Tuesday, December 15, 2009
a delicate strand of web
from windowsill to cracked corner of white walls
thinner than anything
more apparent than anything
glisten in the light cast by a december sun
be caught by the eyes of a remembering son of a son
fluid flowing light run up and down your lengths
with each sway of distant tree branch
each small breath that moves the blinds
when did the spider make your arc?
where has she gone?
i know you are there, little spider
i can feel you with my cheek pressed to the walls
do you spin my dreams above my head while i sleep?
was that you that spun in images of nakedness and family?
those fevered dreams that found me bare beneath my mother
and the smell of a dying grandfather who repulsed you when you were young.
was it you who impregnated me and made me feel whole for once
or was it you who covered my body with swelling sores that pulsed and flickered?
how much do you know about me, little spider?
and why the tiny strand?
Friday, December 11, 2009
it's okay to be awake on the west coast
it's okay to jerk off and listen to odd blood
it's okay to only eat cough drops for 3 days
it's okay to reconnect with the ex who can make you more miserable
than anyone else has ever done
it's okay to have a pair of high heels under your bed
it's okay to wash your fingernails down the drain
it's okay to solicit sex at 2 a.m. in 10 degree weather
it's okay to watch old war movies and sob uncontrollably about never
knowing your grandfather or knowing what war is like
it's okay to be a vegetarian without moral objections
it's okay to wish you were very very rich and could be on drugs all day
it's okay to say faggot and gay and cunt and nigger if you're ironic
but maybe all the time too because they're just words and no one knows what you mean
it's okay to live in patterns
it's okay to break patterns
it's okay to hug your brother in the driveway and cry
it's okay to be afraid to know more about your grandmother
it's okay to wish your father had been more traditional with you
it's okay to want to shoot a gun into the sky
it's okay to hate every single human being you see at the shows because
they have no fucking clue what a good show is
it's okay to be human
it's okay to be human
it's okay to be
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
there are a pair of women's high heels underneath my bed
that i have no intention of returning to the owner
and on more than one occasion i have had the
uncontrollable urge to smell them
the worst part of living in the city is that
at no point in the day can i look out my window or go for a walk
into a field of tall grass and watch them bend
arcing painfully gracefully back and forth
and the snow will not leave us alone
it even finds ways into our cars and somehow into our socks
and sometimes i think we should make a snowball and bring it indoors
and keep it in [social commentary] until summer
sometimes i think there are poetic things about
the tiny little bumps on the ceilings of apartments
as if the sordid little lives of the occupants are giving the building goosebumps
this building is ironic or easily entertained
Sunday, December 6, 2009
jutting between my ribs
i feel you, pillar.
a phallic monument lodged between
two lungs and my heart
and my heart
i feel you piercing my heart.
i can feel your presence in an empty museum
after dark with locks and a lack of lights.
your shadow looming over me.
i know you loom over us all, pillar.
you loom inside us all.
i wish i knew your face, is it regal and white
and are you perfectly smooth.
or are you black and twisting like a cancer
through my veins. (all blood in your body is black. there is no light).
but you know this, pillar.
i want to turn face and stare into your massiveness.
i want to run my hands across your lengths
and press my ear to your cool surface.
i want to tell the world what you are, pillar, and lift the shroud.
i want to flood the halls of your museum, i want to shine a flashlight
into my veins and see what color my blood is.
because, pillar, i feel you every day. and i need to escape you.
or to at least objectify you.
maybe you are god and you've been placed there by a careful hand.
"Do you send back a signal to outer space?"
of course you are silent, pillar.
is it wisdom or bitterness? please answer me.
are you an esoteric observation, pillar?
"It may be the bending of tall grass in a field in August.
It may be the stagnant harsh glow of lamplight.
I'm sorry my hands aren't perfect."
can you be captured in a phrase?
in a poem?
in a motion across pages?
why won't you let me in?
i've put my fingers into dirt and into other writers
and i haven't felt you there.
where are you?
once i felt you above me as i lied in bed with my arms
outstretched towards you.
i felt your gravity then and i knew i could expose you.
once i felt you when i lied in bed with my arms
outstretched towards a lover.
"I love you."
Do you love me, pillar? Do you love us all?
are you a forgotten memory, pillar?
do you block all my thoughts in hopes of hiding your true self?
"I don't remember, but it feels familiar.
Like cigarette smoke on her jeans or a story your grandfather told.
Like the rules to a card game."
i felt you when i split my hand open on a broken bottle
when i was a toddler and surrounded by the haze
that was maybe a dream.
i go from queasy
and i jot down my thoughts
confused by the knot
of the plot that i bought from the
girl or some name i forgot
and i scribble all this dribble
from my chin onto the page
and pretend that my age ain't
what's got my rage all in cages
but put out on stages in the stages of waged youth
and i gauge all my hate towards my peers
as i leer and i slate the date and write it down
to relate what i can to others or to sate
what i engage backstage as the judgement of all that grates against me
that was all bullshit but i wish i could write
not pulse searching
loose noose shirt collar
regret the noose
lose the thought
mouth to neck
neck to noose
and the obligatory connection between a crescendo and a climax
and i fall into a drunken orange glow sleep at last
day light spills
catch the unfinished jigsaw on a cut up coffee table
tea stains on a splotched surface without the history
without a culture or a maker
just instructions times new roman black on white
and an illustration with rounded edges
no not creeping but glacial flow across the floor
across wires into walls
dead skin and pocket lint up in the air
and whatevers got my lungs so filthy
no sawdust or tiny angels with tiny little harps
and a tiny little melody
and up the walls like moss
and up the walls like mice and the slow drip of paint thinner
when im on my back and theres ceilings in my eyes
and thats me alluding to french art movies
and over the shelves and the liberal arts college approved book collection
poynton and awakening and anything else
where a white woman kills herself
because society is patriarchal and this is not the point
and the light disappears at the corner of the wall and ceiling
and the orange pours in
articifically harsh in a poem in free verse
and it doesn't touch anything
mechanical gear devoid of all oil and grease stillness
like your grandfather in the casket stillness
and it doesnt pulse and throb
when it throws your shadow up on the wall
for an hour ever 4 am
as i was falling asleep i half dreamt that i would write about this giant pillar that is inside all of us. and it is in the middle of us, in the middle of our rib cage and lungs and hearts and in a museum that's shut down and locked. and we're all standing around the pillar and holding hands and looking outward and none of us ever see it. maybe we see the shadow and maybe we feel its looming presence but none of us ever sees it. except for me. and i turn around and i run my hands across its cold rippled cement, tiny bumps and craters, and i put my ear to it and listen to it deafly. and i describe it to everyone and its exactly what we've all been missing.
i have an imagine stuck in my head. it's of my apartment and the light that comes in the living room window. in the day time when the sun makes its slow arc and casts in the light, the projection on th wall makes a slow rise and fall on the opposing wall. the light is always alive and bright and pulsing. it has a slow motion like someone wading upstream. then at night there is an awful streetlight that pours harsh orange artificial light into the room. and the projection just sits there perfectly still. mechanically still. and sometimes i stand up and make my silhouette in this orange glow and feel akin.
some phrases are in my head. "virgin disco" and some others i forgot. so that's the only one right now.
i can feel my bowels loosening already as i write this down. i wish i were really writing it down and not just typing it but i forget too much that way. i am a slow writer. i wish i weren't so afraid to do anything all the time. i wish i wrote down things right away.
another image i have in my head is of having a woman sleep in my bed. something like the recluse. and i dont take advantage of her if she is drunk or her of me and we dont have sex or anything like that. she just sleeps and i sleep somewhere else. the next day when i am alone again i take a shower and am all fresh and relaxed and my sinuses and senses are all clean and i lay down in my bed naked and face down and breathe in what she smells like. and sometimes it is earthy and full of cinammon and something comforting old. and sometimes it is sweet and bright and i get an erection. and i never tell her about it or see her again
i have an image of a man who is in power, political power or business power or drug power, who hates women so much he pays prostitutes or whoever to have sex with him. but instead he just ashes his cigarette or cigar into their vaginas. and then i realize i am aping bret easton ellis. and that i am too much of that person than i will admit and i am a coward and cant talk with women.
i want to write another magic realism peace and i want to edit my old stuff. that's what i am doing tomorrow. i am not sure where to go yet. i will text whitney for a location.
i want to make music and be the creative lead. i want to play drums very well.