempt at now articulating eloquently what it means simply existing in its plain old sphere of existing is
nothing.
pink red purple brown
under the soft light
under the black light
which one is the right light?
who do i live by and record aside?
i use to believe in digital memories and photoframe entries
but pictures don't capture the bare light
and details fade into pixels and
3.2's and 5.6's
numbers of times will be forgotten past the days between the prints
what matters is the now and the next then
what matters is the sleeping in between
what matters is the big picture and the love of the lost sight
so fuck the poets of the past,
my friends,
because there are no beautiful deaths
just dead corpses with shit in their pants
and the end of gifts
Friday, February 22, 2008
seven oh seven on dxm
people
in the world
i want to meet the people of this world
i want them to meet who I am but who I am is just a lie and that is another story for another time
music will save our lives and teach us the secrets to spies
explosions are in my head
what to do with these hours
what to do with our lives
what to do with all this goddamn time
The only thing I’ve learned is that there is so much fucking time to do all the things that will learn ourselves and will do themselves and just happen
So much fucking time to spare and to kill and to throw away in the sound particles and memories of our objects and our skin tones
i wish I had a typewriter because I hate the glare of the laptop monitor
what am I writing
writing is something you have to do for yourself
do it as if no one else in the world existed and no one else in the world will ever read it
he says cover it up and do it blindly like no one will see
like you will not see
like I will not see me
I am eighteen today and I cannot say where I will be when I am twenty-eight except that by writing this down I can recapture this moment perfectly in ten years and the way the warmth is really just toxicity in my belly and the way the internet is just fake friendships at my fingertips.
there are so little little people in the world
what is actually important?
what does it mean to be important in any way?
This could get addictive
Because right now I am healthy and beautiful and there is warmth and love and there is sweetness and gentle kindness and the kind of impact on modernity that we all need to find in the meaning of things.
This could get addictive
Because I love this state a bit too much and it’s a little too late to stop it now and it’s only 7:07 and the wish I made last night at 11:11 came true this morning so who is to say that there is no guiding warmth somewhere out there, defying gravity and logistics, to push forth from the cells from our souls and to connect the dots of our minds.
I am going to do the best that I can and in the end, that’s all any one of us can do. I’m not gonna erase that line I just wrote because I don’t believe in mistakes, just missed takes. You just notice it too much. I believe in trying to communicate absolute truths and failing but trying, those are not mistakes but they did miss their mark.
There are too many what-if questions, so many in fact that grade school teachers tell us never. Never ask a what-if question, but what if I did? What if I had grown up in China? What if I had chosen Lawrence Park C.I.? What if I had fallen in love?
The decision to flee came suddenly for the folks of the beat generation and the lost cause. My decision to leave the past in the dust was not so grand of a moment, it was a scaling slow escape that has yet to be fulfilled. It’s called difficulty and it is difficult to type difficult whilst this plateau takes its hold and it is difficult to let go of anything anymore. The hardest thing in the world is to live in it and I plan on living in it for as long as this physical personification of my soul will allow endowed.
Stylistic changes come and go, why did the romantics sound the way they did? Outdated and when was that dated so? Am I writing for an image, am I writing to be perceived, and is being a writer and a liar essentially the exact same thing? No more self-psycho-analysis, you know it only leads to the multiple-identity-crises.
The heavy beats cascade like it’s two am and dawn at the same moment. That’s how they slack each other one on top of one another, like stacking time and timeslots one over one. If we could file away music in filing cabinets and take from them only when we please, that would be the life and in typing this, I have realized that I am living the life because we have it all now. The drug binge was the beat generation and the music binge is the eternal generation.
I like heavy heels. I like crushing weight and heavy feels. The word that words itself is heavy, it’s all in the V.
I want more.
I’m smiling because I know I want more. I’m smiling at the memory of how it feels to be a dear and tilt your head back and it’s just lovely scandals in the making. In the building. The single moment you push over, as if the head is balanced on a half oval circle and the neck is just vertebrae leading up to this imperfect balancing act and my head spends its life threading the line between falling flat ON ITS FACE or on its back.,
Does anybody know what they want when they say they do? I think I do believe them. I knew what I wanted in grade 11. I knew I wanted to be fucked like that in that faceless, shameless, fashion. It’s just that I always get what I want, why do I always get what I want? It’s not good to be so good at getting what you want because pretty soon you have no remaining idea of what you want at all and ever again. All you want is to close your eyes.
I am motherfucking excited for the rest of my life.
I have to believe that when I close my eyes the world is still there. I have to do this for the rest of my life in snippets of different induced states, whether by fate or by ambition, I know that something is coming and it is coming in hard.
This is called frightening lives because my life scares the shit out of my and I scare the shit out of myself when I live my life. Abuse and use and madness all around the stage. What time is it? Hang me from a wall so I can watch people come and go and I’ll call from a payphone that costs two quarters today in all its postmodern existentialism.
Interruptions. Vibrations were felt for the first time on this harmony and in this suburban nursery of a house. Those that know me will always be on my mind because I cling to the knowledge that somewhere out there is the knowledge of me and the whole of me without the lies of me and just resting away in the peace of that knowledge and that memory of me is what will finish this sentence/\
We are all given opportunities to shine in the classroom but the classroom itself is life and this is what I do in the classroom and in life, this is what I write. To put a fingerprint upon a keytstroke and to put a finger on the symbol will take the rest of my life. Here it is, where it all goes from here, softening chapstick lips kiss.
bury me.
no more writing insane.
in the world
i want to meet the people of this world
i want them to meet who I am but who I am is just a lie and that is another story for another time
music will save our lives and teach us the secrets to spies
explosions are in my head
what to do with these hours
what to do with our lives
what to do with all this goddamn time
The only thing I’ve learned is that there is so much fucking time to do all the things that will learn ourselves and will do themselves and just happen
So much fucking time to spare and to kill and to throw away in the sound particles and memories of our objects and our skin tones
i wish I had a typewriter because I hate the glare of the laptop monitor
what am I writing
writing is something you have to do for yourself
do it as if no one else in the world existed and no one else in the world will ever read it
he says cover it up and do it blindly like no one will see
like you will not see
like I will not see me
I am eighteen today and I cannot say where I will be when I am twenty-eight except that by writing this down I can recapture this moment perfectly in ten years and the way the warmth is really just toxicity in my belly and the way the internet is just fake friendships at my fingertips.
there are so little little people in the world
what is actually important?
what does it mean to be important in any way?
This could get addictive
Because right now I am healthy and beautiful and there is warmth and love and there is sweetness and gentle kindness and the kind of impact on modernity that we all need to find in the meaning of things.
This could get addictive
Because I love this state a bit too much and it’s a little too late to stop it now and it’s only 7:07 and the wish I made last night at 11:11 came true this morning so who is to say that there is no guiding warmth somewhere out there, defying gravity and logistics, to push forth from the cells from our souls and to connect the dots of our minds.
I am going to do the best that I can and in the end, that’s all any one of us can do. I’m not gonna erase that line I just wrote because I don’t believe in mistakes, just missed takes. You just notice it too much. I believe in trying to communicate absolute truths and failing but trying, those are not mistakes but they did miss their mark.
There are too many what-if questions, so many in fact that grade school teachers tell us never. Never ask a what-if question, but what if I did? What if I had grown up in China? What if I had chosen Lawrence Park C.I.? What if I had fallen in love?
The decision to flee came suddenly for the folks of the beat generation and the lost cause. My decision to leave the past in the dust was not so grand of a moment, it was a scaling slow escape that has yet to be fulfilled. It’s called difficulty and it is difficult to type difficult whilst this plateau takes its hold and it is difficult to let go of anything anymore. The hardest thing in the world is to live in it and I plan on living in it for as long as this physical personification of my soul will allow endowed.
Stylistic changes come and go, why did the romantics sound the way they did? Outdated and when was that dated so? Am I writing for an image, am I writing to be perceived, and is being a writer and a liar essentially the exact same thing? No more self-psycho-analysis, you know it only leads to the multiple-identity-crises.
The heavy beats cascade like it’s two am and dawn at the same moment. That’s how they slack each other one on top of one another, like stacking time and timeslots one over one. If we could file away music in filing cabinets and take from them only when we please, that would be the life and in typing this, I have realized that I am living the life because we have it all now. The drug binge was the beat generation and the music binge is the eternal generation.
I like heavy heels. I like crushing weight and heavy feels. The word that words itself is heavy, it’s all in the V.
I want more.
I’m smiling because I know I want more. I’m smiling at the memory of how it feels to be a dear and tilt your head back and it’s just lovely scandals in the making. In the building. The single moment you push over, as if the head is balanced on a half oval circle and the neck is just vertebrae leading up to this imperfect balancing act and my head spends its life threading the line between falling flat ON ITS FACE or on its back.,
Does anybody know what they want when they say they do? I think I do believe them. I knew what I wanted in grade 11. I knew I wanted to be fucked like that in that faceless, shameless, fashion. It’s just that I always get what I want, why do I always get what I want? It’s not good to be so good at getting what you want because pretty soon you have no remaining idea of what you want at all and ever again. All you want is to close your eyes.
I am motherfucking excited for the rest of my life.
I have to believe that when I close my eyes the world is still there. I have to do this for the rest of my life in snippets of different induced states, whether by fate or by ambition, I know that something is coming and it is coming in hard.
This is called frightening lives because my life scares the shit out of my and I scare the shit out of myself when I live my life. Abuse and use and madness all around the stage. What time is it? Hang me from a wall so I can watch people come and go and I’ll call from a payphone that costs two quarters today in all its postmodern existentialism.
Interruptions. Vibrations were felt for the first time on this harmony and in this suburban nursery of a house. Those that know me will always be on my mind because I cling to the knowledge that somewhere out there is the knowledge of me and the whole of me without the lies of me and just resting away in the peace of that knowledge and that memory of me is what will finish this sentence/\
We are all given opportunities to shine in the classroom but the classroom itself is life and this is what I do in the classroom and in life, this is what I write. To put a fingerprint upon a keytstroke and to put a finger on the symbol will take the rest of my life. Here it is, where it all goes from here, softening chapstick lips kiss.
bury me.
no more writing insane.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
business proposal
i feel alone with this cursor
with every blink of my eye or its sly disappearance and reappearance
if i close my eyes: do i have to believe the world is still there or do i know the way the cursor knows
that there is
a moment between all things: the world slips away from us all
driving downtown that way
the hands never left the dashboard wheel and
the impossibilities of the moment you closed your eyes were all there in my head anyway.
morgan lee is not the girl you fall in love with either
if these edges ever touched anything sharper than
themselves
if past mornings rewrote another episode in a another season
itself
remind me that torture is a word for the soulless
and to have less than a soul is torture
some people believe we are born to be a half of
some greater togetherness and
maybe it was true once
that girls and boys came together in some recognition of this creed
but nobody falls for my one-liners
lifted from men's room stalls
I've always wanted to be fucked bent over
and blind too
the first time a hand founds its strength on my head, i knew exactly why
no there was never anything more than my fingers
under my laptop
catching fire under my laptop
cooling down from the key strokes
i still want to free love for the sake of --
I start with an amelioration of all surrounding tales
collective histories and the implications thereof
her laugh
and his crackling big fucking ugly toe
snap
people opening up easy as i share the pie
who am I to say right now that there will never be a "one day" or a "someday" or just a million more of the same
sundays
mondays
tuesdays
wednesdays, thursdays, fridays, saturdays,
SUNDAYS.
the first time a hand..
"sweetness,
sweetness never suits me."
with every blink of my eye or its sly disappearance and reappearance
if i close my eyes: do i have to believe the world is still there or do i know the way the cursor knows
that there is
a moment between all things: the world slips away from us all
driving downtown that way
the hands never left the dashboard wheel and
the impossibilities of the moment you closed your eyes were all there in my head anyway.
morgan lee is not the girl you fall in love with either
if these edges ever touched anything sharper than
themselves
if past mornings rewrote another episode in a another season
itself
remind me that torture is a word for the soulless
and to have less than a soul is torture
some people believe we are born to be a half of
some greater togetherness and
maybe it was true once
that girls and boys came together in some recognition of this creed
but nobody falls for my one-liners
lifted from men's room stalls
I've always wanted to be fucked bent over
and blind too
the first time a hand founds its strength on my head, i knew exactly why
no there was never anything more than my fingers
under my laptop
catching fire under my laptop
cooling down from the key strokes
i still want to free love for the sake of --
I start with an amelioration of all surrounding tales
collective histories and the implications thereof
her laugh
and his crackling big fucking ugly toe
snap
people opening up easy as i share the pie
who am I to say right now that there will never be a "one day" or a "someday" or just a million more of the same
sundays
mondays
tuesdays
wednesdays, thursdays, fridays, saturdays,
SUNDAYS.
the first time a hand..
"sweetness,
sweetness never suits me."
Sunday, February 10, 2008
peace attack
the way life travels around me, the particles inside, outside, overhead
around
the heaviness of my lightness
my feet that don't fall farther than the epicenter of your college dorm room
the peace sign that we became
captured in rapture
if i close my eyes, i feel myself slip away into the abyss
when time and space never made it so far and black holes were deemed like death
we slipped, me and you and you and me
into ourselves
more than ourselves
and we knew you were out there too waiting to find me
collective histories never made a path in the conscious present
we made our own path
there is so much more
to trip on a sober waking life when we return
to listen to white noise that fades away with decay of our newfound souls
to know you are not alone
if i sit still too long, i feel it slip away again and i feel it scary like scarce moments that can never be touched with the semiotics of language
but music
but song
but particles that wave together like the rhythm of life itself
like the end
push through the stars of the sky and open my eyes
sometimes i have to remember to breathe and take breaths between takes
we lifted each other right out of the night
peace attack
forever
around
the heaviness of my lightness
my feet that don't fall farther than the epicenter of your college dorm room
the peace sign that we became
captured in rapture
if i close my eyes, i feel myself slip away into the abyss
when time and space never made it so far and black holes were deemed like death
we slipped, me and you and you and me
into ourselves
more than ourselves
and we knew you were out there too waiting to find me
collective histories never made a path in the conscious present
we made our own path
there is so much more
to trip on a sober waking life when we return
to listen to white noise that fades away with decay of our newfound souls
to know you are not alone
if i sit still too long, i feel it slip away again and i feel it scary like scarce moments that can never be touched with the semiotics of language
but music
but song
but particles that wave together like the rhythm of life itself
like the end
push through the stars of the sky and open my eyes
sometimes i have to remember to breathe and take breaths between takes
we lifted each other right out of the night
peace attack
forever
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Eliza
life is grand you say on our internet conversations that substitute and constitute all that
we are now
the echoes of digital pasts
your laugh on a disposable camera
please can I call tonight at 3am and tell you my god is still love and you are still love and does that make you a god in my sky maybe only in photographic ashes on lonely nights
the jeans were too short on you (on him, you are a him now, do you see that you and him and why that difference lies in real life and not between quotable emails and instant messages
remember when I sold my condo?
remember when I cried on the phone and told you that night i could love you
i said i loved you
i meant i could love you
i meant i would love you
the misshapes of our backyards never coincided and the mistakes of our bestfriends were so cold that we couldn't just go back inside
Everybody needs somebody to rest their head
You can act all high (be high) and mighty as you want when you're alone today
but you just end up (high) and crying to another internet friendship, one after the other
on and two and three boxes of flashing
there's the floor where i lied
with you
and once we were kids too and I was shorter than the head i have now
(it was smaller too)
and i could stand on my window sill and i never lied
on the phone those days
and you beside me, we give new light on friday's nights.
here in a new city
a new week day, weed day, i'm not alone am i?
not any more or less than usual
what is usual WHY IS MY USUAL DIFFERENT FROM YOUR USUAL
trancesdence is a better word for self-destruction, self unpreservation,
eraser take it away
my journals never finished themselves
but by then, the lead in my mechanical false substitute for the truth was loose across stacks of paper and smudge
(the eraser was too small to be taken away by now)
we die
each day and every night
don't deny it
it's where you love to live
Eliza.
dot. come.
we are now
the echoes of digital pasts
your laugh on a disposable camera
please can I call tonight at 3am and tell you my god is still love and you are still love and does that make you a god in my sky maybe only in photographic ashes on lonely nights
the jeans were too short on you (on him, you are a him now, do you see that you and him and why that difference lies in real life and not between quotable emails and instant messages
remember when I sold my condo?
remember when I cried on the phone and told you that night i could love you
i said i loved you
i meant i could love you
i meant i would love you
the misshapes of our backyards never coincided and the mistakes of our bestfriends were so cold that we couldn't just go back inside
Everybody needs somebody to rest their head
You can act all high (be high) and mighty as you want when you're alone today
but you just end up (high) and crying to another internet friendship, one after the other
on and two and three boxes of flashing
there's the floor where i lied
with you
and once we were kids too and I was shorter than the head i have now
(it was smaller too)
and i could stand on my window sill and i never lied
on the phone those days
and you beside me, we give new light on friday's nights.
here in a new city
a new week day, weed day, i'm not alone am i?
not any more or less than usual
what is usual WHY IS MY USUAL DIFFERENT FROM YOUR USUAL
trancesdence is a better word for self-destruction, self unpreservation,
eraser take it away
my journals never finished themselves
but by then, the lead in my mechanical false substitute for the truth was loose across stacks of paper and smudge
(the eraser was too small to be taken away by now)
we die
each day and every night
don't deny it
it's where you love to live
Eliza.
dot. come.
yamaha!
She asks
what does it mean to be lonely
to have individual psyches
if we could be what we wanted to be when we could have been anything -- i would be a red fire engine and she would be my lighter
what does it feel to lie
to have to plagiarize
if every word i spoke comes from a language apart from our collective histories than i wouldn't need to watch you from this side
distance is a
choice
ultimatum is just a fancy word for
choice
who knows we could still be friends
will the trips ever feel so good again?
on fridays or on racer-car bed sets?
i fuck around to the names of my ex-lovers if only to remember them for a moment
the right moment
english is a signifier and i am the signified
the skies were so high that night but we always came down on the floor in our arms
i always hated your feet touching mine
my mother always called at 1am to cry
you had to leave but leaving itself is a lie
when the summer comes back, we know where it'll take us in the heat of new nights
by the shores and grass
between toes and lips
out through noses and in a kiss
broken bones left my city behind for another life
library cards have 40 dollar fines but my name has changed and that didn't cost
a dime.
i've always wanted a backyard like yours to look
up, into, from, around, away
people lose hearts for spades in places like the past if they're not careful with their sugar water and gin
i'll never be one of them
but i'll sleep with all of them
to be close to any of them
let me be as ephemeral as the courageous in montreal
and in le petit prince
i'll trek up alone on a coach canada bus to hold back my mother's free death and the tears that come
watching trees stay alive
i have hope for pausing love in the passing of lust
(was there ever anything more?)
HERE,
i am a coupon for the cutting board and the last ad in the qualified section
(oh there is no qualified?)
THERE,
ban the cards that weren't made to say FUCK YOU
i have no more definitions and the sticker I stole from your memory was ripped off anyway
from the case of my five year
of my two week
old
guitar
YAMAHA!
what does it mean to be lonely
to have individual psyches
if we could be what we wanted to be when we could have been anything -- i would be a red fire engine and she would be my lighter
what does it feel to lie
to have to plagiarize
if every word i spoke comes from a language apart from our collective histories than i wouldn't need to watch you from this side
distance is a
choice
ultimatum is just a fancy word for
choice
who knows we could still be friends
will the trips ever feel so good again?
on fridays or on racer-car bed sets?
i fuck around to the names of my ex-lovers if only to remember them for a moment
the right moment
english is a signifier and i am the signified
the skies were so high that night but we always came down on the floor in our arms
i always hated your feet touching mine
my mother always called at 1am to cry
you had to leave but leaving itself is a lie
when the summer comes back, we know where it'll take us in the heat of new nights
by the shores and grass
between toes and lips
out through noses and in a kiss
broken bones left my city behind for another life
library cards have 40 dollar fines but my name has changed and that didn't cost
a dime.
i've always wanted a backyard like yours to look
up, into, from, around, away
people lose hearts for spades in places like the past if they're not careful with their sugar water and gin
i'll never be one of them
but i'll sleep with all of them
to be close to any of them
let me be as ephemeral as the courageous in montreal
and in le petit prince
i'll trek up alone on a coach canada bus to hold back my mother's free death and the tears that come
watching trees stay alive
i have hope for pausing love in the passing of lust
(was there ever anything more?)
HERE,
i am a coupon for the cutting board and the last ad in the qualified section
(oh there is no qualified?)
THERE,
ban the cards that weren't made to say FUCK YOU
i have no more definitions and the sticker I stole from your memory was ripped off anyway
from the case of my five year
of my two week
old
guitar
YAMAHA!
Saturday, January 26, 2008
In every way, we're all just not meant to be alone. That's what i truly believe in human nature. To have interlocking bodies, to have empathetic minds, to have this need to connect with others whether it's through music or laughter or sleeping in the same space. And even though at the beginning of the night, we are hopeful and beautiful, every night spent alone is a night denied it's opportunity.
Being sad is a natural order of the pitfalls of happiness. They never warned me why the heroines never run away in stories. Wish they had. I know how to end my "talking and fucking" story. You write what you know, i fucking know exactly what i wrote.
How lonely does a person get before she sleeps with just another boy just to sleep beside just another body?
I wish we could all fastforward to the good parts in life. Like Emily's kyle crying story, like the Broken Social Scene show in december, like laughing so hard it hurts to laugh. Like jason collett, spoon, belle & sebastian, the decemberists -- the first five songs you played on guitar.
smoking cigarettes makes me feel more of a rush these days than smoking a bong
where did she go when he took away the rush?
yeah, i wished that was blake.
but you've been through such much more than a fucking boy. This is what you need to do. Play the guitar without imagining what it means to the boy and believe in what it means to you. Write what you feel because something beautiful always comes from something ugly. Oh, I know you're gonna be the anyone's because they always get me like that. Just anyone.
It's not like I have anything better to do. Than write more short stories and poetry towards attachment odes and boys who tell you you give fantastic head because it's all you know to do. I'll get on my knees so easily and run away from love so brutally.
don't die out there
that's your advice
right now, thanks but no fucking way am i dying out here in this screaming cold and alone ALONE night,
don't die out there
baby
that's what it means to be alive
these days anyway
don't die back home or i'll have nothing to come home too.
no comforter on my back
or ecstasy laced on crack
the first five times, from the start
i'll always remember them fondly because me and you:
marshmallows
everybody broke me up for a stir and a cause
freeverse poetry on bookmark art
yeah in hindsight the awkward is always more painful than the living
why is that?
i'm going to crash.
free love.
Being sad is a natural order of the pitfalls of happiness. They never warned me why the heroines never run away in stories. Wish they had. I know how to end my "talking and fucking" story. You write what you know, i fucking know exactly what i wrote.
How lonely does a person get before she sleeps with just another boy just to sleep beside just another body?
I wish we could all fastforward to the good parts in life. Like Emily's kyle crying story, like the Broken Social Scene show in december, like laughing so hard it hurts to laugh. Like jason collett, spoon, belle & sebastian, the decemberists -- the first five songs you played on guitar.
smoking cigarettes makes me feel more of a rush these days than smoking a bong
where did she go when he took away the rush?
yeah, i wished that was blake.
but you've been through such much more than a fucking boy. This is what you need to do. Play the guitar without imagining what it means to the boy and believe in what it means to you. Write what you feel because something beautiful always comes from something ugly. Oh, I know you're gonna be the anyone's because they always get me like that. Just anyone.
It's not like I have anything better to do. Than write more short stories and poetry towards attachment odes and boys who tell you you give fantastic head because it's all you know to do. I'll get on my knees so easily and run away from love so brutally.
don't die out there
that's your advice
right now, thanks but no fucking way am i dying out here in this screaming cold and alone ALONE night,
don't die out there
baby
that's what it means to be alive
these days anyway
don't die back home or i'll have nothing to come home too.
no comforter on my back
or ecstasy laced on crack
the first five times, from the start
i'll always remember them fondly because me and you:
marshmallows
everybody broke me up for a stir and a cause
freeverse poetry on bookmark art
yeah in hindsight the awkward is always more painful than the living
why is that?
i'm going to crash.
free love.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
you?
made it clear it was over
when yes was my favourite answer and red was my season's colour
there was a day in the leaves
on the slope and my feet in heels
dangling
where did afternoons like that go?
getting high around the dogs and the men walking up the steps to my upskirt shot
i learned to live with cheap flattery when i was sixteen in a basement with fluorescent lights and the nights were always darker then when nobody had yet held my hand
dangling
like slipping on ice
i learned to get high and close my hands and feel something, just something, JUST ANYTHING,
GIVE ME ANYTHING GIVE ME SOMETHING SOMETHING SOMETHING
he did
did i forget how to hang up the phone?
don't let it get you down and if you're down you better learn to punctuate your sentances and
stay down
i like a steady rhythm in everything i do
the grass was on that day's side and the sun refused to do me blind
blue skies, blue eyes, you were all the colours that i never wore in my black and white
what is it about a girl in a man's shirt that gave me away?
it's just that my tits get rejected by my skin
it's just that i am allergic to all forms of alcohol
it's just that i don't feel the high or the blush or the
questionnaires that win ipods and ten dollars
Chicago is coming to town, the city of
i can still feel the rain drops and the music of our hands when we danced later that night on an excess.
think i can sit here and write the rest of my life?
i could lose the will to waste time any minute now, or even ANY SECOND NOW
give me a sec.
he says i'll be right there tonight to talk about vegetarian lovers and the love life of many others
maybe
you're a fucking liar
maybe i'd rather fuck another guy
made it clear it was over
when yes was my favourite answer and red was my season's colour
there was a day in the leaves
on the slope and my feet in heels
dangling
where did afternoons like that go?
getting high around the dogs and the men walking up the steps to my upskirt shot
i learned to live with cheap flattery when i was sixteen in a basement with fluorescent lights and the nights were always darker then when nobody had yet held my hand
dangling
like slipping on ice
i learned to get high and close my hands and feel something, just something, JUST ANYTHING,
GIVE ME ANYTHING GIVE ME SOMETHING SOMETHING SOMETHING
he did
did i forget how to hang up the phone?
don't let it get you down and if you're down you better learn to punctuate your sentances and
stay down
i like a steady rhythm in everything i do
the grass was on that day's side and the sun refused to do me blind
blue skies, blue eyes, you were all the colours that i never wore in my black and white
what is it about a girl in a man's shirt that gave me away?
it's just that my tits get rejected by my skin
it's just that i am allergic to all forms of alcohol
it's just that i don't feel the high or the blush or the
questionnaires that win ipods and ten dollars
Chicago is coming to town, the city of
i can still feel the rain drops and the music of our hands when we danced later that night on an excess.
think i can sit here and write the rest of my life?
i could lose the will to waste time any minute now, or even ANY SECOND NOW
give me a sec.
he says i'll be right there tonight to talk about vegetarian lovers and the love life of many others
maybe
you're a fucking liar
maybe i'd rather fuck another guy
Sunday, January 13, 2008
she says
the last thing i wrote was the lit exam
he says
i like 2 rite 2
i say i hate you all motherfuckers
who need me to convince you to PICK UP THE SLACK
do it yourself
you want some meaning
some direction
some pussy
some motherfuckign bragging rights?
street cred
personal sense of satisfaction
a black and white singles ad
on the backcover of your bestseller
groupies who like self-declared celibacy
and lesbians
the purple-haired crowd at the back of clubs
moshing like fucking
to poetry readings last new years
YEAR OF 2008
publish for the recognition
or unpublish for the ambition
artfucks!
get all the ass either way
you see them once every so often along the subway waiting line
it makes human contact
in the way a picture is not taken or a swing is not swung
or
drunk and stoned in a corner of the convenience store
buying candy for love
see how amazing it is to be a writer?
do it yourself
and you'll be the first.
the last thing i wrote was the lit exam
he says
i like 2 rite 2
i say i hate you all motherfuckers
who need me to convince you to PICK UP THE SLACK
do it yourself
you want some meaning
some direction
some pussy
some motherfuckign bragging rights?
street cred
personal sense of satisfaction
a black and white singles ad
on the backcover of your bestseller
groupies who like self-declared celibacy
and lesbians
the purple-haired crowd at the back of clubs
moshing like fucking
to poetry readings last new years
YEAR OF 2008
publish for the recognition
or unpublish for the ambition
artfucks!
get all the ass either way
you see them once every so often along the subway waiting line
it makes human contact
in the way a picture is not taken or a swing is not swung
or
drunk and stoned in a corner of the convenience store
buying candy for love
see how amazing it is to be a writer?
do it yourself
and you'll be the first.
my bed is a dirty mistress who never lets me get anything done
the way jenny lewis could have been a daytime drunk
(who never gets things done)
it's the same thing as alcoholics who drink off their alcoholism and sleep off their
inhibitions
i sleep because my dreams tell me to forget
my dreams
and going back to sleep means another two hours, another TWO HOURS OH MAN of new
oppertunities
NEVER QUITE GOT THAT SPELLING RIGHT
to dream.
spell check will save our lives in the end
but it's just the start i'm worried about every morning
sitting down to alnighters
waiting for double spacing
and 14 pt periods on a 12pt page
tricks the whores in college will pull to get more more more
for less
never worked a day in advance of pay day
except that i don't have a job or much less a career or an ink blot on last year's resume
i should be a life coach.
four am is not a hard place to live
as long as we agree that once a month i wake up
without poetry.
the way jenny lewis could have been a daytime drunk
(who never gets things done)
it's the same thing as alcoholics who drink off their alcoholism and sleep off their
inhibitions
i sleep because my dreams tell me to forget
my dreams
and going back to sleep means another two hours, another TWO HOURS OH MAN of new
oppertunities
NEVER QUITE GOT THAT SPELLING RIGHT
to dream.
spell check will save our lives in the end
but it's just the start i'm worried about every morning
sitting down to alnighters
waiting for double spacing
and 14 pt periods on a 12pt page
tricks the whores in college will pull to get more more more
for less
never worked a day in advance of pay day
except that i don't have a job or much less a career or an ink blot on last year's resume
i should be a life coach.
four am is not a hard place to live
as long as we agree that once a month i wake up
without poetry.
google the meaning of life
or how to roll a joint
with an automatic roller
stolen goods
from your ex-bestfriend who stole your bestfriend
herself from yourself
well,
say to yourself, repeat to yourself, consider to yourself
that is has been a full two years TWO YEARS OF
the kind of friendship that gives your money no eyes and their eyes no money
taught me that the best things in
life
don't last
longer than two years.
maybe i should just stick to the internet
and rolling joints by hand.
or how to roll a joint
with an automatic roller
stolen goods
from your ex-bestfriend who stole your bestfriend
herself from yourself
well,
say to yourself, repeat to yourself, consider to yourself
that is has been a full two years TWO YEARS OF
the kind of friendship that gives your money no eyes and their eyes no money
taught me that the best things in
life
don't last
longer than two years.
maybe i should just stick to the internet
and rolling joints by hand.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
I can't remember what this blog is for. Something omni-important, whatever that prefix should suggest and now I have the obligation to summon GOD AND POEMS IN CAPITALS LETTERS onto a web page that the greats of the past would insist had betrayed the even greaters of the further pasts.
he touches my shoulder as if the past two months happened
as if we didn't regress the moment i turned around and walked into the old cafeteria of our old life.
later
(months later)
he holds my face as he kisses me and talks about regrets in his life:
should have made more time
that's it actually, he has that one regret when he asks
HOW AM I SUPPOSE TO GET OVER YOU WHEN YOU DO THINGS LIKE THAT
when i get on my knees because i don't know how else
to make sure
he would keep wishing that he had made more time
for me on my knees, on my back, in my mouth, over my soul
but watching him sleep, i left him there.
missing me
and my knees
he is looking for love in all the wrong moments.
and I, the wrong moments, mean all the love to me.
there will always be more boys and girls for the lonely
and the rapists.
more lies will be told than lyrics
i'll probably steal another sweater or two
plagarise another poem or four
the makeup industry has taken my creativity from one canvas to another and the body shop has changed the way my vagina smells.
I'm eighteen and tired of the fuckery and the feeling
if he could sit beside me for another night i'd take that chance
end up on my knees
with a hand to help me up when i slip on the ice outside when it's winter and global warming gives us a week left to live. I feel the most alive in the brittle-bone wetness of Toronto's favourite smoothie season. Slush streets. Sabre-toothed lions are discovered on days like this.
Discovered alive and extinct.
he touches my shoulder as if the past two months happened
as if we didn't regress the moment i turned around and walked into the old cafeteria of our old life.
later
(months later)
he holds my face as he kisses me and talks about regrets in his life:
should have made more time
that's it actually, he has that one regret when he asks
HOW AM I SUPPOSE TO GET OVER YOU WHEN YOU DO THINGS LIKE THAT
when i get on my knees because i don't know how else
to make sure
he would keep wishing that he had made more time
for me on my knees, on my back, in my mouth, over my soul
but watching him sleep, i left him there.
missing me
and my knees
he is looking for love in all the wrong moments.
and I, the wrong moments, mean all the love to me.
there will always be more boys and girls for the lonely
and the rapists.
more lies will be told than lyrics
i'll probably steal another sweater or two
plagarise another poem or four
the makeup industry has taken my creativity from one canvas to another and the body shop has changed the way my vagina smells.
I'm eighteen and tired of the fuckery and the feeling
if he could sit beside me for another night i'd take that chance
end up on my knees
with a hand to help me up when i slip on the ice outside when it's winter and global warming gives us a week left to live. I feel the most alive in the brittle-bone wetness of Toronto's favourite smoothie season. Slush streets. Sabre-toothed lions are discovered on days like this.
Discovered alive and extinct.
words that are nice sounding
I should write something
they all said
once i wrote many things
in a bookstore
on a bookmark
over a book of grammar mistakes
and rhetoric retakes
i'll write a book alrady written about another bout of
posmodernism by a postsecondary
student (another word for sociopath and hobo)
This is why i should write only on typewriters
no erasing means no backspacing
no shortcuts means no delete and all
because I sleep through three classes out of five
and because every morning
i wake up
dreaming
of a softer world
where the boys are named blake and
the boys who are named blake fall in love so easily
with the better half
(MY HALF FOLDS IN HALF)
tossing and turning until six am
to sleep in until
to wake up
dreaming.
Do you want to hear my plan?
see I go to school
it's expensive: full of expensive books, profs, uggs, girls and
dreams.
my dream is easier than than the girls though
and in three and a half years
all these expenses will go to the horizon
where my last four friends jumped into the lake,
let me drown,
because i swore i could swim.
I can.
so my plan?
i don't have one, sir.
Bukowski made me this way when he didn't give a shit about listening to
my plan.
if you let me live with you, i'll cook.
CAN YOU COOK?
no, but
would you rather i break penises again?
because those are two things about us that i'll remember when i'm 37 and so are you
until minivans or drug fictions
either/or
until the rest of the elliott smiths are dead
and the world has no choice but to publish me instead.
they all said
once i wrote many things
in a bookstore
on a bookmark
over a book of grammar mistakes
and rhetoric retakes
i'll write a book alrady written about another bout of
posmodernism by a postsecondary
student (another word for sociopath and hobo)
This is why i should write only on typewriters
no erasing means no backspacing
no shortcuts means no delete and all
because I sleep through three classes out of five
and because every morning
i wake up
dreaming
of a softer world
where the boys are named blake and
the boys who are named blake fall in love so easily
with the better half
(MY HALF FOLDS IN HALF)
tossing and turning until six am
to sleep in until
to wake up
dreaming.
Do you want to hear my plan?
see I go to school
it's expensive: full of expensive books, profs, uggs, girls and
dreams.
my dream is easier than than the girls though
and in three and a half years
all these expenses will go to the horizon
where my last four friends jumped into the lake,
let me drown,
because i swore i could swim.
I can.
so my plan?
i don't have one, sir.
Bukowski made me this way when he didn't give a shit about listening to
my plan.
if you let me live with you, i'll cook.
CAN YOU COOK?
no, but
would you rather i break penises again?
because those are two things about us that i'll remember when i'm 37 and so are you
until minivans or drug fictions
either/or
until the rest of the elliott smiths are dead
and the world has no choice but to publish me instead.
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