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