Wednesday, April 8, 2015

kafkabed

knowing space, i feel for it. the device the time. i'm awake. i'm aware. i get it. i get you, kafka.
i see you sun, i want you sun, there are so many reasons i can't be with you right now.  they are all he is asleep next to me.

it is 603am

someone in the bed is so far from me that it is a question mark from above
what does it mean as further than far

i always wondered about gates and doors and locks. how do you know you have left the wrong kind of element out?  you may have trapped it inside with you. now what

now farther

when we read space it says,
i am not
lonely but
i am alone.

  the rest was there
 
count distance in vertical stripes because it is 603am and

the light is
with us is

a hung mood in calibrated atmospheric pressure
they call air conditioning, do you even realize how effectively you are conditioned?
not even summer and the seats are sticking to our sins

with a movement, the second hand, single tick



the sun is behind the door. i can't stop staring at the door.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

narcissus moment

i stare at the bathtub, "you're empty," i tell it
but it is filled with water
no one
ever
lies

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

SIGHT LINES

i am pink
bright blushing in the comforts of ruffles
but i don't want to be the pink one
surface is most important, especially when it isn't
i want to be desaturated, empty eyed, deadened rectangle
standing vertical on a tilting world
with a closet full of grey slips
that i stare at
nude eyed
while i never leave my nest
it is empty
we are emptied
and love can fill you up
it can hold you high
it can be everything
you be breathing clouds but love is the whole sky

you'll be clouds before the LED goes out
you'll be me and him and her and pink and blue and plant and sand and everything known to encyclopedic man pedantic man, discreetly tune to nature, only tuning in discreetly, for forgetting is a trick that only man gets and forgets the best, you don't need my words you know better you know better
than most can guess
i'll kiss
every
eye lid

closest colors to the night sky is a black fax to god it says hi-
ya whats up
did you get my last message abt wanting 2 die
srry bout that i was 2 tired
u kno?
god faxes back, "yeah i got that. weird i thought u, like, worshiped beauty or w/e.  i was kinda pissed @ U.  wtf bitch?!?  why u don't know i got some 4 u 2?  quit that thick shit."

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

blue/red

i woke up in the shower, ginger candy on my tongue
"how long has that been there," i thought,
failing to wonder how long i have been in the shower

the water on my eyes
the mesmerizing light and all of it dissipating subserviant death particles
i'm doomed.
but that is selfish, okay:
we are doomed.

if they ever look, oh lord, if they even peak
it's over
the hiding,
the runing,
the talking, until what is want is heard and i go quiet again
the doneness

i woke in that dress.  the same dress i wore to the funeral and to the BBQ the day after that, but i didn't care much until i woke in that dress, to word of a brand new death.  OD.  pieces of it floating to my waking. dead for hours before anyone called an ambulance.  blue flesh.  are you happy he died in his sleep?  isn't that what we all dream and pray and death dance for anyway?  asleep, on memorial day, in the arms of his lover.

he came to my home every christmas and was sad one year because everyone was wearing red but him.  my parents bought him a red shirt the next christmas.  he was wearing the shirt when in the bed, in the arms of his lover, she leaves for cigarettes, returns to turn him over, blue flesh, in the ambulance, pronounced dead.

in the shower, my colored domes are dissolving.  save them fore they drift down the drain, licking the bottom of bathtubs.  bathtubs are my sacred homeland.  pour me a refill, i rock in the tub until the waves bodies make spill out the side on the floor oh the floor is the tub the tub is the floor and i am the bathroom. i am all over the bathroom by now, me my molecules and i. 

wears me out.  where's my out?

the heat of the red sun melting our flesh blue.  the icy hot warmth of the blue gel burning our flesh red.  warming and cooling and doing it over again.  seasonal.  circular, imperfectly.  in harmony, and wet. wet enough to drown.

Monday, May 20, 2013

the orchid and the dandelion

bedside ER, my mom is using her 1 bar of signal to argue with her sister, and has been for hours.  "sibling rivilary, huh?" i say to my nana, the patient, "not even immune to hospital rooms."  she laughs and grabs my hand. i continue, "you and i will never know what that's like," making reference to our mutual only-childhoods.  "thank jehovah," she replies in high spirits.

it must be a super power to maintain a conversation while hearing, processing and contextualizing all other audible exchanges in the vicinity: the cell call is close but the voice on the other end is far away and pitched by agitation; the death rattle of pneumonia from the patient to the east and the whispered worries of the staff regarding her condition; the recent diagnosis of a bladder infection to the west; the man who slipped and somehow landed on broken glass at the kravitz center must submit to a drug test to prove he wasn't impaired when he fell.   they give the pneumoniac woman a percocet because she was pained to breathe.

super power :: super drag

in the waiting room a herion addict saunters slumply steered at us, mutters seductively, "you ladies happen to has a smoke icum bum?" my mom gave it up 2 months prior, though it agonizes her daily.  "NO."  the words from the most recent vice episode (subjected to both tobacco and ibogaine) ring in my ears: "heroin addiction is the worst addiction in the world," which i believe was based on the 90% relapse-rate of users who even elect to pursue treatment.  it was a biased and one-dimensional assessment of addiction if i ever heard one.  a woman walks into the ER.  she sits down at registration and begins to describe a rash that has appeared and is spreading: burning, itching, pustules that fill and eventually burst..."and then my tooth fell out this morning," she concludes.

my nana tries to make conversation with me.  she asks about my business but i especially don't want to talk about work.  she asks about the only guy she's seen me with in a year.

"do you have a lot of common interests?"

"i guess," i evade, "is that important?" (toe dips)

"well yes," she begins, but my thoughts go AWOL.  she's triggered the landslide.  the past comes a'haunting: joe. our cornerstone of shared interests.  also our failed engagement, which in it's particular ambiguity is an engagement always failing.  the guys, the future, the life you're supposed to live with all of it's lifey accessories: plastic car to fill with a plastic wife and a plastic husband and their plastic tax-exempt dependents, the paper money, the paperwork: oh god, all the paper.

WHAT AM I DOING?

YOU ARE IN THE HOSPITAL, TAKING CARE OF YOUR GRANDMOTHER.

YOU ARE IN THE HOSPITAL, TAKING CARE

YOU ARE IN THE HOSPITAL

YOU ARE IN THE HOSPITAL

TAKING CARE

face filled with mounds of dirt and mountain debris, so i lower it to hide the mess beneath the brim of my hat.  you won't ever commit, the voice says, or accept any responsibility.  so there we rule out guys being anything more than guys and children ever being yours.  and you will be in the hospital one day, and who will come for you?  no siblings, no partner, no children, and no impetus to change any of those factors.  you are comfortable alone, but you are not exempt from being a human.

"...nowadays, some parents outlive their children..." my nana says, as if to offer me some hope.

it's my own design, it's my own remorse
help me to decide. help me make the most
of freedom and of pleasure
nothing ever lasts forever

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

i've seen the tunnel, but never the light


Blank Page

fragment from one "suicide note":

may 1, 2012
entitled title waves, the rich are washed in glacier water
and sparkle like fitzgerald heroines
the middle rich are nothing more than credit fiends and ponzi jenga bricks
the poor are the great sociological study, according to press and higher education
their hardship leaves pain in the sidewalks and we all need podiatrists
just walking around and living in the musk of fears that almost never come true

Sun Rainbow

interpreting Fellini's La Dolce Vita:

april 2, 2011
About a writer who we never see write. A series of nights that are not slept through.  A series of sunrises.  The seer-alcoholic at the party is Gertrude Stein.  Age humiliates you. All is fleeting fleetly.  There's this redundant humiliation of limits.  Confessions fall on deaf ears. Love is important, but impotent all the same. One might squander a life in pursuit of it, while it knows no design beyond perpetual desertion.  The barbaric protection of an organized society (or maternal societal relationship) will drive you mad, castrate you and sterilize you creatively -- Marcello's image is a worm (soft dick).  The humiliation of having had expectations.  Lawrence Russell said, "each side of the abyss has separate but inevitable routes to loneliness, despair and death": he named these sides "religious arrogance," and "secular despair."  I defined them as 'calculated order' and 'nihilistic chaos,' although in reflection I cannot see a difference between the respective descriptors.

.

write think blink think secret swallow say alright and repeat
but really, no fooling, we don't evolve in life
there is no personal evolution
you are born
.

why can't i stop crying today, i ask the shower curtain.
it is because....

the end.  i love a place, and i love a person.  and then the person leaves that place.  now?

i left that place already, more than once, almost perpetually.  i ask the shower curtain, "what if everyone you love leaves the place that you call home?"  shower curtain says: "what the fuck do you think life is?"

"so do i stop loving?  will it stop hurting?  will i stop crying?"

"never."

"then why do i have all this time?"

"to realize that you have none."