i sit here
i am scared

you treat me well

go
don't go

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

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.

My friend Duncan Powell on love: "it's like a barbed wire chain covered in flowers around your eyes singing"

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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