AVENUE A
We hardly ever see the moon any more
so no wonder
it's so beautiful when we look up suddenly
and there it is gliding broken-faced over the bridges
brilliantly coursing, soft, and a cool wind fans
your hair over your forehead and your memories
of Red Grooms' locomotive landscape
I want some bourbon/you want some oranges/I love the leather
jacket Norman gave me
and the corduroy coat David
gave you, it is more mysterious than spring, the El Greco
heavens breaking open and then reassembling like lions
in a vast tragic veldt
that is far from our small selves and our temporally united
passions in the cathedral of Januaries
everything is too comprehensible
these are my delicate and caressing poems
I suppose there will be more of those others to come, as in the past
so many!
but for now the moon is revealing itself like a pearl
to my equally naked heart
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
News
So i'm finally making my poems real-world public;
Stages just got published in
my high-school literary
magazine. It isn't much but I'm glad
that I'll finally be able to say
I've been in print.
Stages just got published in
my high-school literary
magazine. It isn't much but I'm glad
that I'll finally be able to say
I've been in print.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
excerpt
"I am interested in two very significant numbers with infinite decimal places that contain no overarching patterns: phi and pi. The two contradict one another; pi makes the statement that randomness leads to circularity, whereas phi's digital randomness produces an infinite inward spiral that comes close to, but never reaches, a point of singularity. When used as metaphors for the progression of humanity, the two produce two very different paradigms; pi states that our random actions will inevitably lead back to the same beginning, whereas phi states that random activity, although still circular in nature, has the propensity to progress dramatically insofar as the amount of energy that is required in order to come full circle. What is interesting about the arguments made by pi and phi is that although a deterministic framework would make both impossible, each outlines a shaky but possibly determinable pattern."
tangential excerpt from SLC application
tangential excerpt from SLC application
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
The patterning of my molars is identical to a small area of the Himalayas.
It's almost 2:30
I've been up
for 16 hours,
not very much really.
I wish I had privacy
I've shown everyone
myself
I sit here feeling quiet and
I describe myself as shy and with
some personal issues mostly
regarding trust, I'm indifferent
sad and
the process is like tiny drops
of water emerging millimeter by millimeter
slow-creeping crepuscular rays from between
the folds of my brain;
that's everything then that transmits
electricity arcing quietly through,
yes
a quiet hum
and a pulsation
like the center of the earth
a black hole, the pulse
of a dying honey bee that
is all of us
and my brain is
a phosphorescent halo also something
nobody understands yet, but
I think everyone holds a map of the universe
somewhere inside, like explosions
under eyelids.
I've been up
for 16 hours,
not very much really.
I wish I had privacy
I've shown everyone
myself
I sit here feeling quiet and
I describe myself as shy and with
some personal issues mostly
regarding trust, I'm indifferent
sad and
the process is like tiny drops
of water emerging millimeter by millimeter
slow-creeping crepuscular rays from between
the folds of my brain;
that's everything then that transmits
electricity arcing quietly through,
yes
a quiet hum
and a pulsation
like the center of the earth
a black hole, the pulse
of a dying honey bee that
is all of us
and my brain is
a phosphorescent halo also something
nobody understands yet, but
I think everyone holds a map of the universe
somewhere inside, like explosions
under eyelids.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
So today was a really weird day. I woke up in philly really disoriented and angry because Gabby's cat Bruce jumped all over me and the sun was in my eyes. The rest of the day was pretty unremarkable aside from the fact that we went to ben's house. I saw Jacen, which was nice. I like him. We hung out there for a while and I watched Gabby and Darian make tape boxes for the Filled With Guilt and Diamonds EP while eating good pumpkin products made by their subletter, Jessie. I had to go at 5, and after a pretty quick bus ride I was home.. for a minute. As soon as I could I was at Felix's, and we were really happy to see each other. I didn't think I was going to be allowed in, but we went upstairs and hung out for a while. I told him about my time in philly and how it made me feel strange. An hour went by much too quickly and it was time for me to go. We both had a lot of homework, and it was almost 10. Then, as I was putting on my shoes, his dad came upstairs and started yelling at us both about how irresponsible Felix is. It was horrible, and I still feel pretty weird even though that was almost an hour ago. It made me realize that I haven't been yelled at by and adult in almost two years.
After sitting on my bed and fuming for a while I got up and went on the computer. I ended up on this blog called kittens and existentialism that's run by this boy I half-know named Gregg. He hasn't updated it in a while; from what I can tell he mostly writes about animation and social anxiety. It made me wonder a lot about two things: why some people are so scared, and what the point of art is. Well, I guess I should say that it made me volver a pensar en estos, because it certainly wasn't something new. It's jsut rare to find actual evidence of people being as nervous as I find myself being sometimes, or that I think some of the people I know are when they're acting strange. The closest one generally comes to are depictions of characters like Franny, and god knows that she could be completely overblown. The problem with fiction in general is that although it's all true in the sense that it came from a human mind, it's also fantastic, and thus impossible to relate to on a practical level. Gregg's entry on April 22nd really affected me; it reinforced once over how real shyness is, and also how intuitive the withdrawn are. I've had this theory forever (and its Fransiscan-ness has made some of the more callous people I know cringe) that nobody is actually very bad; just hurt, or scared.
Gregg's not the greatest example because he never seemed malcontent to me in any way, but to actually be able to see what he was probably thinking when he was being quiet around me and Gabby was still revelatory. I can't even ask why he or anyone else does that, because I do it as well, and I still can't say for certain. Psychiatrically it makes sense -- an analyst would probably say that our social anxieties come from a combination of inherent personality (i.e. not being programmed to process other people very well) and past traumatization. I understand not being entirely socially oriented totally; some people, including myself, honestly prefer thinking about other kinds of patterns, like those in math or science. That's fine, but it shouldn't make us fear others. It is a well-deminstrated fact that humans fear what they do not understand, but that's just the thing: everyone is human, and as I've noticed so far, we're pretty much all the same on the levels of basic communication and functionality. So excluding the fear of the unknown, there is the platform of a past problem that would lead to difficulty socializing as a (relative) adult. This makes but half-sense to me: although I'm a big fan of the super ego/ego/id construct, it seems absurd that people could actually be ruled by sublimated fears and desires that they had at a time when they were too young to effectively rationalize events... or perhaps they were. One of the curses of humanity is definitely the fact that we do not have an infinite capacity for memory. I appreciate the fact that often feelings are so overwhelming that they can outlast an event by great a distance, and make all hitherto judgement of it very difficult, but to be instinctively upset by situations that are similar to events that we cannot remember at all... I can't tell if my reaction to that hypothesis is one of genuine disbelief, or just discomfort; such a truth would be a very scary thing.
I don't really know where I'm going with this, but that's how I've been feeling lately in general. I'm in the process of applying to college, and I really don't know where I want to go or what I want to do, so the fact that it requires so much energy throws me into-near constant reflection as to why I bother. Luckily I know the answer to this question, and that's why its still a pretty petty problem. But the bigger things, like where I'm going to be in five years, what I think I ought to be 'in the end', as it were, or if anyone ever really grows up... I honestly can't tell. I see people around me as old as 25 still basically behaving like children, and the ones who can be categorized as 'adults' only seem to be that way because they bear too many responsabilities and are sapped of the time and energy to be frivolous. Additionally confusing is that fact that I have no idea what I want to believe about this paradox; on the one hand I feel as though it is imperative to my future happiness to never have to stop being a child, but on the other I worry deeply about my future security and autonomy if I don't stop. And of course these concerns extend to the people that I love, which makes it all even more bizarre and upsetting.
I'm turning 18 in three weeks and find myself worrying about understanding the state of 'the world' more and more. It's either going to ruin me or save me. I keep doing this thing where I trap myself in a loop of pessimism and cynicism when I think about history, and I have to sort of approach myself from a third perspective and calm myself down before it goes away. Although doing this calms be down very much it also makes me worry that I'm crazy- it feels really abnormal when it happens. More worriesome is when I start assuming that I can psychoanalyze myself to a T, and then get struck with the possibility that maybe I'm just subconsciously picking what I want to be true about myself and then convincing myself that that's the truth. My life has too many reflexives in it for me to possibly be a normal person. Right now we're reading The Souls of Black Folk in seminar by W.E.B. DuBois and in it he talks a lot about a dissociative feeling of double-concsciousness; this is nowhere near the first time I've encountered the feeling either within myself or within literature, but he puts the war that society creates within the self into words more completely than I've ever encountered.
Maybe I'll return to write about the other half of tonight's thoughts. For some reason I half-hope no one reads this. Although the exposure of weakness within oneself is incredibly cathartic when received properly, throwing it out into the void and an articulated form (rather than in shadowy, instinctive poetry) can be kind of terrifying.
So many things are interesting. I could go on doing this forever. Every comment sparks a new thought about something just as important, to the extent that I'm speechless sometimes. Goodnight.
After sitting on my bed and fuming for a while I got up and went on the computer. I ended up on this blog called kittens and existentialism that's run by this boy I half-know named Gregg. He hasn't updated it in a while; from what I can tell he mostly writes about animation and social anxiety. It made me wonder a lot about two things: why some people are so scared, and what the point of art is. Well, I guess I should say that it made me volver a pensar en estos, because it certainly wasn't something new. It's jsut rare to find actual evidence of people being as nervous as I find myself being sometimes, or that I think some of the people I know are when they're acting strange. The closest one generally comes to are depictions of characters like Franny, and god knows that she could be completely overblown. The problem with fiction in general is that although it's all true in the sense that it came from a human mind, it's also fantastic, and thus impossible to relate to on a practical level. Gregg's entry on April 22nd really affected me; it reinforced once over how real shyness is, and also how intuitive the withdrawn are. I've had this theory forever (and its Fransiscan-ness has made some of the more callous people I know cringe) that nobody is actually very bad; just hurt, or scared.
Gregg's not the greatest example because he never seemed malcontent to me in any way, but to actually be able to see what he was probably thinking when he was being quiet around me and Gabby was still revelatory. I can't even ask why he or anyone else does that, because I do it as well, and I still can't say for certain. Psychiatrically it makes sense -- an analyst would probably say that our social anxieties come from a combination of inherent personality (i.e. not being programmed to process other people very well) and past traumatization. I understand not being entirely socially oriented totally; some people, including myself, honestly prefer thinking about other kinds of patterns, like those in math or science. That's fine, but it shouldn't make us fear others. It is a well-deminstrated fact that humans fear what they do not understand, but that's just the thing: everyone is human, and as I've noticed so far, we're pretty much all the same on the levels of basic communication and functionality. So excluding the fear of the unknown, there is the platform of a past problem that would lead to difficulty socializing as a (relative) adult. This makes but half-sense to me: although I'm a big fan of the super ego/ego/id construct, it seems absurd that people could actually be ruled by sublimated fears and desires that they had at a time when they were too young to effectively rationalize events... or perhaps they were. One of the curses of humanity is definitely the fact that we do not have an infinite capacity for memory. I appreciate the fact that often feelings are so overwhelming that they can outlast an event by great a distance, and make all hitherto judgement of it very difficult, but to be instinctively upset by situations that are similar to events that we cannot remember at all... I can't tell if my reaction to that hypothesis is one of genuine disbelief, or just discomfort; such a truth would be a very scary thing.
I don't really know where I'm going with this, but that's how I've been feeling lately in general. I'm in the process of applying to college, and I really don't know where I want to go or what I want to do, so the fact that it requires so much energy throws me into-near constant reflection as to why I bother. Luckily I know the answer to this question, and that's why its still a pretty petty problem. But the bigger things, like where I'm going to be in five years, what I think I ought to be 'in the end', as it were, or if anyone ever really grows up... I honestly can't tell. I see people around me as old as 25 still basically behaving like children, and the ones who can be categorized as 'adults' only seem to be that way because they bear too many responsabilities and are sapped of the time and energy to be frivolous. Additionally confusing is that fact that I have no idea what I want to believe about this paradox; on the one hand I feel as though it is imperative to my future happiness to never have to stop being a child, but on the other I worry deeply about my future security and autonomy if I don't stop. And of course these concerns extend to the people that I love, which makes it all even more bizarre and upsetting.
I'm turning 18 in three weeks and find myself worrying about understanding the state of 'the world' more and more. It's either going to ruin me or save me. I keep doing this thing where I trap myself in a loop of pessimism and cynicism when I think about history, and I have to sort of approach myself from a third perspective and calm myself down before it goes away. Although doing this calms be down very much it also makes me worry that I'm crazy- it feels really abnormal when it happens. More worriesome is when I start assuming that I can psychoanalyze myself to a T, and then get struck with the possibility that maybe I'm just subconsciously picking what I want to be true about myself and then convincing myself that that's the truth. My life has too many reflexives in it for me to possibly be a normal person. Right now we're reading The Souls of Black Folk in seminar by W.E.B. DuBois and in it he talks a lot about a dissociative feeling of double-concsciousness; this is nowhere near the first time I've encountered the feeling either within myself or within literature, but he puts the war that society creates within the self into words more completely than I've ever encountered.
Maybe I'll return to write about the other half of tonight's thoughts. For some reason I half-hope no one reads this. Although the exposure of weakness within oneself is incredibly cathartic when received properly, throwing it out into the void and an articulated form (rather than in shadowy, instinctive poetry) can be kind of terrifying.
So many things are interesting. I could go on doing this forever. Every comment sparks a new thought about something just as important, to the extent that I'm speechless sometimes. Goodnight.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Botanical Gardens
A weeping birch:
branches respond to gravity almost
like lovers,
Small leaves like fingertips
caress roughdirt skin
and form a dome
like the kind lovers make
in sheets
in solitude.
As I sit in the heart
of this, a small child almost enters --
he is afraid of what he does not understand.
The sun sets
the tree grows cold
I am reliving
fucking.
This tree reminds me of things I've only felt
a few times.
Soon I will go to the rose garden
and think about how I feel now.
written 10.11.08
branches respond to gravity almost
like lovers,
Small leaves like fingertips
caress roughdirt skin
and form a dome
like the kind lovers make
in sheets
in solitude.
As I sit in the heart
of this, a small child almost enters --
he is afraid of what he does not understand.
The sun sets
the tree grows cold
I am reliving
fucking.
This tree reminds me of things I've only felt
a few times.
Soon I will go to the rose garden
and think about how I feel now.
written 10.11.08
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Four Years
It's been four years of this
four years of waiting
counting drops of spilt coffee in cafés
feeling my cheeks flush when I realize you're not coming
and quickly hiding the embarrassment
behind the neck of a sweater.
I made the excuses
you probably won't bother to
for you, I understood.
Four years turning into sediment
Two years of wishing I was kissing you.
I don't think it was wasted time, and I try to believe it's not
becoming wasted time
You don't believe in wasted time, as you go from state to state
as you quietly wriggle out of the warm
night grips of boys
but where's our time going now?
Honestly,
four years of waiting
counting drops of spilt coffee in cafés
feeling my cheeks flush when I realize you're not coming
and quickly hiding the embarrassment
behind the neck of a sweater.
I made the excuses
you probably won't bother to
for you, I understood.
Four years turning into sediment
Two years of wishing I was kissing you.
I don't think it was wasted time, and I try to believe it's not
becoming wasted time
You don't believe in wasted time, as you go from state to state
as you quietly wriggle out of the warm
night grips of boys
but where's our time going now?
Honestly,
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Days
I do official work for the only ones that matter;
they're up there somewhere
dunno where regardless and
I NEVER STRAY
but that's self-employment for you.
Meanwhile
You're somewhere, running scared
from something, I don't think
you know what it is --
if you do
it's unutterable
We're all too serious for our own good
serious in the wrong way, obsessing
over archaic structures and the past, our past lives our lives are passing stop WAIT!
I think that Kant could tell me what to do:
he can't. Nobody
always gets what they want, NOBODY
ever knows what's coming next or what will follow in 100 years
or even what came before them even if
we read read read
compulsively eat
up text, study, wonder, FANTASIZE THEORETICALLY WE WILL NEVER KNOW THE KEY TO OUR OWN HAPPINESS BECAUSE ONCE WE ANSWER THAT QUESTION THEN WE MIGHT AS WELL BE DEAD. THAT IS THE END! ULTIMATE HAPPINESS!
IT CAN NEVER BE FOUND ON THIS EARTH
(only for a moment, maybe?)
(please)
(just let me taste it)
- - -
People always want things
but never what they actually need
can we predict our own need?
or is it like everything
else.
they're up there somewhere
dunno where regardless and
I NEVER STRAY
but that's self-employment for you.
Meanwhile
You're somewhere, running scared
from something, I don't think
you know what it is --
if you do
it's unutterable
We're all too serious for our own good
serious in the wrong way, obsessing
over archaic structures and the past, our past lives our lives are passing stop WAIT!
I think that Kant could tell me what to do:
he can't. Nobody
always gets what they want, NOBODY
ever knows what's coming next or what will follow in 100 years
or even what came before them even if
we read read read
compulsively eat
up text, study, wonder, FANTASIZE THEORETICALLY WE WILL NEVER KNOW THE KEY TO OUR OWN HAPPINESS BECAUSE ONCE WE ANSWER THAT QUESTION THEN WE MIGHT AS WELL BE DEAD. THAT IS THE END! ULTIMATE HAPPINESS!
IT CAN NEVER BE FOUND ON THIS EARTH
(only for a moment, maybe?)
(please)
(just let me taste it)
- - -
People always want things
but never what they actually need
can we predict our own need?
or is it like everything
else.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Sonar Dream Poem
run run!
run we run
outside
to sit clustered but
we are not afraid not even when ushered
into that dark tube darkness lit by phosphorescing
wiggly glowing lampy beams
they are alive!
creatures here
we are submarines
instead of subterraneans
so there is no objection when
slowly things
begin to shift perception until there is
a shady lane and
un fille en biciclete
the familiar half-face
of childhood friendship i walk
through columns of prestige
old oaks old oak
beams
on my floor she is sitting patient
eyes do not work
i try to cut her hair
but i can't.
written 5.4.08
don't know why i never put it up
run we run
outside
to sit clustered but
we are not afraid not even when ushered
into that dark tube darkness lit by phosphorescing
wiggly glowing lampy beams
they are alive!
creatures here
we are submarines
instead of subterraneans
so there is no objection when
slowly things
begin to shift perception until there is
a shady lane and
un fille en biciclete
the familiar half-face
of childhood friendship i walk
through columns of prestige
old oaks old oak
beams
on my floor she is sitting patient
eyes do not work
i try to cut her hair
but i can't.
written 5.4.08
don't know why i never put it up
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Evening
I feel like there are
coming off of my organs
hundreds of tiny strings
dangling and swaying in the cavity of my torso
like the ribbons
of a shinto shrine.
But my ribbons,
they have
been disarranged
and tangled by the nimble
filthy fingers of the thousands of snow monkeys
that are living, currently,
on the shelf of my diaphragm
chattering
they are screaming
and jumping
making me unbearable and nervous.
Obviously, we do not coexist peacefully
they will only go when you return
to me
to scare them with the face you make
The one that is better than kabuki.
coming off of my organs
hundreds of tiny strings
dangling and swaying in the cavity of my torso
like the ribbons
of a shinto shrine.
But my ribbons,
they have
been disarranged
and tangled by the nimble
filthy fingers of the thousands of snow monkeys
that are living, currently,
on the shelf of my diaphragm
chattering
they are screaming
and jumping
making me unbearable and nervous.
Obviously, we do not coexist peacefully
they will only go when you return
to me
to scare them with the face you make
The one that is better than kabuki.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Visions
There was just a lot of white stuff. No vision, just whiteness. I don't really remember anything except a booming voice. It was like being born. Or maybe dying. I don't know really, it's not like I'd be able to remember either of them. But the voice: it was getting hard to ignore.
"'God' is just what is true: physics, numbers, time. Wavelengths and vibrations. Resonance. We have forgotten our prophets -- we rename them philosophers in order to strip away the old religious connotations that would otherwise continue an order of consciousness that is currently becoming ineffective. It is the job of the philosopher, the prophet, to translate the truth of the universe, these patterns, into a code that can be understood by the maximum populous. The time has come to re-write the code: because the- rather, we inhabitants of the modern West are no longer competently literate in the old code, the ancient, mystical, 'religious' symbols have lost their integrity within society. Presently they will lose their meaning. Unfortunately, with the understanding of the universe provided by such knowledge will go any semblance of contact between individuals and their internal vibrations (instinct and essence). If such a thing were to happen a very large cosmic shift would be inevitable. I doubt it would be very much in our favor."
"But!" I felt myself crying. I don't know why I was doing it, I didn't want to. I hadn't been listening very much to what he was saying. But there my mouth went again: "But fortunately humans aren't... aren't incompetent! We're biologically destined, we've been crafted by time to succeed!"
Slowly, a man walked out of the void. Or maybe he materialized a little bit first, in a stationary position, and then walked. He looked kinda like John Malkovich and from then on I couldn't think of him as anyone else. He was impeccably dressed in a black turtleneck and slacks. His shoes and bald head gleamed, and he laid a hand on my left shoulder. I thought this was a kind gesture, attempting to calm me in such a confusing environment. His aura would have been purple if he'd had one, but don't ask me how I know that. I guess I just associate that color with nice things, like my mother. Lilacs were always her favorite flower.
In the midst of this kinda reverie I was struck with the curious sensation that I ought to listen to him, so I did, and then he opened his mouth and started speaking.
"Against alien environments- we can succeed against alien beings. But no, no, not E.T. -- I felt you thinking that. No. Just against the outer, separate things that the brain is capable of conceptualizing, replicating, thus destroying. But man can never truly conceptualize himself until he has become selfless. Ego gets in the way. We keep who we are on the most real level a mystery so as not to be thrown into despair by what we are- do you see the problem? And even if we were, deep down, resplendent, have you yet met a man who can see his own face, who can truly get outside himself? You see, everything must have a yang, Ricky."
I knew John was speaking. I could see his mouth moving. But the words seemed to be being rerouted within the atmosphere- I had a horrifyingly distinct sense that he was both behind and in front of me at the same time. There was a slight metallic buzzing all around. This couldn't be real, and if it was I didn't want to believe he was telling the truth. He had to have been mistaken, thought I was someone else, addressed some other, inaudible question. The man hadn't known my name, I realized, and breathed a sigh of relief. The whole day, or hour, or five minutes or whatever, had been weird enough that I didn't really notice being addressed as Ricky, but now the name hung over my brain like a cool mist. John Malkovich had to be wrong. He had to be. He didn't even know who I was! I thought to myself that perhaps he was the other voice, that he had just been behind some kinda one-way mirror, and that maybe he just had messianic delusions, and we were really in this white room for a safe, routine reason. Maybe we were a part of a focus group and about to be provided with a new kind of food or an antidepressant or a pair of socks. That had to be it; otherwise, I wanted out.
There was a metallic sound, like a scraping or a slight shock, and I was filled with a feeling of déjà vu concerning being very grateful that the green grid which had previously been superimposed over my vision was finally gone. I was sure that nothing remotely like this this had ever happened before, but neither had anything that was currently entering my eye- and ear-holes. When the remembering feeling subsided, although everything still felt quite strange and I couldn't really see once more, I was filled with an irrevocable sense of pleasure, and slowly I sat down. It was nice to just see some plain white again. Although I like John Malkovich quite a bit and I really respect his work, it always makes me feel kind of nervous to be around famous people, like they're perpetually doing something right and I'm just some guy in the corner of the room who's taking up more space than anyone with his flappy elbows or something, so then I'm not quite anonymous but nobody really likes me either. It's like I feel as though they'd only wanna pay attention to me to complain or because I was close to someone who we all think is great, know what I mean?
A while later my analyst said that this was what's called a psychotic vision, but I remember feeling pretty calm the entire time. I'm not sure how much I trust my analyst most of the time but I'm pretty sure I get more than him, and he's an alright guy, so I can't say I mind the little extra company and attention every couple of weeks. And I feel like I can maintain my dignity when he tells me what to do, because at least he isn't a famous asshole like John Malkovich.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Stages
stage I
Closing eyes leads to
thoughts, visions
of pink clouds swirling mysteriously
like Japanese wallpaper.
This nebulous form is dotted
with a uniform panoply of gold flecks,
a frail shell
which contains and controls the pale dream
as it spins silently
through black velvet space-
a capsule unto itself.
stage II
We are lying
I hold your hand
both eyes are closed
but we talk
and I think that we are traveling;
the small of your back arches gently.
stage III
You are here, on my planet
and around us, the air is humming.
written 7.31.08,
i'm so proud of this
Closing eyes leads to
thoughts, visions
of pink clouds swirling mysteriously
like Japanese wallpaper.
This nebulous form is dotted
with a uniform panoply of gold flecks,
a frail shell
which contains and controls the pale dream
as it spins silently
through black velvet space-
a capsule unto itself.
stage II
We are lying
I hold your hand
both eyes are closed
but we talk
and I think that we are traveling;
the small of your back arches gently.
stage III
You are here, on my planet
and around us, the air is humming.
written 7.31.08,
i'm so proud of this
Déjà Vu
figure raising arms
a heart a bicycle
a nine-pointed star
and stylized flames
they come at the same time
a projection
I close my eyes.
a heart a bicycle
a nine-pointed star
and stylized flames
they come at the same time
a projection
I close my eyes.
Jinxes Keep Us Humble
You feel terror
in your wrists your stomach;
your body
picks the most important places to show
you where it all went wrong:
hands not swift enough,
stomach complaining
doubly now,
the original distraction that allowed fate
to pull you off the road and into
the guard rail instead
of exit 17's rest
stop right as you were saying
"What a flawless trip
it's been."
Jinxes keep us humble,
o ye of abundant faith.
You will be sleeping on the road tonight.
in your wrists your stomach;
your body
picks the most important places to show
you where it all went wrong:
hands not swift enough,
stomach complaining
doubly now,
the original distraction that allowed fate
to pull you off the road and into
the guard rail instead
of exit 17's rest
stop right as you were saying
"What a flawless trip
it's been."
Jinxes keep us humble,
o ye of abundant faith.
You will be sleeping on the road tonight.
This Is What It's Like Living In My Room
Surrounded by reminders of things
that really matter: nebulas
old books, dirty
laundry and tiny pretty things
peering like geodes out
from beneath clumps of old
dust; my room
a timezone
excluded from normal rules
(spacetime and priorities).
On my wall
there's a picture
of the only moon in the sky
called the moon.
The countless things
that live here,
microorganisms even, resonate
with the frequency that matches my heartbeat
when I am alone
but not lonely.
When I get home tonight
I will write pi
on my wall in my room
above my bed because today
I realized it is my final proof:
randomness leads to circularity,
that's something I must always remember, to be utterly sure of to keep
from feeling lost,
to keep my room
my moon
intact.
written yesterday,
for school.
this needs revision.
that really matter: nebulas
old books, dirty
laundry and tiny pretty things
peering like geodes out
from beneath clumps of old
dust; my room
a timezone
excluded from normal rules
(spacetime and priorities).
On my wall
there's a picture
of the only moon in the sky
called the moon.
The countless things
that live here,
microorganisms even, resonate
with the frequency that matches my heartbeat
when I am alone
but not lonely.
When I get home tonight
I will write pi
on my wall in my room
above my bed because today
I realized it is my final proof:
randomness leads to circularity,
that's something I must always remember, to be utterly sure of to keep
from feeling lost,
to keep my room
my moon
intact.
written yesterday,
for school.
this needs revision.
Untitled
when you're young age is
gaged in summers until the
winter becomes cool.
damage control and
cough medicine all day, mostly
so that you can keep smelling
like cigarettes
when I come over.
written 3.3.08
gaged in summers until the
winter becomes cool.
damage control and
cough medicine all day, mostly
so that you can keep smelling
like cigarettes
when I come over.
written 3.3.08
In The Stillness, Sweating
Her slender hands,
workworn linger in a caress
on the head of the father
sleeping.
In this moment of stillness they float
together in solitude and
perfect silence:
sharing a moment
like two castaways on an island
they have reconciled and are working
desperately
to build something
but they don't know what:
land is infinitely beyond
their grasp, so it would seem
best to build a house and hope to one
day be discovered, in passing by
the same ships that delivered them
thence, hopeful once
and young.
But their island is uninhabitable, full of
coral snakes which their children will mistake
for kings* and when they, innocents
reach out with dreams of triumphant capture,
an easy win over one who merely plays at seeming evil
they will become stung
and, reeling, realize that although
their island is a paradise it does not have hospitals
it does not have antivenom.
The mother will sob as
toucans echo her sadness,
watching from a distance
the quivering of her shoulders.
She will wish she was dead as she watches
the father try to save her children and
get bitten too.
5.29.08
written for school
workworn linger in a caress
on the head of the father
sleeping.
In this moment of stillness they float
together in solitude and
perfect silence:
sharing a moment
like two castaways on an island
they have reconciled and are working
desperately
to build something
but they don't know what:
land is infinitely beyond
their grasp, so it would seem
best to build a house and hope to one
day be discovered, in passing by
the same ships that delivered them
thence, hopeful once
and young.
But their island is uninhabitable, full of
coral snakes which their children will mistake
for kings* and when they, innocents
reach out with dreams of triumphant capture,
an easy win over one who merely plays at seeming evil
they will become stung
and, reeling, realize that although
their island is a paradise it does not have hospitals
it does not have antivenom.
The mother will sob as
toucans echo her sadness,
watching from a distance
the quivering of her shoulders.
She will wish she was dead as she watches
the father try to save her children and
get bitten too.
5.29.08
written for school
Tiny Ghost
My heart is on my palms
but you wear yours on your small finger
I build a nest with my qualms
curling up while dreams of you linger
I'm only alone in spirit
following a ghost-deer's footprint
while the leaves whisper thoughts i've never had
Moving inside, small bells
tinkle tinny while I'm missing you
standing in the spot where I'm used to
now you speak in words I can't spell
Can you do me favors?
I know you could wrap both legs so close
around your head and skinny shoulders
but now you don't think so to both
I'm only alone in spirit
following a ghost-deer's footprint
while the leaves whisper thoughts i've never had
written 4.17.08
but you wear yours on your small finger
I build a nest with my qualms
curling up while dreams of you linger
I'm only alone in spirit
following a ghost-deer's footprint
while the leaves whisper thoughts i've never had
Moving inside, small bells
tinkle tinny while I'm missing you
standing in the spot where I'm used to
now you speak in words I can't spell
Can you do me favors?
I know you could wrap both legs so close
around your head and skinny shoulders
but now you don't think so to both
I'm only alone in spirit
following a ghost-deer's footprint
while the leaves whisper thoughts i've never had
written 4.17.08
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Dream Friends
Three nights in a row of bad dreams
all about people who matter to me,
so much
but who are on the edges
of my reality
in themselves dream characters struggling
to break the barrier between sleeping and
waking- through
costumes, downers
and self-parody.
They are them
but they are in me, too
Ones who draw out
the viscous lump that is self-hate
also a sharp and stabbing thing
it is never present in the dream-world
but rather keeps me up
very late
to have catch-22s in the kitchen.
all about people who matter to me,
so much
but who are on the edges
of my reality
in themselves dream characters struggling
to break the barrier between sleeping and
waking- through
costumes, downers
and self-parody.
They are them
but they are in me, too
Ones who draw out
the viscous lump that is self-hate
also a sharp and stabbing thing
it is never present in the dream-world
but rather keeps me up
very late
to have catch-22s in the kitchen.
Bad Dream People
These dream characters
they are all people who I know
and have seen in my waking life
this gives them more meaning
than an ordinary specter.
It means
that they are living archetypes to me, that
they have the power to control
my heart feels bad when I see them
because in my dreams
they are evil
and more real
than reality.
they are all people who I know
and have seen in my waking life
this gives them more meaning
than an ordinary specter.
It means
that they are living archetypes to me, that
they have the power to control
my heart feels bad when I see them
because in my dreams
they are evil
and more real
than reality.
Unraveling Badness
The bad dream people
are the kings and queens of my nightmares because
I know they have power over me
because I give them power
over me
by shrinking under their glance
as they pass by.
Why do I do that? I know
if I want to be safe from someone all I must do
is assert myself. And yet
night after night I let
these people
somnolently
step on my heart.
I guess
I think they are really important
and I would rather they notice me badly
than not at all.
are the kings and queens of my nightmares because
I know they have power over me
because I give them power
over me
by shrinking under their glance
as they pass by.
Why do I do that? I know
if I want to be safe from someone all I must do
is assert myself. And yet
night after night I let
these people
somnolently
step on my heart.
I guess
I think they are really important
and I would rather they notice me badly
than not at all.
Friday, June 13, 2008
tiny pretty things
the moon is huge and yellow like a streetlight
shining on walls like cardboard; outside inside
i like this honest little space
happy birthday yesterday
no one noticed; it's okay
happy birthday yesterday
happy birthday yesterday
i want to give you tiny pretty things
tiny pretty things
tiny pretty things like feathers
and small glass beads from far away
dried and old like sprigs of heather
a tarnished charm that brings the rain
there is lightning like taught sinews in the sky
i'm knowing we're magic since we're still alive
i like your honest little face
happy birthday yesterday
you're just a ghost but it's okay
happy birthday yesterday
happy birthday yesterday
i gave you all my pretty things
tiny pretty things
tiny pretty things like feathers
an eyelash from crying one time
dreamcatcher with animal skulls
muscle from a preserved heart
i gave my tiny pretty things away
happy birthday yesterday
shining on walls like cardboard; outside inside
i like this honest little space
happy birthday yesterday
no one noticed; it's okay
happy birthday yesterday
happy birthday yesterday
i want to give you tiny pretty things
tiny pretty things
tiny pretty things like feathers
and small glass beads from far away
dried and old like sprigs of heather
a tarnished charm that brings the rain
there is lightning like taught sinews in the sky
i'm knowing we're magic since we're still alive
i like your honest little face
happy birthday yesterday
you're just a ghost but it's okay
happy birthday yesterday
happy birthday yesterday
i gave you all my pretty things
tiny pretty things
tiny pretty things like feathers
an eyelash from crying one time
dreamcatcher with animal skulls
muscle from a preserved heart
i gave my tiny pretty things away
happy birthday yesterday
Sunday, June 8, 2008
it was like losing a favorite necklace
Slipping off like the times midwinter
jostled mercury like pearls down
my jacket into the lapel slithering
unnoticed to vanish, for
Fate: it was the
Fates condensed and meddling spinning;
she/they know
your weak spots but knows (know?) I
tread the fault lines searching for
quiet possibility lurking there, fuel
for reparation. It is known I know better -- I am
not blinded by love nor soldered
tight in obligation to you, to
love -- you're
like a piece of jewelery, like
my very favorite one
but I can still take you off
or lose you
or even change my mind about you sometimes;
you will not always match me
you will get in the way
you will be itchy
and you will make me remember things
that have nothing to do with you
things that are long dead.
jostled mercury like pearls down
my jacket into the lapel slithering
unnoticed to vanish, for
Fate: it was the
Fates condensed and meddling spinning;
she/they know
your weak spots but knows (know?) I
tread the fault lines searching for
quiet possibility lurking there, fuel
for reparation. It is known I know better -- I am
not blinded by love nor soldered
tight in obligation to you, to
love -- you're
like a piece of jewelery, like
my very favorite one
but I can still take you off
or lose you
or even change my mind about you sometimes;
you will not always match me
you will get in the way
you will be itchy
and you will make me remember things
that have nothing to do with you
things that are long dead.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
come on down to disco
IS STUCK IN MY HEAD
IS STUCK IN MY
IS STUCK IN
IS STUCK
IS
IS STUCK
IS STUCK IN
IS STUCK IN MY
IS STUCK IN MY HEAD
IS STUCK IN MY
IS STUCK IN
IS STUCK
IS
IS STUCK
IS STUCK IN
IS STUCK IN MY
IS STUCK IN MY HEAD
Thursday, May 22, 2008
(to be updated)
transubstantiation
psychopomp
moor
whelk
cobalt
hart
christian
gilt
corals
opal
archbishop
baroque
orb
lavish
corinth
andalusia
halo
lavender
antediluvian
platinum
ethos
pathos
halo
croft
loch
heath
mire
roil
intransigent
transatlantic
meme
onomatopoeia
sibilant
lance
foil
beleaguered
leagues
milieu
coup
nebula
scylla
malice
stigma
truth
phantom
dreams
brusque
brocaded
tapestry
lush
mercury
juno
romulus
peregrine
sliver
mantle
erudite
catharsis
valor
winsome
la lune
exoskeleton
esoteric
eroticism
heideggerian
sill
metalloid
supernova
cameo
iconoclast
picaresque
tumultuous
meridian
phantasmagoria
nightshade
belladonna
obsidian
violet
magnanimous
virulent
crepuscular
fractal
palomino
malevolent
verdant
malignant
grey
obsequious
malarky
vilified
tristram
betwixt
iseult
malaise
leonine
metonymy
vivification
influenza
labyrinth
compendium
psychopomp
moor
whelk
cobalt
hart
christian
gilt
corals
opal
archbishop
baroque
orb
lavish
corinth
andalusia
halo
lavender
antediluvian
platinum
ethos
pathos
halo
croft
loch
heath
mire
roil
intransigent
transatlantic
meme
onomatopoeia
sibilant
lance
foil
beleaguered
leagues
milieu
coup
nebula
scylla
malice
stigma
truth
phantom
dreams
brusque
brocaded
tapestry
lush
mercury
juno
romulus
peregrine
sliver
mantle
erudite
catharsis
valor
winsome
la lune
exoskeleton
esoteric
eroticism
heideggerian
sill
metalloid
supernova
cameo
iconoclast
picaresque
tumultuous
meridian
phantasmagoria
nightshade
belladonna
obsidian
violet
magnanimous
virulent
crepuscular
fractal
palomino
malevolent
verdant
malignant
grey
obsequious
malarky
vilified
tristram
betwixt
iseult
malaise
leonine
metonymy
vivification
influenza
labyrinth
compendium
Friday, May 16, 2008
The Dream: a translation
I am on the side of the road -- suburban highway at night with banks swelling up, high, waves pierced with green grass and telephone poles. I am cowering there, in a circle of light, waiting for the action to come. And I see it -- run! The Jeep approaches, drawing nearer, wheels hissing serpentine on the wet tarmac, headlights muffled by some internal anguish. And I fled then, desperate to cross at that very moment when it seemed most imminent, driven by the horrible animal urge to- I collapsed on the opposite bank, chest heaving as I pushed my face further and further into the ground. My ears whistled and rang, echoing cries of an underworld that I had so narrowly escaped. And I lay there for a while, rested safe in the shadow of a pine bush -- safe out of the light, filling my nostrils with the grass.
And so I lay until, slowly, I rose, sensing something on the night wind. I looked across the yawning chasm of road to the faint and artificial sunspot which gleamed like limelight. Its clarity was marred by a dark figure who both shone and consumed all light, like obsidian. A black leopard. But then, o horrors -- it glanced at me and within its face I saw human eyes and then -- a human nose and mouth as well. And it began to stalk.
Quivering and frozen like a useless animal I shrank back into the hillside, desperately hoping to be enveloped as though some mystery lay beneath the dark earth. But there was only time, and dead things, and it seemed no magic could spare me from the beast. And then I remembered the bush -- muffling a scream, I dove behind it as the animal began its graceful ascent from tarmac to hill, my hill, and I realized with horrible astonishment that I was not behind the bush. I looked in all directions in terror -- the bush was suddenly to my left. But I could make out a figure behind the bush -- and in my confusion I slowly understood that it was I. But the beast ignored me, ignored the plain me, ignored the me that was out-of-hiding and exposed, and instead slowly crept up upon the form who was cowering like a hare there among the roots. And I closed my eyes, the silence unbearable, waiting hopelessly to die. But I did not! and slowly I saw it emerge. The man-leopard was no more; emerging from the bush were I, clearly enamored, wrapped in the arms of a man, an Indian, while his brother trailed close behind, almost brushing their backs with his long fingertips as the three strode, moving like ghosts. And the brother stared at me, finger crooked, and I knew he was beckoning for me to follow, to join my half-self and to join him, the half-brother. But I knew, from old stories, that this could not be so. She was not me, and they were not man but demons, come to drag an innocent soul down to hell in an attempt to light their world. They were the demon who is many, they were Legion, they were tricksters that preyed upon the human instincts to abstain from solitude, to move in packs, to trust. They were Legion: they were the tide that turned against you, jealous of all, jealous most specifically of the innocence.
So I did not go with them, but instead sat there, motionless, and watched their bodies fade into the mist as the sky grew slowly lighter.
Fín.
And so I lay until, slowly, I rose, sensing something on the night wind. I looked across the yawning chasm of road to the faint and artificial sunspot which gleamed like limelight. Its clarity was marred by a dark figure who both shone and consumed all light, like obsidian. A black leopard. But then, o horrors -- it glanced at me and within its face I saw human eyes and then -- a human nose and mouth as well. And it began to stalk.
Quivering and frozen like a useless animal I shrank back into the hillside, desperately hoping to be enveloped as though some mystery lay beneath the dark earth. But there was only time, and dead things, and it seemed no magic could spare me from the beast. And then I remembered the bush -- muffling a scream, I dove behind it as the animal began its graceful ascent from tarmac to hill, my hill, and I realized with horrible astonishment that I was not behind the bush. I looked in all directions in terror -- the bush was suddenly to my left. But I could make out a figure behind the bush -- and in my confusion I slowly understood that it was I. But the beast ignored me, ignored the plain me, ignored the me that was out-of-hiding and exposed, and instead slowly crept up upon the form who was cowering like a hare there among the roots. And I closed my eyes, the silence unbearable, waiting hopelessly to die. But I did not! and slowly I saw it emerge. The man-leopard was no more; emerging from the bush were I, clearly enamored, wrapped in the arms of a man, an Indian, while his brother trailed close behind, almost brushing their backs with his long fingertips as the three strode, moving like ghosts. And the brother stared at me, finger crooked, and I knew he was beckoning for me to follow, to join my half-self and to join him, the half-brother. But I knew, from old stories, that this could not be so. She was not me, and they were not man but demons, come to drag an innocent soul down to hell in an attempt to light their world. They were the demon who is many, they were Legion, they were tricksters that preyed upon the human instincts to abstain from solitude, to move in packs, to trust. They were Legion: they were the tide that turned against you, jealous of all, jealous most specifically of the innocence.
So I did not go with them, but instead sat there, motionless, and watched their bodies fade into the mist as the sky grew slowly lighter.
Fín.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
El Sueño
Estoy al lado del camino -- una carretera suburbana a noche con riberas hinchándose, alto, ondas perferaron para césped verde y astas telefónicas. Estoy encojado allí, en un circulo de la luz, esperando que la acción venir. Y verlo -- ¡corra! El Jeep acercame, más cercano, las ruedas silbando como serpientes en el asfaltado mojado, los faros amortiguados por alguna angustia interna. Y huí entonces, desesperado cruzar en que momento cuando pareció más inminente, conducido por el impulso horrible y animal a -- Desplomé en la ribera contrario, el pecho tirado como empujé mi cara aún más y más adentro del suelo. Mis orejas silbado y llamó, resonando con los gritos de un mundo abajo que había escapado tan por poco. Y me acosté allí un rato, descansé seguro a la sombra de un arbusto de pino -- seguro fuera de la luz, llenando mis narices con el césped.
Y así me acosté hasta que, lentamente, subí, presentiendo algo en el viento de la noche. Miré a través de la sima abierta del camino a la mancha solar débil y artificial que brilló como un candelero. Su claridad estuve estropeado por una figura oscura, que brillado y también consumido toda luz como la obsidiana. Un leopardo negro. Pero entonces, que horror -- miró a mí y dentro de su cara yo ví ojos humanos y entonces -- la nariz y la boca humanas también. Y comenzó a cazar al acecho.
Temblando y congelado como un animal inútil me encogí atrás en la ladera, desesperadamente esperando para ser envuelto como si algun misterio se acostó bajo la tierra oscura. Pero solo fue el tiempo, y cosas muertas, y pareció que ninguna magia me podría guardar de la bestia. Y entonces recordé al arbusto -- amortiguando un chillido, zambullé detrás de lo como el animal empezó su subida elegante del asfaltado a la colina, mi colina, y me di cuenta de con el asombro horrible que no estuve detrás del arbusto. Miré en todas direcciónes con terror -- el arbusto fue de repente a mi izquierda. Pero pude entender una figura detrás del arbusto -- y a mi confusión creciente comprendí que fui yo. Pero la bestia me ignoró, ignoró la mí llanura, la mí que no fui ocultado y fui expusó, y en lugar lentamente arrastrado arriba sobre la forma que se encogía como una liebre entre las raíces. Y cerré mis ojos, la silencia intolerable, esperando sin espera para el muerte. ¡Pero no hice! y lentamente lo ví surge. El hombre-leopardo no fue más; surgiendo del arbusto estuvieron yo, claramente enamorado, envuelté en los brazos de un hombre, un indio, mientras su hermano arrastró cierra atrás, casi cepillando nuestras espaldas con sus puntas de los dedos largos como el tres anduvieron a zancadas, moviendo como fantasmas. El hermano miró fijamente a mí, el dedo torcido, y supe que él atraía para mí seguir, unir con mi medio-ser y para encontrarlo, el hermanastro. Pero conocí, de las cuentas viejas, que no podría así. Ella no me fue, y ustedes no fueron hombres pero demonios, quién había venido para arrastrar un alma inocente hacia abajo al infierno en una tentativa para encender su mundo. Fueron el demonio quien es muchos, fueron Legión, fueron embusteros que atacaron sobre el instinto humano para abstenerse de la soledad, para mover en paquetes, para fiarse. Fueron la Legión: fueron la marea que giró contra usted, celoso de todo, celoso más específicamente de las sociedades armoniosas, los grupos comunales que nunca dominarán, nunca crearán dentro de sí mismo. Estuvieron celosos de la inocencia.
Así no fui con ellos pero en lugar me senté allí, sin movimiento, y miré sus cuerpos destiñiendo en la niebla como el cielo lentamente creció más ligero.
Fín.
Y así me acosté hasta que, lentamente, subí, presentiendo algo en el viento de la noche. Miré a través de la sima abierta del camino a la mancha solar débil y artificial que brilló como un candelero. Su claridad estuve estropeado por una figura oscura, que brillado y también consumido toda luz como la obsidiana. Un leopardo negro. Pero entonces, que horror -- miró a mí y dentro de su cara yo ví ojos humanos y entonces -- la nariz y la boca humanas también. Y comenzó a cazar al acecho.
Temblando y congelado como un animal inútil me encogí atrás en la ladera, desesperadamente esperando para ser envuelto como si algun misterio se acostó bajo la tierra oscura. Pero solo fue el tiempo, y cosas muertas, y pareció que ninguna magia me podría guardar de la bestia. Y entonces recordé al arbusto -- amortiguando un chillido, zambullé detrás de lo como el animal empezó su subida elegante del asfaltado a la colina, mi colina, y me di cuenta de con el asombro horrible que no estuve detrás del arbusto. Miré en todas direcciónes con terror -- el arbusto fue de repente a mi izquierda. Pero pude entender una figura detrás del arbusto -- y a mi confusión creciente comprendí que fui yo. Pero la bestia me ignoró, ignoró la mí llanura, la mí que no fui ocultado y fui expusó, y en lugar lentamente arrastrado arriba sobre la forma que se encogía como una liebre entre las raíces. Y cerré mis ojos, la silencia intolerable, esperando sin espera para el muerte. ¡Pero no hice! y lentamente lo ví surge. El hombre-leopardo no fue más; surgiendo del arbusto estuvieron yo, claramente enamorado, envuelté en los brazos de un hombre, un indio, mientras su hermano arrastró cierra atrás, casi cepillando nuestras espaldas con sus puntas de los dedos largos como el tres anduvieron a zancadas, moviendo como fantasmas. El hermano miró fijamente a mí, el dedo torcido, y supe que él atraía para mí seguir, unir con mi medio-ser y para encontrarlo, el hermanastro. Pero conocí, de las cuentas viejas, que no podría así. Ella no me fue, y ustedes no fueron hombres pero demonios, quién había venido para arrastrar un alma inocente hacia abajo al infierno en una tentativa para encender su mundo. Fueron el demonio quien es muchos, fueron Legión, fueron embusteros que atacaron sobre el instinto humano para abstenerse de la soledad, para mover en paquetes, para fiarse. Fueron la Legión: fueron la marea que giró contra usted, celoso de todo, celoso más específicamente de las sociedades armoniosas, los grupos comunales que nunca dominarán, nunca crearán dentro de sí mismo. Estuvieron celosos de la inocencia.
Así no fui con ellos pero en lugar me senté allí, sin movimiento, y miré sus cuerpos destiñiendo en la niebla como el cielo lentamente creció más ligero.
Fín.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
apparently
blogging is becoming trendy upon the final (and also first) frontier -- teenagers. oh wait. didn't this happen in 2005? it's pretty funny that everyone seems to be retreating by choice back to a time when we were too spastic and retarded for social netwroking and hence, it did not exist. really, it just furthers the idea that i've already entertained for several years that people are infinitely children. it makes perfect sense -- it's not like we stop learning things, ever.
toady was really weird. my ex-best friend assaulted me. i have more to say about both of these things but my head is spinning too fast. i'm trying to find the pieces of my necklace that she destroyed.
Monday, April 7, 2008
tiny ghost
my heart is on my palms
but you wear yours on your small finger
i build a nest with my qualms
curling up while dreams of you linger
i'm only alone in spirit
following a ghost-deer's footprint
while the leaves whisper thoughts i've never had
moving inside, small bells
tinkle tinny while i'm missing you
standing in the spot where i'm used to
now you speak in words i can't spell
can you do me favors?
i know you could wrap both legs so close
around your head and skinny shoulders
but now you don't think so to both
i'm only alone in spirit
following a ghost-deer's footprint
while the leaves whisper thoughts i've never had
but you wear yours on your small finger
i build a nest with my qualms
curling up while dreams of you linger
i'm only alone in spirit
following a ghost-deer's footprint
while the leaves whisper thoughts i've never had
moving inside, small bells
tinkle tinny while i'm missing you
standing in the spot where i'm used to
now you speak in words i can't spell
can you do me favors?
i know you could wrap both legs so close
around your head and skinny shoulders
but now you don't think so to both
i'm only alone in spirit
following a ghost-deer's footprint
while the leaves whisper thoughts i've never had
Friday, April 4, 2008
so
As you guys have probably noticed, I never write "stuff" stuff on my blog. Like narrative and real-people dialogue etc. This is probably because nobody knows about it. Yet. There is some shit on here that doesn't exist anywhere else, as well as some shit that only existed other places before i brought it here. I have some thoughts about some things, like telling the internet i'm alive, even though probably the only person who would ever read it anyway is gabby, but even she doesn't know about this yet. Mostly what has inspired me to write like i'm in a letter is the deerhunter blog because bradford cox is generally amazing and has shown me (a thing that i already knew --) that it's wonderful to hear rational insights into people's heads as well as their convoluted self-created ones. I dunno. If there's anybody out there, get at me.
someday i'll have the strength and courage to get all multimedia and expressive and shit but who knows, it could take years.
talking to nothingness rules. goodnight.
someday i'll have the strength and courage to get all multimedia and expressive and shit but who knows, it could take years.
talking to nothingness rules. goodnight.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
The Boy Is Dead (Dec 17 2007)
This is a story i wrote in early december of 2007. It's pretty much word-for-word of a dream i had about this boy that i wasn't in love with anymore.
The Boy had a terminal illness and we all knew that it was the day that he was going to die, but some people weren't allowed to be told. I t would cause too much unrest. There were 270 of us in all at the funeral party -- I guess you could call it a preemptive wake. The room was dark and concrete, the basement to some oversized New York apartment building looming up above. It had many rooms; it was a fitting place to say farewell, reminiscent of the catacombs of old.
The band began to play in the center of the room and the people thronged around them like ants. It was not a dirge -- the music was downright poppy -- and we found ourselves offended, crawling of into a corner of the room while the abomination occurred. It was the Boy's deathday, and they were playing a for spectacle, a show.
But then the pattern of the music broke, spilling across the basement in so many echoes like marbles come tumbling out of their sack. The drummer had broken down into sobs, and simply couldn't go on. At the sight of this I believe reality struck the Man, for he began to wail into the microphone like no human creature before, loud racking sobs accompanied by piercing shrieks and the most empty howls, like winds sweeping across a dark plane. The room grew silent as I left. I had to find him.
The basement had many strange rooms that I had become quite lost in before, but perhaps it understood the gravity of the situation. The foundations parted like a magician's curtain and I found myself in his room, paralyzed by the sleeping figure I saw curled up beneath the green paisley sheets of a bed much too large for him. I thought he was dead, and the room spun. The smoky tiles lining the fireplace became a blur, a miasma resembling a fortune teller's fire and the bare branches arranged so artfully in a vase the color of a robin's egg atop the mantelpiece a creature like Loki, 1,000 Lokis leering and grimacing and waving their mischievous arms at me, simultaneously calling Odin, gallows-god, to come for my boy.
The tear that plashed onto the exposed skin of my collarbone brought me back. It was a grim and probable fantasy, but I had to check, to be sure that my lover was dead before invoking such treachery with my thoughts. Odin arrives even unwelcome, and Loki never leaves. I could not prepare any sort of place for them here.
The Boy was curled around a stuffed bear, breathing shallowly. His kitten was nowhere to be found, probably scared off by the aura of death that hung about the room although the Boy was, upon my inspection, absolutely not dead yet -- his cheeks were dusted pink and a small shine of spittle graced his lower lip. Moving closer, I could still hear his breath.
The time was close, but it had not yet come, so I kissed him instead on his forehead as I left the room.
Outside the funeral party raged and roared once more, the dancers becoming frenzied as the time drew nearer to midnight and the slated day come closer to its end. I could see it in all of their eyes -- the half-hope that it was a lie, a false prophecy from an angry god, and that the slated act would not occur. This hope fueled the dancers' passion, and the band did not stop. Lo, it was a sight to be seen. Guests had come dressed in the Boy's honor, some as zombies and their awful brides, others as manga girls and boys, androgyny almost entirely contained except for the tiny skirts the girls were wearing -- without underwear. A few even deigned to arrive as those animals that he had dreamed about in his younger youth, dragons and giant lunar cats and confectioned butterflies. It was a maudlin affair; everyone was drunk and they were all dancing, but nobody was happy. Occasionally a blue spark would shoot out from the direction of the band -- tears had gotten into the microphone, into the amplifier, onto all of our faces. The equipment sizzled as our hearts did.
It was 11:57 and my eyes jerked down to my watch. I knew it was time, it was over, something was wrong, but the house was not admitting me. I felt things, horrible things, I knew their presence like I had known his, long ago, when he used to try to surprise me on the hallways. I had to get to that room, to bargain or to mourn, to save him or say goodbye. It was no use. The clock struck midnight and the revelers went mad. The crowd scattered, the band dropped their instruments, and no noise could be heard but for the scrambling of feet and the scream of the microphone, feeding back a grief greater than any put into it by the Man. Everything was wrong, I knew it. They were searching for a live Boy, it was past midnight, they thought that he was saved, they were all saved, and could leave this place now, carrying him atop their shoulders like a king but still LEAVING, still escaping the place that stank of death.
It was 12:51 when I finally made it to his room to discover a small girl, dressed in white, keening by the side of his bed. She looked up at me with china blue eyes rimmed dark and deep by sadness. Her mouth was drawn into the tiniest pink knot of misery. I knew who she was.
"Anima, you did well. Although... although the soul is gone the body..."
I choked on my words. I saw the Boy. He looked more beautiful than I had ever seen him before, skin white as ice and as even in tone, eyelashes spilling out onto it like December's willow branches grazing a frozen lake of truly unplumbable depths. The body did remain, but the soul had vanished. Slowly the ice was becoming bluer as reality set in and the winter in all of our hearts deepened.
I looked over at Anima. "Can you...?"
"Mrrowr."
"Oh." In her grief Anima had, like the Boy, retained her human form, but she had lost her will to be fully human. Her powers of speech had vanished just as she had the last time I visited him. I remembered my duties. I closed his eyes for the final time, sealing them each with my lips.
We both wailed, and as we cried to a moon invisible up through the greatness of our concrete vessel, a low moan accompanied us. It was the bear, and groans continued to escape her like pups, one after the other slipping out into this world as much of a curiosity as the fresh spawn of a unicorn, and as holy. She could not be living unless --
"You... you were successful." I gaped at the kitten, now feline once more. "Wonderful cat," I said. "If Bast were still alive herself to receive you, upon your death you would have the greatest funeral known to the animal world. He.. you... He shall return."
"Mrrr," she said.
The Boy had a terminal illness and we all knew that it was the day that he was going to die, but some people weren't allowed to be told. I t would cause too much unrest. There were 270 of us in all at the funeral party -- I guess you could call it a preemptive wake. The room was dark and concrete, the basement to some oversized New York apartment building looming up above. It had many rooms; it was a fitting place to say farewell, reminiscent of the catacombs of old.
The band began to play in the center of the room and the people thronged around them like ants. It was not a dirge -- the music was downright poppy -- and we found ourselves offended, crawling of into a corner of the room while the abomination occurred. It was the Boy's deathday, and they were playing a for spectacle, a show.
But then the pattern of the music broke, spilling across the basement in so many echoes like marbles come tumbling out of their sack. The drummer had broken down into sobs, and simply couldn't go on. At the sight of this I believe reality struck the Man, for he began to wail into the microphone like no human creature before, loud racking sobs accompanied by piercing shrieks and the most empty howls, like winds sweeping across a dark plane. The room grew silent as I left. I had to find him.
The basement had many strange rooms that I had become quite lost in before, but perhaps it understood the gravity of the situation. The foundations parted like a magician's curtain and I found myself in his room, paralyzed by the sleeping figure I saw curled up beneath the green paisley sheets of a bed much too large for him. I thought he was dead, and the room spun. The smoky tiles lining the fireplace became a blur, a miasma resembling a fortune teller's fire and the bare branches arranged so artfully in a vase the color of a robin's egg atop the mantelpiece a creature like Loki, 1,000 Lokis leering and grimacing and waving their mischievous arms at me, simultaneously calling Odin, gallows-god, to come for my boy.
The tear that plashed onto the exposed skin of my collarbone brought me back. It was a grim and probable fantasy, but I had to check, to be sure that my lover was dead before invoking such treachery with my thoughts. Odin arrives even unwelcome, and Loki never leaves. I could not prepare any sort of place for them here.
The Boy was curled around a stuffed bear, breathing shallowly. His kitten was nowhere to be found, probably scared off by the aura of death that hung about the room although the Boy was, upon my inspection, absolutely not dead yet -- his cheeks were dusted pink and a small shine of spittle graced his lower lip. Moving closer, I could still hear his breath.
The time was close, but it had not yet come, so I kissed him instead on his forehead as I left the room.
Outside the funeral party raged and roared once more, the dancers becoming frenzied as the time drew nearer to midnight and the slated day come closer to its end. I could see it in all of their eyes -- the half-hope that it was a lie, a false prophecy from an angry god, and that the slated act would not occur. This hope fueled the dancers' passion, and the band did not stop. Lo, it was a sight to be seen. Guests had come dressed in the Boy's honor, some as zombies and their awful brides, others as manga girls and boys, androgyny almost entirely contained except for the tiny skirts the girls were wearing -- without underwear. A few even deigned to arrive as those animals that he had dreamed about in his younger youth, dragons and giant lunar cats and confectioned butterflies. It was a maudlin affair; everyone was drunk and they were all dancing, but nobody was happy. Occasionally a blue spark would shoot out from the direction of the band -- tears had gotten into the microphone, into the amplifier, onto all of our faces. The equipment sizzled as our hearts did.
It was 11:57 and my eyes jerked down to my watch. I knew it was time, it was over, something was wrong, but the house was not admitting me. I felt things, horrible things, I knew their presence like I had known his, long ago, when he used to try to surprise me on the hallways. I had to get to that room, to bargain or to mourn, to save him or say goodbye. It was no use. The clock struck midnight and the revelers went mad. The crowd scattered, the band dropped their instruments, and no noise could be heard but for the scrambling of feet and the scream of the microphone, feeding back a grief greater than any put into it by the Man. Everything was wrong, I knew it. They were searching for a live Boy, it was past midnight, they thought that he was saved, they were all saved, and could leave this place now, carrying him atop their shoulders like a king but still LEAVING, still escaping the place that stank of death.
It was 12:51 when I finally made it to his room to discover a small girl, dressed in white, keening by the side of his bed. She looked up at me with china blue eyes rimmed dark and deep by sadness. Her mouth was drawn into the tiniest pink knot of misery. I knew who she was.
"Anima, you did well. Although... although the soul is gone the body..."
I choked on my words. I saw the Boy. He looked more beautiful than I had ever seen him before, skin white as ice and as even in tone, eyelashes spilling out onto it like December's willow branches grazing a frozen lake of truly unplumbable depths. The body did remain, but the soul had vanished. Slowly the ice was becoming bluer as reality set in and the winter in all of our hearts deepened.
I looked over at Anima. "Can you...?"
"Mrrowr."
"Oh." In her grief Anima had, like the Boy, retained her human form, but she had lost her will to be fully human. Her powers of speech had vanished just as she had the last time I visited him. I remembered my duties. I closed his eyes for the final time, sealing them each with my lips.
We both wailed, and as we cried to a moon invisible up through the greatness of our concrete vessel, a low moan accompanied us. It was the bear, and groans continued to escape her like pups, one after the other slipping out into this world as much of a curiosity as the fresh spawn of a unicorn, and as holy. She could not be living unless --
"You... you were successful." I gaped at the kitten, now feline once more. "Wonderful cat," I said. "If Bast were still alive herself to receive you, upon your death you would have the greatest funeral known to the animal world. He.. you... He shall return."
"Mrrr," she said.
Ballin'
I wrote these all in the F train from Manhattan to Brooklyn on 6/11/2007, I was pretty upset but I like how they turned out. Except the first one actually, i wrote that in some church near grace church but that isn't it.
000-000-0000
Silverdress churchpoem
sunglass blue koan
look at the dead saints
I like them because they’re static
but elbaorate, so pretty
text message cathedral!
Anachronism’s pen
self importance napping
in the pews
I won’t take them off
it can’t be checked
straws & eagle brains
train-quake shaking catacombs
how many dead people are there?
Look at him
his watercolour wash
embroidered bug
to the gloury of God
and in loving memory
Marie Hodges Bald
1924-1986
the shimmer on me is wearing off.
Madame Tossedsalad
Spectacle spectacle
daisy chain women
depression unfolding
oligarchy broccoli, spin
till you’re whipped and
fly free over mekons
rainbow gumdrops neon
cherry acid. Ray Richie
Rishy Ruma
Rumour
brat pack pick ice pick
eskimo sealgirl cobalt
aqua world how will I
tell it when you’re gone?
Z. Web
My brain buzzing all the
time so many words
they quest for rhymes over
and over intuition prohibits it exhibits
a brain writing about its “I”
monologuing in a cramped
dark glitter-free shed in the rain
and lightning crashes all around
you but you’re cool
and avoidant
this nightstalk cliché is
safe from documentation your upper
arms glisten & your crown
is the moon.
Caribou Nerve Net
Werewolves pine zone
ignominy bite-marking
everywhere all your pencils you love
to spit and twist
growlybark tail-chase
be still my heart
with a golden magic silver
bullet twinkle sky
wound seeping red blood
carnelian neck-ruff
howl-eyes moaning
in the crawl.
VIP
POV point of vance earl
bagger-baldy circumcized
strap-on in my bag
rainbow hidden toad
glisten pencils forest
fish toad pond crane
myth crab sparkle
bamboo?
Chanel No. 5
Drippyhead canary yellow
first cross scrawl
illegal ledge heart
falling and twist trapped
gravity g force limbo
tarmac down there
yellow lines parrot
fly order order perfect
always eyeliner order smile.
le.m.n.o.p.portunity
Hell city dolce sweet
time bomb tick clock
racing lucidarian F
garble ugh click talk
no spanish intelligence
indian europe tapestry
degree cash cow
krsňa club clap hands
writing mess odd
realtime feature
flick the loss of my
marbles put it back in the bag hope
dick cunt smiles at us
fame and fortune
queens & dreams
HIV killed me I
sleep on my left-
hand crayon box.
000-000-0000
Silverdress churchpoem
sunglass blue koan
look at the dead saints
I like them because they’re static
but elbaorate, so pretty
text message cathedral!
Anachronism’s pen
self importance napping
in the pews
I won’t take them off
it can’t be checked
straws & eagle brains
train-quake shaking catacombs
how many dead people are there?
Look at him
his watercolour wash
embroidered bug
to the gloury of God
and in loving memory
Marie Hodges Bald
1924-1986
the shimmer on me is wearing off.
Madame Tossedsalad
Spectacle spectacle
daisy chain women
depression unfolding
oligarchy broccoli, spin
till you’re whipped and
fly free over mekons
rainbow gumdrops neon
cherry acid. Ray Richie
Rishy Ruma
Rumour
brat pack pick ice pick
eskimo sealgirl cobalt
aqua world how will I
tell it when you’re gone?
Z. Web
My brain buzzing all the
time so many words
they quest for rhymes over
and over intuition prohibits it exhibits
a brain writing about its “I”
monologuing in a cramped
dark glitter-free shed in the rain
and lightning crashes all around
you but you’re cool
and avoidant
this nightstalk cliché is
safe from documentation your upper
arms glisten & your crown
is the moon.
Caribou Nerve Net
Werewolves pine zone
ignominy bite-marking
everywhere all your pencils you love
to spit and twist
growlybark tail-chase
be still my heart
with a golden magic silver
bullet twinkle sky
wound seeping red blood
carnelian neck-ruff
howl-eyes moaning
in the crawl.
VIP
POV point of vance earl
bagger-baldy circumcized
strap-on in my bag
rainbow hidden toad
glisten pencils forest
fish toad pond crane
myth crab sparkle
bamboo?
Chanel No. 5
Drippyhead canary yellow
first cross scrawl
illegal ledge heart
falling and twist trapped
gravity g force limbo
tarmac down there
yellow lines parrot
fly order order perfect
always eyeliner order smile.
le.m.n.o.p.portunity
Hell city dolce sweet
time bomb tick clock
racing lucidarian F
garble ugh click talk
no spanish intelligence
indian europe tapestry
degree cash cow
krsňa club clap hands
writing mess odd
realtime feature
flick the loss of my
marbles put it back in the bag hope
dick cunt smiles at us
fame and fortune
queens & dreams
HIV killed me I
sleep on my left-
hand crayon box.
when i was young
"I will never say that something is my favorite thing again unless i consider it and mean it. the whole idea of favoritism is redundant, as favorites change. fuck it, it's not even about that. instead of being about me this is secretly about everyone who says things that they don't mean; out of love, out of necessity, out of desperation and fear. it would be complete hypocracy, but i wish everyone would stop it. lies are lies are lies are lies. i will never be involved with somebody who would lie to me.
in all sobriety, it is interesting how much integrity the written word has lost. or, the word in general. there was a time when to swear your honor was to put your very life and mortal soul at stake for a cause- now what we say means nothing. is this inevitable as society begins its downshift into what will surely soon become a period of heavy regression? i only use the downfall of society as a point because i think it is obvious to everyone that that is what is going on at present. but, that said, how much can anyone be trusted to be honest? considering that we are of the iGeneration where indigo children and prodigies run rampant through the streets and it becomes easier and more recommended every day to disguise who you truly are, i don't think that honesty exists anymore. i see myself and everyone else i know moving through their spheres spitting and receiving mental garbage, and i cannot let it go. i don't consider myself a vehicle for social change, but it has grown to the point that i would rather isolate myself with artifacts from the past than continue participating in this culture of dishonesty."
aw
in all sobriety, it is interesting how much integrity the written word has lost. or, the word in general. there was a time when to swear your honor was to put your very life and mortal soul at stake for a cause- now what we say means nothing. is this inevitable as society begins its downshift into what will surely soon become a period of heavy regression? i only use the downfall of society as a point because i think it is obvious to everyone that that is what is going on at present. but, that said, how much can anyone be trusted to be honest? considering that we are of the iGeneration where indigo children and prodigies run rampant through the streets and it becomes easier and more recommended every day to disguise who you truly are, i don't think that honesty exists anymore. i see myself and everyone else i know moving through their spheres spitting and receiving mental garbage, and i cannot let it go. i don't consider myself a vehicle for social change, but it has grown to the point that i would rather isolate myself with artifacts from the past than continue participating in this culture of dishonesty."
aw
inside the cardboard box covered with pictures of christian bale (Jul 19 2007)
some sleepover midsummer last summer:
It's shitty when you eat food and go to sleep on your half-full, half-empty belly churning away, metabolizing regretfully in the half-dark of premorning. It's at this time that it becomes clear to you - every fault and crack in the blighted and collectivized ass of America. And slowly... as the leftovers snake their way through your upper intestine this perspective - this nearly transcendental knowledge extends and balloons to encompass the whole world. And you wonder: why. am i so alone.
Everywhere there are thousands - millions of people who I hate, they're all crawling around like only semi-conscious ants, dragging their bellies through somebody else's shit, eating and recycling it until it becomes their own, but they're still there, still happy, ever-present for my ridicule: In becoming a God, all filiality, all lovecare and mental socialism, is gone.
Sacrificing my godhead is not an option,
and even though I have you, snoozing away in the semidarkness, my titan twin chained to a bed like Caucasus we're isolated our fusion has ruined everything except one for the other and even though we're in love it's in a crystal-cut bubble suspended in impermeable space: we watch the clouds amble by in darkness only to be broken by occasional, painful visits of grinning reality.
I'm a ufo and you're a doll and we both serve our social purposes - we got memes and yours is older than mine but -
It's shitty when you eat food and go to sleep on your half-full, half-empty belly churning away, metabolizing regretfully in the half-dark of premorning. It's at this time that it becomes clear to you - every fault and crack in the blighted and collectivized ass of America. And slowly... as the leftovers snake their way through your upper intestine this perspective - this nearly transcendental knowledge extends and balloons to encompass the whole world. And you wonder: why. am i so alone.
Everywhere there are thousands - millions of people who I hate, they're all crawling around like only semi-conscious ants, dragging their bellies through somebody else's shit, eating and recycling it until it becomes their own, but they're still there, still happy, ever-present for my ridicule: In becoming a God, all filiality, all lovecare and mental socialism, is gone.
Sacrificing my godhead is not an option,
and even though I have you, snoozing away in the semidarkness, my titan twin chained to a bed like Caucasus we're isolated our fusion has ruined everything except one for the other and even though we're in love it's in a crystal-cut bubble suspended in impermeable space: we watch the clouds amble by in darkness only to be broken by occasional, painful visits of grinning reality.
I'm a ufo and you're a doll and we both serve our social purposes - we got memes and yours is older than mine but -
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
i'm still getting over its sound
navy blue ocean
birds and telephones, standing
beneath it he looks
just like he always does ,
jesus and mark twain
just
those
two
things
fists and turkey and jam sandwiches folded we
watch the phylogenic trees they're
stirring in subaquatic winds our
secret words will shimmer
in the largest crystals
they're broken.
birds and telephones, standing
beneath it he looks
just like he always does ,
jesus and mark twain
just
those
two
things
fists and turkey and jam sandwiches folded we
watch the phylogenic trees they're
stirring in subaquatic winds our
secret words will shimmer
in the largest crystals
they're broken.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
LOLcats
1. Does anyone know your password to your MySpace? nope
2. What was the last thing you ordered at McDonald's? i could only afford one cheeseburger.
3. Are you an emotional person? tryna'
5. Do you like your name? it's okay
6. Do you believe in love at first sight? only in retrospect
7. What was the last thing you did? read "Lolenzo's oil" in a text-message
8. Who was the last person you ate with? felix
9. What are you listening to right now? the Palestrina
10. How's the weather right now? someone told me it was nice out
11. Last person who called you? "tola"
12. Last lie you told? all of them!
13. Last song you sang? the stupid hi-hat portion of lucas' mario party beatbox thingie
14. Lost a friendship over something stupid? yeah! mother came home when i was drunk at a friend's house. i was allowed to be there previously but post-incident i am apparently a criminal.
15. Last thing you bought? a milky way because i was avoiding my mother.
16. Last time you had starbucks? barnes and noble hot chocolate party alone
17. Where do you wish you were? someplace warm and clean
18. Faked being sick to miss work/school? absolutely.
19. What time did you wake up today? 1:04
20. What did you do last night? consoled and carried lots of drum hardware. coughed up a few things as well.
21. Last person you made fun of? felix
22. What are you wearing right now? pajammers
23. What's the first thing you notice about the opposite sex? same thing i notice about the same sex.. the way they carry themselves i suppose. posture says a lot about a person.
24. Where are you right now? my bedroom
32. Whats the most annoying thing someone has said to you? silence
33. Last thing of yours that broke? shirt
34. Do you want to get married? ˚∆©ß∂¬∆
35. Would you bungee jump? probably
36. Can you speak Spanish? enough
37. Do you like roller coasters? they make me cry,
38. Is there anything you wished for this summer? reciprocation
41. Thinking about someone right now? not really
42. Concerned about life right now? always!
43. Have you ever tripped going up the stairs? ow
44. What are you looking forward to this summer? BURNING MAN
2. What was the last thing you ordered at McDonald's? i could only afford one cheeseburger.
3. Are you an emotional person? tryna'
5. Do you like your name? it's okay
6. Do you believe in love at first sight? only in retrospect
7. What was the last thing you did? read "Lolenzo's oil" in a text-message
8. Who was the last person you ate with? felix
9. What are you listening to right now? the Palestrina
10. How's the weather right now? someone told me it was nice out
11. Last person who called you? "tola"
12. Last lie you told? all of them!
13. Last song you sang? the stupid hi-hat portion of lucas' mario party beatbox thingie
14. Lost a friendship over something stupid? yeah! mother came home when i was drunk at a friend's house. i was allowed to be there previously but post-incident i am apparently a criminal.
15. Last thing you bought? a milky way because i was avoiding my mother.
16. Last time you had starbucks? barnes and noble hot chocolate party alone
17. Where do you wish you were? someplace warm and clean
18. Faked being sick to miss work/school? absolutely.
19. What time did you wake up today? 1:04
20. What did you do last night? consoled and carried lots of drum hardware. coughed up a few things as well.
21. Last person you made fun of? felix
22. What are you wearing right now? pajammers
23. What's the first thing you notice about the opposite sex? same thing i notice about the same sex.. the way they carry themselves i suppose. posture says a lot about a person.
24. Where are you right now? my bedroom
32. Whats the most annoying thing someone has said to you? silence
33. Last thing of yours that broke? shirt
34. Do you want to get married? ˚∆©ß∂¬∆
35. Would you bungee jump? probably
36. Can you speak Spanish? enough
37. Do you like roller coasters? they make me cry,
38. Is there anything you wished for this summer? reciprocation
41. Thinking about someone right now? not really
42. Concerned about life right now? always!
43. Have you ever tripped going up the stairs? ow
44. What are you looking forward to this summer? BURNING MAN
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Lounge Fight
Take me home
small goldness in the gloaming, growing
before you advertise
end times it should be cold outside
Jesus, don't cry
we're drinking and we're dancing
and I am not surprised
by kid stuff like Kurt Cobain
I took out my nosering today
I took out my nosering today
All dressed down
no glamour, careless holes in stockings
I miss those times
with all my friends in middle school
Suffer for fashion
see those friends in magazines
these are the times
when no one will admit they wanna be cool
and
I took out my nosering today
I took out my nosering today
small goldness in the gloaming, growing
before you advertise
end times it should be cold outside
Jesus, don't cry
we're drinking and we're dancing
and I am not surprised
by kid stuff like Kurt Cobain
I took out my nosering today
I took out my nosering today
All dressed down
no glamour, careless holes in stockings
I miss those times
with all my friends in middle school
Suffer for fashion
see those friends in magazines
these are the times
when no one will admit they wanna be cool
and
I took out my nosering today
I took out my nosering today
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Options
On the one hand I have
little foreigner born
of village tapestry sitting
grinding her teeth in worry
over stoplight looks
and wondering when she'll be
an American.
On the other hand I have the smallest
one of three, right now
strutting boardwalks and
grinning under a full
Miami sun, looking
up at the sky in anticipation --
she's still so young.
If I had a third hand he'd be there
my little brother/lover
who bites his nails.
little foreigner born
of village tapestry sitting
grinding her teeth in worry
over stoplight looks
and wondering when she'll be
an American.
On the other hand I have the smallest
one of three, right now
strutting boardwalks and
grinning under a full
Miami sun, looking
up at the sky in anticipation --
she's still so young.
If I had a third hand he'd be there
my little brother/lover
who bites his nails.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
X
I'm listening to your
ex girlfriend's music and
thinking about how much I want
to hold you and listen
to you saying silly things
stupid things
nothings
I'm looking at her pictures of you and
I wish that it was me
behind that lens even
in the pictures when you're crying
and I know it's her that
made you
but still
that's
nearer than I've ever been.
I'm thinking about your ex girlfriend
and wondering how she could have ever
even imagined
letting go.
ex girlfriend's music and
thinking about how much I want
to hold you and listen
to you saying silly things
stupid things
nothings
I'm looking at her pictures of you and
I wish that it was me
behind that lens even
in the pictures when you're crying
and I know it's her that
made you
but still
that's
nearer than I've ever been.
I'm thinking about your ex girlfriend
and wondering how she could have ever
even imagined
letting go.
I Just Want
I just want to be good enough
to like what I do and
to have it
be effortless, so easy for me
to create little bits
of things to love
and if I can't commit
to this how
can I ever spend my time
on you.
to like what I do and
to have it
be effortless, so easy for me
to create little bits
of things to love
and if I can't commit
to this how
can I ever spend my time
on you.
Monday, February 18, 2008
foundsong poem
Flying across the state line
I've nothing much to offer
you're tossing turning, dreams are murders
and I say
Wake up you sleepy head
while you whimpering
(stop me, oh stop me) relate:
He was smiling through his own personal hell
the railings of the bridge were moving by the glass
and the phantom appeared
to brush the dust of youth from off your shoulder
opening
his mouth to say
"I come from Boston, I'm gonna tell you all about
how I love New England, it's my favorite place.
It's automatic, I need to unload
'cause
I was born in a class-five hurricane
and I'm sick, you're tired,
let's dance."
So you tell me more how
all around the demons say
"That's what we try to do in our music."
They're terrible and
while avoiding them you notice
a thickset man
with frog eyes
standing at the door,
who makes you remember "ooh,
my cousin's friend's friend wanna meet me..."
I interrupt because I won't share you
after the glow,
the scene, the stage, the set, but
you forgot I was here; stuttering
"oh, hello."
I know when to go out
thrown like a star in my vast sleep
so I'll stop asking you
What do I need to do
to see myself in a better mood.
We're all working for the weekends.
I've nothing much to offer
you're tossing turning, dreams are murders
and I say
Wake up you sleepy head
while you whimpering
(stop me, oh stop me) relate:
He was smiling through his own personal hell
the railings of the bridge were moving by the glass
and the phantom appeared
to brush the dust of youth from off your shoulder
opening
his mouth to say
"I come from Boston, I'm gonna tell you all about
how I love New England, it's my favorite place.
It's automatic, I need to unload
'cause
I was born in a class-five hurricane
and I'm sick, you're tired,
let's dance."
So you tell me more how
all around the demons say
"That's what we try to do in our music."
They're terrible and
while avoiding them you notice
a thickset man
with frog eyes
standing at the door,
who makes you remember "ooh,
my cousin's friend's friend wanna meet me..."
I interrupt because I won't share you
after the glow,
the scene, the stage, the set, but
you forgot I was here; stuttering
"oh, hello."
I know when to go out
thrown like a star in my vast sleep
so I'll stop asking you
What do I need to do
to see myself in a better mood.
We're all working for the weekends.
for sarah
In the dream
I got a bluebird
and
I can see myself in your eyes
tinkling, words are flowing out
as tablas gambol
cymbals meandering
to flute twitter
so I wonder where you go with your broken heart
nodding along to whispering guitars
falling
to their deaths
mouth:
take my hand, I changed
my mind again so sing me
to sleep
I say
"This one's called Stella Was A Diver And She Was Always Down."
but you wonder, say
"You sure about that?" to my reply:
I found a road and off I sped
thinking last night it was so good,
learning to say the same thing.
This is not a love song
a lazy confession
distorted droning --
since I met you
inhaling crushed bones just to
stand up, I said
you've got to manage brothers
and sisters, barking dogs
oh my, naked eyes
this is why events unnerve me.
Girl I am afraid, where do his intentions lay?
Because your wine,
it
tastes
too sweet
but it's a motherfucker being here without you,,,
If you walk away I'll
walk away at the music heist
do you want to be free?
(because)
You're just the girl of my dreams
who knows alone the reasons
why you choose to be with me.
I know you're antiseptic
but...
Reality's a dream
how can we make you understand?
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
10 Rules For Combat
1. KNOW THYSELF
2. Understand your position. Before you can go into battle you have to understand what you're fighting for.
3. Set a goal that you're striving for. Conversely, set an anti-goal that is to be avoided at all costs.
4. Devise a method that will most effectively achieve said goal.
5. Make a back-up plan.
6. Consistency is key. Any deference from plan shows weaknesses and presents loopholes to the enemy, so pick the strategy that you understand will be most effective and DO NOT contradict it.
7. Be strong. Remind yourself as frequently as possible why you are doing what you're doing.
8. Don't over analyze the plan -- instead, choose this time as an opportunity to be dogmatic, no matter how much of a neo-Kantian pansy you may be.
9. Don't exhaust yourself. Worrying about attacks may work well for princes, but it does you no good to antagonize over the imaginary.
10. TRUST THYSELF
2. Understand your position. Before you can go into battle you have to understand what you're fighting for.
3. Set a goal that you're striving for. Conversely, set an anti-goal that is to be avoided at all costs.
4. Devise a method that will most effectively achieve said goal.
5. Make a back-up plan.
6. Consistency is key. Any deference from plan shows weaknesses and presents loopholes to the enemy, so pick the strategy that you understand will be most effective and DO NOT contradict it.
7. Be strong. Remind yourself as frequently as possible why you are doing what you're doing.
8. Don't over analyze the plan -- instead, choose this time as an opportunity to be dogmatic, no matter how much of a neo-Kantian pansy you may be.
9. Don't exhaust yourself. Worrying about attacks may work well for princes, but it does you no good to antagonize over the imaginary.
10. TRUST THYSELF
Did I?
She said I made a fool
of myself, that I was so
behind I though I was
ahead but lying here in the semi
darkness I know I've won; just
by being a lover of wisdom I
will beat her forever and she
calls me sophomoric
and a child,
anything she can get her
hands on but I remember
that time when she asked me
so politely
if I could edit her college essay.
of myself, that I was so
behind I though I was
ahead but lying here in the semi
darkness I know I've won; just
by being a lover of wisdom I
will beat her forever and she
calls me sophomoric
and a child,
anything she can get her
hands on but I remember
that time when she asked me
so politely
if I could edit her college essay.
December 26th
Every time I ask you
to go away
more and more even
to the point where I want you
deader than springtime
you,
you're
relentless like the winter
unforgiving like depression
that comes packaged in shining paper
and hopes held high for a better
and brighter future
that get dashed
every January when I see
broken toys on streetcorners
ordained by bits
of old tinsel, holding
out their plastic arms frozen
in the position
that says "want me."
Looking futile and feeling
worse I wipe my nose;
it's our Boxing Day.
to go away
more and more even
to the point where I want you
deader than springtime
you,
you're
relentless like the winter
unforgiving like depression
that comes packaged in shining paper
and hopes held high for a better
and brighter future
that get dashed
every January when I see
broken toys on streetcorners
ordained by bits
of old tinsel, holding
out their plastic arms frozen
in the position
that says "want me."
Looking futile and feeling
worse I wipe my nose;
it's our Boxing Day.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
o, internet
Every picture of you I see now
looks sad, your eyes
no longer in love like planets
orbiting some distant sun
that's in its red giant stage like
they already know what's coming to them
anyway so
they should really cut it out already.
And I noticed your cheeks
are fading
into your lips
like an old towel quietly soaking up
water
and even your hair
is depressing, leaving
your scalp in defeat
with roots black,
mourning.
looks sad, your eyes
no longer in love like planets
orbiting some distant sun
that's in its red giant stage like
they already know what's coming to them
anyway so
they should really cut it out already.
And I noticed your cheeks
are fading
into your lips
like an old towel quietly soaking up
water
and even your hair
is depressing, leaving
your scalp in defeat
with roots black,
mourning.
a long time ago
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like
if I never met you
and I never let myself think
that we were friends
so that we could stay together forever.
I thought it would work but then
surprises came, needing
and holding onto in
that first nervous dark.
When I saw you up there I
said yes
you said yes
but then we both said no
no no no
and it grew
that no, until
with every absent look
and touch
it said, all it could say was
I miss that itchy dark
I miss that time before
we knew who each other were,
and it said
Go away stranger
who are you,
why are you saying yes?
if I never met you
and I never let myself think
that we were friends
so that we could stay together forever.
I thought it would work but then
surprises came, needing
and holding onto in
that first nervous dark.
When I saw you up there I
said yes
you said yes
but then we both said no
no no no
and it grew
that no, until
with every absent look
and touch
it said, all it could say was
I miss that itchy dark
I miss that time before
we knew who each other were,
and it said
Go away stranger
who are you,
why are you saying yes?
It Is?
My password is strong
this is my moon and it said that
but I can only wonder as I grow dizzier
over hours piling up
this is my moon but
I feel weak and it's impossible
that anything could be strong here like
gravity, for example.
I watch comets, angels
people from a
bubble made of tyvek and old thoughts
that radiates out
around me and it feels good to
think that I'm safe here
and that nothing can touch me but
the reality is that everything
can, is always touching but
I can't touch back, even
my reflection won't,
she's too busy looking
in and whispering
at what are supposed to be stars
but is really just some stuff I hung up in my bedroom
to remind myself that other things
exist other than cold
black space,
but
it doesn't really work --
I can still see her and sometimes when
the loneliness gets palpable
I call her
You.
this is my moon and it said that
but I can only wonder as I grow dizzier
over hours piling up
this is my moon but
I feel weak and it's impossible
that anything could be strong here like
gravity, for example.
I watch comets, angels
people from a
bubble made of tyvek and old thoughts
that radiates out
around me and it feels good to
think that I'm safe here
and that nothing can touch me but
the reality is that everything
can, is always touching but
I can't touch back, even
my reflection won't,
she's too busy looking
in and whispering
at what are supposed to be stars
but is really just some stuff I hung up in my bedroom
to remind myself that other things
exist other than cold
black space,
but
it doesn't really work --
I can still see her and sometimes when
the loneliness gets palpable
I call her
You.
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