ooohhhh, just doin some thinkin and writin and fictionin and stuff.
this is how i feel about los angeles and san francisco:
if san francisco is a leather goddess dripping turquoise aura, then los angeles is her immature ex girlfriend who is still bitter about the break up.
if los angeles is an absent minded piece of fiction, then san francisco is a hawk feather tied to a web of dreams.
oh and also,
if you could count tiny droplets of blood, they would wrap their wings around old carcass and i would bury her urn in the canyon and only the trees would wallow when i would cry. i would lay me down in a river. i would lay me down in quiet bones. make clay out of the river water and the rest of her ashes i had forgotten to scatter. i would pass singing bowls around the circle of apostles at her wake and capture the voice of each whisper and i'd cake myself in her, from ash clay. i'd cloak my self in her, i'd cake myself in her, i'd cloak myself in her spirit and i would spit wet rose quartz to the ground and the gulls would swarm.
Monday, December 28, 2009
whoa so much at a time!!!
THIS goes out to wanting to fuck you
like the cresent moon in the hallway of your studio
with libra rising,
your cat watching,
you start crying.
and i'm gone.
like the cresent moon in the hallway of your studio
with libra rising,
your cat watching,
you start crying.
and i'm gone.
long time, no see
passion, poetry, spirits, goddess, saul williams, baby love, hug your hag, queer revolution, love, sex, poems, e.e. cummings, heart stopping, body image, cellulite, beautiful, womyn, everything, tree spirits, bates, cats, power animals, water, sunrise, spirituality, honesty, truth, blood, humans, herbalism, witches, tarot, crystals, quarts, writing, spitting, uniting, laughter, openness, kissing, love beyond words, faithfulness, lips, curves, songs, feathers, lavender, femmes, sewing, art, early morning, exercise, animals, dykes, butches, queers, sexy, identity, wholeness, breathing, tranquility, sobriety, self assuring, confidence, poems, sage francis, aesop rock, erykah, hip hop, H.D., candles, nag champa, hands, eyes, iris', tattoos, rose gardens, 16th and mission, cigarettes, the poetry i haven't found yet, francesca lia block, content, travel, home, queen of cups, sagittarius, aquarius moon, cancer rising, feeling things, ability to give and recieve, moonstone, dreams, astral travel, metaphysics, shamans, stones, typewriters, written word..
poems,
poets, hmm.
words,
written words, hmm.
spoken words,
spoken treason,
wind like the way the
trees hum
keep your
ear drum
to the north
and to the south
keep your eyes shut,
you might speak
rhythms of tidal waves
but they swallow.
poems,
poets, hmm.
words,
written words, hmm.
spoken words,
spoken treason,
wind like the way the
trees hum
keep your
ear drum
to the north
and to the south
keep your eyes shut,
you might speak
rhythms of tidal waves
but they swallow.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
thanksgiving
peripheral breathing
pəˈrɪfərəl briðɪŋ
i know my body with brush strokes.
i know when my heat be rising.
i know the woman who constructed the moon with two hands,
with two hands she let
enough crescent nails stain her body
with blunt scabs and silver tattoos
that flood up the strength of her neck
and pooled together into phases of eclipses with no meaning.
now she speak in quiet muscles
lifting up tragedies out of concrete cemeteries
and the granite projection of wordless
poured onto this cursive
born out of carbon and opium,
she’s important
like the circumference
of the earth in one heart step,
she is.
sometimes,
she string yards of lanterns
across the hallway of lit match sticks
burning down six week old candles
and i’d carve out her biography
into the red wick wax
and then one into her back
so she’d never have to see it,
but inevitably have to feel it.
i know when she liberate wind children from her slant jaw.
i know when cold iris blink from the root of their birthstone.
i taught her to speak to me in perfect tongues
where the petals
preserving imagination
paint their stain glass wings themselves
and themselves i call to her
like a voice in the subconscious
of the universe peeling back layers
of dialect changes,
like a wish for things.
she move rhythmic body to the energy
of flames she been feeding
and unzipped her hips
like the burden from her blessing
would spill out from within them
and she would choke on cracked bottles of
surgical needles
and they would take her
unlike a lover
in this framed nighttime
spinning clockwise
like some kaleidoscope deity
patching together each sacred palm
blooming with road maps of soul luck
and swelling of infinity,
so she be quiet.
so she keep silent.
so she let all the secrets
float gracefully
‘til they settle in the
inbetweens,
‘til i can settle with
i is she.
i know she who has a photograph of heaven tattooed on the inside of her eyelids.
i know she who spells beauty with an L for life
i know she who be daughter of dawn bringer.
i know she who breathes.
pəˈrɪfərəl briðɪŋ
i know my body with brush strokes.
i know when my heat be rising.
i know the woman who constructed the moon with two hands,
with two hands she let
enough crescent nails stain her body
with blunt scabs and silver tattoos
that flood up the strength of her neck
and pooled together into phases of eclipses with no meaning.
now she speak in quiet muscles
lifting up tragedies out of concrete cemeteries
and the granite projection of wordless
poured onto this cursive
born out of carbon and opium,
she’s important
like the circumference
of the earth in one heart step,
she is.
sometimes,
she string yards of lanterns
across the hallway of lit match sticks
burning down six week old candles
and i’d carve out her biography
into the red wick wax
and then one into her back
so she’d never have to see it,
but inevitably have to feel it.
i know when she liberate wind children from her slant jaw.
i know when cold iris blink from the root of their birthstone.
i taught her to speak to me in perfect tongues
where the petals
preserving imagination
paint their stain glass wings themselves
and themselves i call to her
like a voice in the subconscious
of the universe peeling back layers
of dialect changes,
like a wish for things.
she move rhythmic body to the energy
of flames she been feeding
and unzipped her hips
like the burden from her blessing
would spill out from within them
and she would choke on cracked bottles of
surgical needles
and they would take her
unlike a lover
in this framed nighttime
spinning clockwise
like some kaleidoscope deity
patching together each sacred palm
blooming with road maps of soul luck
and swelling of infinity,
so she be quiet.
so she keep silent.
so she let all the secrets
float gracefully
‘til they settle in the
inbetweens,
‘til i can settle with
i is she.
i know she who has a photograph of heaven tattooed on the inside of her eyelids.
i know she who spells beauty with an L for life
i know she who be daughter of dawn bringer.
i know she who breathes.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
s/he
he says it’s ‘cause he be greedy.
searching out too many caves of pot
luck under rainbows,
chasing a dame that drew
out a sword from his smiling gut,
and that’s not even a tragedy
because if you sew together makeshift masks
of alcoholic binging and 35mm photography
you might find something closer to truthful meaning
than meaning to
write out words of beauty
onto a tear stained cloth
in all capitals rising to the ranks of the city
and he might kiss you
‘cause he thinks you be so pretty.
he says it’s ‘cause he speaks four languages
that date back to centuries
before linguists knew what we is,
that his text book get heavy from ancient scriptures,
that his skin tone get lighter with each orthodox fixture
and he’d fake your organism
‘til you come
to his awakening
still long
because no barriers will be breaking
just like flare guns pointed at
your glottal
stop.
he took magic out of the missionary
position and excommunicated it,
be fathers of tradition
never allowing incense burners to settle
and i’ve planted my prayers ten times over
with sages burning brush fire
and tried to smudge out his refusal
to accept the act of his betrayal
and how he guided you
out of the world of men
and into the caves of women
and that for a while you’d still be bleeding
and consistently needing his validation
but he’s moved on
to get the shit beat out of him
by verbal rhythm
and two step death dance ‘round
which woman’s the right one for him
and he can’t decide,
more or less fight
because he thinks they’ll just come to him
crawling on hind feet
with a mating call
because he’s got it all goin on for him
but he can’t create a life
if you paid him
so he might as well stay lost
like his virginity
because it’s so easy to scrape the surface
of insecurity
than actually
just
be.
i said
these wings didn’t suffice enough for deployment,
that your span couldn’t tie him,
that those tips couldn’t bind him,
but wanted to.
i said
some things.
i said
that i heard in russia the cold creeps down your throat
and pulls out scallywag soul
makes no profit off your selling price
makes no heaven off your poltergeist
and i said
that i heard that in
bathroom stalls
they make lyric out of permanent ink
tattooed across the plastic walls
that one time they said,
i love a girl and a man
that one time they said,
i am a pagan and a pillow princess
that one time i said,
i am the moon and this is the madness of my cycle.
he says it’s because he’s too deeply unaffected,
that he’s never shoved his soul down the windpipes of her existence
and he’s too busy day dreaming about cartography
and planting seeds of money,
he’s too busy breeding heart wounds
in stuffed sarcophagus
to practice punching gold demons
so he just turns and runs.
and he acts like some willow tree
with my name carved on it’s base root chakra,
it’s heart etched in like a sorry archer
plummeting her way through the sky
and the trunk has green muscle under the skin,
but that doesn’t guarantee anything about an october harvest
and i’ll bet he has fists
that would turn flaccid at any threat of an attack
and he would still try to be that intelligent conversation
as if he had you,
as if all the hours you gave up to serve him,
as if you need any more reason to not retreat back to him
to hear stories of how he’s too scared to be him,
that no truth will ever be lifted,
and how he’s just so fucking wounded,
if my prayers hatch like pearls
from a demon,
then you’ll never have to answer to him
and you’ve already shed light your skin
so rebirth isn’t even needed
but restriction and thought process
needs to be limited,
you’ll never
have to answer to him.
he looks like magnified metallic
with roaring glory
like a slice of crescent blood stream
hut he’s not holy
and he’s still filthy
and he’s so untrustworthy
that even the Moon don’t want him,
and he will never change
...............must....finish...........
searching out too many caves of pot
luck under rainbows,
chasing a dame that drew
out a sword from his smiling gut,
and that’s not even a tragedy
because if you sew together makeshift masks
of alcoholic binging and 35mm photography
you might find something closer to truthful meaning
than meaning to
write out words of beauty
onto a tear stained cloth
in all capitals rising to the ranks of the city
and he might kiss you
‘cause he thinks you be so pretty.
he says it’s ‘cause he speaks four languages
that date back to centuries
before linguists knew what we is,
that his text book get heavy from ancient scriptures,
that his skin tone get lighter with each orthodox fixture
and he’d fake your organism
‘til you come
to his awakening
still long
because no barriers will be breaking
just like flare guns pointed at
your glottal
stop.
he took magic out of the missionary
position and excommunicated it,
be fathers of tradition
never allowing incense burners to settle
and i’ve planted my prayers ten times over
with sages burning brush fire
and tried to smudge out his refusal
to accept the act of his betrayal
and how he guided you
out of the world of men
and into the caves of women
and that for a while you’d still be bleeding
and consistently needing his validation
but he’s moved on
to get the shit beat out of him
by verbal rhythm
and two step death dance ‘round
which woman’s the right one for him
and he can’t decide,
more or less fight
because he thinks they’ll just come to him
crawling on hind feet
with a mating call
because he’s got it all goin on for him
but he can’t create a life
if you paid him
so he might as well stay lost
like his virginity
because it’s so easy to scrape the surface
of insecurity
than actually
just
be.
i said
these wings didn’t suffice enough for deployment,
that your span couldn’t tie him,
that those tips couldn’t bind him,
but wanted to.
i said
some things.
i said
that i heard in russia the cold creeps down your throat
and pulls out scallywag soul
makes no profit off your selling price
makes no heaven off your poltergeist
and i said
that i heard that in
bathroom stalls
they make lyric out of permanent ink
tattooed across the plastic walls
that one time they said,
i love a girl and a man
that one time they said,
i am a pagan and a pillow princess
that one time i said,
i am the moon and this is the madness of my cycle.
he says it’s because he’s too deeply unaffected,
that he’s never shoved his soul down the windpipes of her existence
and he’s too busy day dreaming about cartography
and planting seeds of money,
he’s too busy breeding heart wounds
in stuffed sarcophagus
to practice punching gold demons
so he just turns and runs.
and he acts like some willow tree
with my name carved on it’s base root chakra,
it’s heart etched in like a sorry archer
plummeting her way through the sky
and the trunk has green muscle under the skin,
but that doesn’t guarantee anything about an october harvest
and i’ll bet he has fists
that would turn flaccid at any threat of an attack
and he would still try to be that intelligent conversation
as if he had you,
as if all the hours you gave up to serve him,
as if you need any more reason to not retreat back to him
to hear stories of how he’s too scared to be him,
that no truth will ever be lifted,
and how he’s just so fucking wounded,
if my prayers hatch like pearls
from a demon,
then you’ll never have to answer to him
and you’ve already shed light your skin
so rebirth isn’t even needed
but restriction and thought process
needs to be limited,
you’ll never
have to answer to him.
he looks like magnified metallic
with roaring glory
like a slice of crescent blood stream
hut he’s not holy
and he’s still filthy
and he’s so untrustworthy
that even the Moon don’t want him,
and he will never change
...............must....finish...........
Thursday, November 12, 2009
things that i know exist
and when i'm standing with a fist full of restlessness
i'd stare down 16th street in a dream
and i'd not wake in this
and i'd call cabbies to break my bones against their metered minds
and i'd watch you evolve on a roof top
outwards torso
you'd climb my limbs,
hugging me gently.
i don't understand why you'd leave me,
spilling softly the things
that the forest can't breed
and it's petty things
like dirty prose
and false hope
and talking about you
and welts on my skin
sharpened teeth in my head
i'm a jigsaw doll
i'm a spit slam
i'm a worrisome teenager
i'm an adolescent in white dress
i'd stop
and i'd sweat out beads of your breath
and float like wings
down the stream of your conscious
i'd float lighter than pencils
deeper than wine stains
to stain
to break bread
to send me home
to kiss my mouth
to pull my hair
to let go of my hand
to fuck my mind
to steal my heart
to release my soul
to compliment my words
to pretend to care
to watch me walk
to never say
i
love
you
too.
to remove salted masks
to bathe in vulnerability
to accept masculinity
to just be.
and you destroyed me.
fuck you.
i'd stare down 16th street in a dream
and i'd not wake in this
and i'd call cabbies to break my bones against their metered minds
and i'd watch you evolve on a roof top
outwards torso
you'd climb my limbs,
hugging me gently.
i don't understand why you'd leave me,
spilling softly the things
that the forest can't breed
and it's petty things
like dirty prose
and false hope
and talking about you
and welts on my skin
sharpened teeth in my head
i'm a jigsaw doll
i'm a spit slam
i'm a worrisome teenager
i'm an adolescent in white dress
i'd stop
and i'd sweat out beads of your breath
and float like wings
down the stream of your conscious
i'd float lighter than pencils
deeper than wine stains
to stain
to break bread
to send me home
to kiss my mouth
to pull my hair
to let go of my hand
to fuck my mind
to steal my heart
to release my soul
to compliment my words
to pretend to care
to watch me walk
to never say
i
love
you
too.
to remove salted masks
to bathe in vulnerability
to accept masculinity
to just be.
and you destroyed me.
fuck you.
Monday, November 9, 2009
songs of my week
know the half by blood of abraham (stupid video though)
the ubiquitous mr lovegroove by dead can dance
fantisize about singing this one yeeeee
AND THE ULTIMATE:
SAUL WILLIAMS - RELEASE PART 2
i too have felt a heaviness
the ubiquitous mr lovegroove by dead can dance
fantisize about singing this one yeeeee
AND THE ULTIMATE:
SAUL WILLIAMS - RELEASE PART 2
i too have felt a heaviness
Friday, November 6, 2009
your dad will love it, so will your mom
buy my chip chap book!!!!!!!!! $2 or better offer!!! like coffeeeee or kisses or flowers or cute things or anythings
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
nice choice of color for that vestibule
the only thing good about sandwich cruz right now is sitting at vieve's kitchen table watching her color her stupid human evolution coloring book while drinking coffee thinking about my fish dream, waiting for the call to go back to sf....last night was.....intense.
p.s. never eating cheese. again.
no love for this:
p.s. never eating cheese. again.
no love for this:
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
oh man, i wrote something after 4 weeks
xv
you don’t leave hell unless you’ve been nursing pomegranate muscles against rotting teeth. you don’t leave hell unless digging rug burns from coal cut cuticles gets tiring, pulling up daisy carpets gets lonelier. roaring flute beats from piper pan beast, steam roller subway service station, edible arrangements taunted by hour glass changes. you don’t leave hell unless you believe yourself, until anxiety slays the ignorance, she tattooed teeth onto her fangs to bite down, twice allowed, you don’t leave. you are a circle cross interlocking, you are a spoon fed serpent with paper cut collages, you know it. you don’t leave hell unless you’re the devil, the, the, the devil (reversed).
you don’t leave hell unless you’ve been nursing pomegranate muscles against rotting teeth. you don’t leave hell unless digging rug burns from coal cut cuticles gets tiring, pulling up daisy carpets gets lonelier. roaring flute beats from piper pan beast, steam roller subway service station, edible arrangements taunted by hour glass changes. you don’t leave hell unless you believe yourself, until anxiety slays the ignorance, she tattooed teeth onto her fangs to bite down, twice allowed, you don’t leave. you are a circle cross interlocking, you are a spoon fed serpent with paper cut collages, you know it. you don’t leave hell unless you’re the devil, the, the, the devil (reversed).
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
steve miller band - the joker
got the block real bad.......
things i'm stoked about:
-autumn in san francisco
-rock n roll high school dvd i found at my parents house
-not being in oak park anymore
-tarot
-knowing that everything is ok
-crater face
-developing skill
-memorization
-lit quake
-seeing vieve next weekend
-tuesday october 13 @ 9:45 pm aka bob dylan midterm will be over
-coffee
-really into coffee
-valerie vargas
-black sabbath
-cocorosie
-new types of art
-making things with my hands
-dia de los muertos
-sugar skulls
-tattoos
-$$ for tattoos
-celebrating life
-THE DEVIL - reversed
-QUEEN OF CUPS
-ellen page
-"i was putting too much pressure on you"
-dreams
Friday, October 9, 2009
the, the devil, the, the, the devil
why aren’t you in prison? the breeding place of unspoken consequences will ultimately send the buzzards swarming, chewing meat off your bones, swallowing salt flesh down their throats and i’d hold the crown of my head on tight afraid i might loose it with my neck fallen backwards laughing, you deserve a lot more than skin pecked off your bones.
vieve, remember this chick?
vieve, remember her? i think the only difference is the hair and ...well i guess everything but the facial expressions tehehe
turning into dust
they're just young at heart and feelin it.....
been caught haikuing when i was five, i like haikuing.
i wish there was something i could do to take my best friends pain away...i guess just being a constant will have to do.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
i scout like atticus finch
fast cars, who the hell is aes rock......i'm an artist, please don't laugh at me
Who's that walking with a hole in his head?
Bazooka Tooth, Gemini, I came to break bread.
What's a troop's recipe for treacherous times?
I tell 'em fast cars, danger, fire and knives, lets go
Fast cars, danger, fire and knives...
I got her majesty Athena riding shotty wide-eyed
Its like never mind the bullocks.....Fuck
Like every other week these hipster tabloids jumping on and off my sex pistol's bullets.
Like every other week he spins the bottle.
Like every other week these fucking fanzines forget if they spit or swallow.
Too bad your inner sheep never forgets to follow,
cuz my inner greed to feed your hate for loving us is hostile.
Fortunate for me it coincides with what comes natural,
so the mongrels that I run with turn the fuck yous into fast food.
Like a little freak sick of the 3 o'clock bully knuckle dust, nursing his last shiner, finds the shoebox in his mother's truck.
Tomorrow's extra curricular punching bag
will finger daddy's widow maker out a brown lunch bag (bang!).
This is where the hunch back
snake oil peddlers
stuck under the burgundy sky of spaghetti westerns
tend to bubble up.
Weathermen huddle up.
Today the son of one too many 'yes sir's kings his checkers,
watch the double jump.
Back with a platter of hot leeches that'll drink up-every bloody drop down to the last diseases,
it's A-E-S-O-P-R-O-C-K,
the peak twister.
Defender of the son of Vaughn Bode's Cheech Wizard.
I used to pray the treatments got easier with my aging
like serotonin weekends was merely comedic hazing.
Wrong, but along his travels located the key to world peace:
“kill every motherfucker but me.”
You cool with that?
Cool. Bang.
You?
Cool. Hang.
You?
No?
Uh... bang?
Cool.
Sorry, dog, rules are rules.
And too long have I followed yours. I'm trying to get them years back,
and walk through every cipher with dynamite in a beer hat.
Bazooka Tooth, Gemini, I came to break bread.
What's a troop's recipe for treacherous times?
I tell 'em fast cars, danger, fire and knives, lets go
Fast cars, danger, fire and knives...
I got her majesty Athena riding shotty wide-eyed
Its like never mind the bullocks.....Fuck
Like every other week these hipster tabloids jumping on and off my sex pistol's bullets.
Like every other week he spins the bottle.
Like every other week these fucking fanzines forget if they spit or swallow.
Too bad your inner sheep never forgets to follow,
cuz my inner greed to feed your hate for loving us is hostile.
Fortunate for me it coincides with what comes natural,
so the mongrels that I run with turn the fuck yous into fast food.
Like a little freak sick of the 3 o'clock bully knuckle dust, nursing his last shiner, finds the shoebox in his mother's truck.
Tomorrow's extra curricular punching bag
will finger daddy's widow maker out a brown lunch bag (bang!).
This is where the hunch back
snake oil peddlers
stuck under the burgundy sky of spaghetti westerns
tend to bubble up.
Weathermen huddle up.
Today the son of one too many 'yes sir's kings his checkers,
watch the double jump.
Back with a platter of hot leeches that'll drink up-every bloody drop down to the last diseases,
it's A-E-S-O-P-R-O-C-K,
the peak twister.
Defender of the son of Vaughn Bode's Cheech Wizard.
I used to pray the treatments got easier with my aging
like serotonin weekends was merely comedic hazing.
Wrong, but along his travels located the key to world peace:
“kill every motherfucker but me.”
You cool with that?
Cool. Bang.
You?
Cool. Hang.
You?
No?
Uh... bang?
Cool.
Sorry, dog, rules are rules.
And too long have I followed yours. I'm trying to get them years back,
and walk through every cipher with dynamite in a beer hat.
life's peachy, like james and the giant
VIEVE!!!!! 10 days n counting
sloth me, now.
just don't talk to me for 24 hours, then after 24 hours we can go tanning ;)
vieva feva
Monday, October 5, 2009
you are the fairy princess to my weathered dream
this side of the blue, joanna newsom
Svetlana sucks lemons across from me
And I am progressing abominably
And I do not know my own way to the sea
But the saltiest sea knows its own way to me
And the city that turns, turns protracted and slow
And I find myself toeing the embarcadero
And I find myself knowing the things that I knew
Which is all that you can know on this side of the blue
And Jaime has eyes black and shiny as boots
And they march at you, two-by-two, re-loo re-loo
When she looks at you, you know she's nowhere near through
It's the kindest heart beating this side of the blue
And the signifieds butt heads with the signifiers
And we all fall down slack-jawed to marvel at words
While across the sky sheet the impossible birds
In a steady, illiterate movement homewards
And Gabriel stands beneath forest and moon
See them rattle and boo, see them shake, see them loom
See him fashion a cap from a page of Camus
See him navigate deftly this side of the blue
And the rest of our lives will the moments accrue
When the shape of their goneness will flare up anew
And we do what we have to do, re-loo re-loo
Which is all you can do on this side of the blue
Oh it's all that you can do on this side of the blue
And I am progressing abominably
And I do not know my own way to the sea
But the saltiest sea knows its own way to me
And the city that turns, turns protracted and slow
And I find myself toeing the embarcadero
And I find myself knowing the things that I knew
Which is all that you can know on this side of the blue
And Jaime has eyes black and shiny as boots
And they march at you, two-by-two, re-loo re-loo
When she looks at you, you know she's nowhere near through
It's the kindest heart beating this side of the blue
And the signifieds butt heads with the signifiers
And we all fall down slack-jawed to marvel at words
While across the sky sheet the impossible birds
In a steady, illiterate movement homewards
And Gabriel stands beneath forest and moon
See them rattle and boo, see them shake, see them loom
See him fashion a cap from a page of Camus
See him navigate deftly this side of the blue
And the rest of our lives will the moments accrue
When the shape of their goneness will flare up anew
And we do what we have to do, re-loo re-loo
Which is all you can do on this side of the blue
Oh it's all that you can do on this side of the blue
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
human the death dance by buddy wakefield
i cried when i first read this.
On the face of her phone
Wileen programs a message to herself
so that when the alarm clock rings
the screen flashes:
EVERY DAY IS ONE DAY LESS.
EVERY DAY IS ONE DAY LESS.
Jordan tattoos the words
FORGIVE ME
in thick black letters
down the inside of his arm
so that when he looks at his wrist
he will remember not to hate himself so much.
What they both keep forgetting
is there is life after survival.
After Dave left
Mary started sticking her face
between the film projector
and the movie screen
so that when the credits roll
she still gets to be somebody.
When Tara’s past comes back
she mashes chalk into the sidewalk
until her knuckles bleed.
She scribbles and scrapes
and scribbles and scrapes
until the words take shape
and this is what they say
I wanna die motherfucker
die DIE motherfucker.
hold tight if I love ya
cause it might not last long.
we’re all gonna die.
That’s the exciting part.
It’s learning how to live for a living.
there’s the tricky stitch.
Just ask Denise
whose family taught her when she came into this world
that Family equals Love
so Denise took that seriously
but after a lifetime of craving acceptance from their cruelty
she now finds herself jamming polaroid pictures of these people into a typewriter
and pounding out the last letter of the word mercy
over and over again.
She strikes the key Y.
Y? Y? Y? Y? Y?!
And the answer?
The answer comes in the form of a hand written letter from the moon.
that says:
This is brutally beautiful.
So are we.
This is endless.
So are we.
We can heal this.
Signed,
Crater Face
P.S. See me for who I am.
We’ve got work to do.
But my father
he didn’t read moon
he didn’t speak moon
and he didn’t write moon
so there was no note left next to his body
when he chose to leave this world on purpose
without telling us where he was goin’ or why.
There are still days you can catch me
tape recording eternal silence
and playing it backwards for an empty room
just so I can listen to his dying wish.
Yes,
it’s true,
and the apple
it doesn’t fall too far from the tree,
but thank goodness my family tree
was in an orchard on a hill
that rolled me to the river
and that river ripped me through the rapids
and those rapids
rushed me into this moment
right here right now
with you
at the mouth
This is my church
And if church is a house of healing
hallelujah welcome
come on in as you are
have a look around
stay out of my porn.
There are massive stacks of bad choices in my backyard.
Clearly I have not yet reached enlightenment beyond a few fleeting moments
but I’m tryin’
and I found somethin’ here I want ya to have.
It ain’t much
just a story
but it’s all I’ve got
so take it.
It’s called Dillon.
Dillon’s drug of choice was more
so he took more
and more
until the day he woke up
babbling in a pool of his own traffic jam
realizing he is killing off the best parts of himself
and claiming he could read people’s skin.
When he looked down at his heart flap
it read Boy, go find your spine and ride it outta here.
Wileen’s gut said Day 1
Jordan’s arms: FULLY FORGIVEN
Mary’s face: The
Endless.
Tara’s knuckles: Healing.
Denise’s fingertip said C?
C.C.C.C.C!
And Dillon said my smile it said Fix it
so I came back here to the mouth of the river
to look at my own reflection under the moonlight
and see what it says for myself
where down my whole body
it is written
P.S.
See me for who I am.
We’ve got work to do.
As for Crater Face,
I can’t speak for that guy.
His skin
brutally beautiful
handwritten letter
from the sun.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
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