also

im picture bloggin on GUMBOLAYA
im not sure exactly what it will become, but i may eventually just post there!

my life, i am the center of a deepening darkness,
the emptiness of infinite space.

i sit surrounded by its victims:
broken bones and beating hearts,
and lungs still breathing the heavy air.
all impersonal reflections of what has been won.

i sing dopo la vittoria as the sun sets,
mourning their loss as i praise a lord,
provider now of a feast of ashes,
burned from the figures of lovers of old.

after the victory, the darkness is whole.

you know how when you are doing a really complicated puzzle and you think a certain piece fits in a certain spot but it just won't. and then hours or weeks later (if you leave puzzles out) you realize it does fit but you didn't turn it the right way? so, i got a piece to fit, and i wasn't even trying, it just happened.

and i get what my portion of responsibility was, and i fully admit my shortcomings. it does not take away from her end, but the perspective shifts. i don't want to admit that as it seems to me as though i am dismissing fault or that i find such a reaction perfectly reasonable, and i feel the opposite of those things.

but it has helped me to feel less animosity or anger or revulsion for a person towards whom i'd rather not have those feelings. granted, i will never see her again, and perhaps i will think of her even less often than i do now, which isn't all that often. it is still nice to finally be able to check that box and throw away that list that i did not know existed.

Bookish-Art

I finally have a picture of the wig i created out of Porn for my Artists' Book class last semester. My lady Propecia.

tramps like you

we were a couple of turnpike head turners,
young buck hunters, spruced up springsteens,
high fiving our high heeled wild sides. hearts slow
drip skipping as we raced the rising sun on our last lip gloss runs.
we were name takers, ball breakers, cum fakers, 'til we were done.

and gave the streets back to the newest ditzy tit sinning minis,
changed the locks on our legs, and went home.

Coconut Records with Chloe Sevigny

Any Fun - Coconut Records - Music Video

we make our own monsters.

[Fingers as Extensions]
Words intended to hurt I keenly interpret professionally wisely correctly sadly. Harmful and stooping rare slips when it is recognized previously presently nowly by in oneself. meticulously crammed behind a closet door polished mirrors vel-cro wood glued behind it bunched blanketed clothing kneaded over regretfully paradoxically necessarily good simple and complicated. Crammed and empty of definitive meaning like this. Late at night an ease envelopes the room. Objects pronounce themselves against others a glass, the draped scarf, the patterns of the rug seem to recline at will in their untellable histories. Something less greedy than fatigue, intellectual than though neatly packages the body. A cartoon framework. A cobble path of moments drawn up above our heads. Slinking down, with what does the mind reattach itself? Words as enamel, no longer form uncertainty.

“And you musn’t be sad when she disappears, you wouldn’t come home either if your house were made of honey. A black-treacle building. I told you so.”

smoke on the water

the sun slumps low
drags the tide down with it
and the harbor smells hung over,
hurled up, sour, locked out on the stoop.

this april just hangs on us;
wet laundry draped from the door knob,
the morning after our long moans got drowned out in the concave of one another's mouths
and the fog steamrolled over our sound.

escaping the city

its time to outstretch my cramped limbs and give strawberry kisses to the fresh air of the Blue Ridge mountains with my lady.
farewell brooklyn, ill be back before you know it.

Sapiens

I was made in the shape of a man, with few exotic features;
neither beak nor paws, nor anything adventurous,
but my opposable ape thumbs
remind me that there are other things I may have been.

At night, I always feel less human,
like the darkness releases the wild;
the reservoir is filled again
but with a savage, seething current.
But as night recedes into the morning,
I freeze, now solid, frost-capped ice,
deception known to every human.
I expand beyond my animal constraints
and hairline fractures bloom in my beginnings.
I am no longer instincts and evolution;
I am more and more and somehow better
until night, when the myth is once again dispelled.

The power of expression seems to dull and darken
our understanding of the roots of our behavior,
those most basic processes, what we have come from;
I regret the loss of pure primitive midnight, where we were once beasts,
a template for raw existence, nothing more.

need for white

these beauties can be found at oaknyc
gotta splurge. just gotta.

This poem is supposed to have given spaces, but the html will not do it justice.

Animal Sounds Jolted

When something was wondered by curiosity
what that was a cat peaks a bed-head out
of the mid-night door in to a light binged hallway
square blank folded short playhouse vision nothing.
Curiosity side-
Steps and the writing voice thinks about words and
forgets the :: pop :: sound in the hallway
remembers
going back in self-removal
sad rope j u m bl e
of cords tangled chargers.
Likes the sound after all.

Inspiration

Here a just a few of the things that have made writing in the springtime, in bed, far more mystical and beautiful.





Currently, I want nothing more than to escape the city with a tent in tow and dream under the stars.... I will just have to wait for May.

dream here

norwegian dream

Tiny diagrammatic shapes
Sensed the lingering
Of time. A mass
Of warm mud clinging
To it. The birds
Would not leave.
Bird-shaped metal
Crashed.
The continuation of my dream
Soft white glow
The angle of moonlight
Lured exaggerated
Silhouette. The beating
Motions of the darkness
Swallow stillness
I was huge
Rustling faintly

i put my soul into what i do

As Jacque said, "Do you see the look on his face?"
Every look of mine&yours gathered from the past 21 years of living.

Fairy Tale

She feels like Sherlock Holmes has been combing her hair
All full of sleeping moths’ metamorphisizing inside her
Mysteries keep cutting out the electricity
On the edge of a verb
She could feel the devil dancing
To the rhythm of thunderstorm tongues
Wet with metaphors
Now shame is the shadow of love
And Sherlock Holmes is kissing her nipples
Twanging tongue to fire thigh
Cause freedom is a fleeting feeling
With the forest wedged between herself and the world
Deconstruct the layers
While she shifts to lessen the pain

isn't she lovely?

thank you louisiana for this

snow day

its time to start taking care of every aspect of myself. its time to get selfish.

young voice

The kids bang to the beats,
Skateboard to concrete,
Beer panhandle, land in on two feet.
Their wet ears can’t hear it
Rebound sounds of old poets spoken.
But I recognize that tongue,
My own mouth was once,
Young.

i find that this is the only pace:
aging bones and growing wrinkles.
a picture of the world upon a single face,
and time - the difference.

i find that there are many shapes,
 and many instruments that create them;
 fires for the forging make the dark a lesser place, 
never again so oppressive or binding.

sometimes, the people in my memories blur,
as if one could be another could be a third;
and sometimes, my memories aren't memories at all
but ghosts pretending, out of line with reality,
molded from formerly accurate shapes,
replete with embellishments.

i study these fictions as truths, 
the two now indiscernible like distant shadows ,
the rate at which they multiply absurd.

And ya see planes are coming down faster
Than I can catch em them.
Places I never knew the names to are smoking,
Smoldering, sweetly and then not
So sweetly , in me.
Leaving me heaving,
For once not weeping
Wishing water please, sweep
These trees into a cool sleep so I can speak
Freely.
Once again.

newlittledoeislove

Little Doe has just released there new lookbook for the spring season. Its my favorite combination of 60's bohemian and Native America culture. I am crossing fingers for one for my birthday but money is tight. Here are some of my favorite new pieces.

ongoing project not done yet

Gonna go months with a mouthful of gonnas,
‘til I get a good jaw on you.
I won’t even bite a bit of skin
I’ll just save it all for the mosquitoes
to tattoo their red map upon
and just gibber jabberwocky,
sleep softly

******

I can’t even remember my dreams anymore
And you look at me as though that is some
kind of problem
Well fuck you, okay?

I never was one for real words
So allow me to quit rapping that poetry pipe.
Lets just say your words make me wet


******

And oh the rusted tops of pick up trucks.
Musta been a hundred and one suns that day,
And you
all stupid in the eye with gold spun tales
of a thousand well worn punches where people love you so hard
they hafta hit you.


I don’t know
I don’t know
I don’t know

Y’all

******

Maybe all words are just a song:

If his is dee dum dee dum dee dum.
If hers is diddy dum diddy dum diddy dum.
Mine is dum dum dum.
A dull drum.

toomuchtohandle

ash

clinging to the sooty edges of the bridges i can't stop burning. frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment. cutting cords and weaving their frayed edges weakly back together, apologizing, apologizing. arguably manipulative. rash, impulsive decisions: drugs, sex, strangers at rock and roll shows, making out with the driver navigating winding back roads. chronic feelings of emptiness, sometimes briefly negated by the right compliments like a spell. recurrent parasuicidal behaviors, interfering with the healing of scars, peeling off the scab and letting you back in to infect me. idealization and devaluation, intense and unstable interpersonal relationships. telling him i hate him as i kiss, telling him i love him while i bite. markedly and persistently unstable sense of self. he says he's in love with a girl who's an idiot, who's hung up on some guy who doesn't want her. unrequited unrequited unrequited. i can't pick myself out of this infinite recursion, which is the real me and which are just mirrors, imitations like a comic book villain. which one of us made the other in our image?

cant get boots off the brain

these free the people boots are just everything i have been eyeing lately.

--

sometimes, the people in my memories blur,
as if one could be another could be a third;
and sometimes, my memories aren't memories at all
but ghosts pretending, out of line with reality,
molded from formerly accurate shapes,
replete with embellishments.
i study these fictions as truths,
the two now indiscernible like distant shadows,
the rate at which they multiply absurd.

i am the dream and you are my bird.

"Modernism does not always mean Minimalism"

This light fixture is the latest edition to my apartment. The piece is by designer Tord Boontje of the Netherlands.

it will take me a while

there is always too much all
the time too much
but i manage to look like
i'm only ever sitting still
staring at the carpet
while i am shifting
constantly trying to lessen
the pain and understand all the
beauty i can feel in each moment
but there is too much all the time

this is great

rem

i wait for the trains to fall asleep.
miles away & they are my sleepytime sentinels.
i did not hear them the other night, when you sat on my porch in a husk of you & set your teeth against me, steel traps laid with velvet.
i did not hear them last week, when the past was in my bed without clothes asking for me by name, with slurs thick with lambency & the dawn of forevers ago.
i did not hear them when she dragged me across my apartment like a weatherproof stain, or when i crossed paths with her this afternoon, politeness in our voices, when the bruises have still not gone with the rain.
but i do hear them tonight, going somewhere else. leaving this town, leaving me, with my bracketed pauses & mis/motioned bedroom trapeze-ery.
moans that grow smaller at the city limits, the sure sign that i must go to dreams; away from the messy-meat of my daily, waking somniloquy.

weekend getaway

this sunday, charlie and i escaped brooklyn to beacon, ny to see the dia beacon museum and stay in a b&b. the museum was incredibly spacious with pieces unlike anything i have ever seen. the town is completely small with not much to do, but totally worth the visit for the museum and the stars.







DIA BEACON

wishes

i am jonesin for these amped up doc martins
i would kill for feathers on my feet.
found: 1460 Boots.

where the wild things are

looks beautiful and nostalgic. i hope it is everything i could imagine.

i can make you cry and then laugh through your tears with
a few strummed chords played with shaky hands while my shaky voice
grasps for forgotten words between my own sighs of desperation

you can make me tremble and forget where i am and the way my
hands should press the strings against the steel (or even that i am
supposed to breathe) with just a laugh cutting through your tears

Goodbye Bush, Hello Obama

love america

sonnet

i can see that my future is flowers growing -
they slow the wind and stop thick rain drops so that only
cool breezes and light mists will goosebump my flesh while her heart's beat
moves the tiny bones in my ears and the ribs in my chest.

my future is a wedding in a small garden,
early one june evening, where people whose wounds i've tended
will carry colored glasses that throws small segments of the
sun's spectrum straight into the blacks of our eyes.

my past is not past, though, i tis right here and it is
a machete- slicing open arteries,
tearing through ligaments and spilling synovial fluid-

hacking at my skeleton, crushing through the cancellous and
exposing my soft marrow to the cold, dry air
as what's left of me pulls itself toward those flowers. to that garden

we wear our scarves just like a noose

i play no pout lipped piano. though that wind, she still whispers at my window. little girl, little girl let me in. i have fallen for that trick before, wet-slacked and tingle-toed. my locks and hinges rusted well into spring.

FUCK

MY BLOG GOT DELETED HATE LIFE
OH WELL NEW YEAR NEW BLOG