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08 January 2009 @ 12:48 am
i know, everyone has some cab driver story to share, and i'm sure the cabbies of the world can never escape that pressure to be the anonymous guru of someone's tormented afternoon. since i no longer have my own set of wheels--(still waiting for that sense of liberation to set in, but i think one has to be less self-oppressed than i am before i can really, honestly expect the sense of liberation i will not settle for). tonight i was so close to walking home from work, the snow or whatever had been falling from the sky had stopped and it wasn't so bad out, but there i was, not caring for reasons, as if most people can really say they are guided by reasons anyway. there i was, feeling that my life would be better if i didn't walk the 20 or so minutes back, hoping for feet-friendly sidewalks,sidewalk-friendly feet, pushing myself along like some weirdo exertion-addict when i was only 7 dollars away--really, about 3 minutes--from warmth and me-mine-ness al my own on this third floor, where the heat rises and the dishes are comfortable in the sink.
paul waited until he pulled up to my apartment before asking me if i liked poetry--he was a poet himself and liked to share with others at the end of rides...now, this is something special for me; i can only imagine others and how much they do not care for paul-recitations (yes, he did stop the meter)..he shared 3 poems with me, just in the way that poetry should be shared--communicated between and amongst, from mouth to ear, although i don't ever believe we only hear and feel poetry with just our silly ears... each poem was about birds, or better put, inspired by birds, the wonder and freedom, the unspoken glory and emotion triggered by vision of a bird,vision through a bird, whether in flight or resting, tending to itself, being in all of its bird-ity. and paul wasnt bad. he was even good, good enough so that i bother to write about this now, bother to write at all...actually, paul's poetry was elegant, and melancholy and beautifully structured just so i was reminded that poetry is meant to be spoken and heard out loud and between people and in the between-space is where the language and emotion takes shape; i am reminded that rhythm is so crucial to the impact and the interpretation of poetry, the sudden-ness of hearing-into-feeling...paul rocked my world tonight. yessir.
oh, and an interesting message i got from some person--no, really, some person, at the end of last month-- "Because we are considered so compatible,according to this, I believe that we should probably never speak and definitely never meet. I think we probably peaked on paper. Now it’s just downhill. I’ll swing by your place tonight to pick up my CD’s. It’s been a nice ride. Tell your mom it’s not her fault. The meatloaf was a little tough but that’s what the ketchup is for. No sense in beating herself up. Sometimes it’s just not meant to be.

You’re handling this very well. I’m quite proud of you. You were always the strong one.

What do you think about all this snow?"

--not bad for a notice-me-here-i-am/hello. if i didn't have my eyes set on someone else...if only it was actually soothing to pretend that a relationship could chuckle as it began, begin, fluster just a bit, just to balance itself, and end as it will, in small-talk, all in about one paragraph,and then i could go back to thinking about a snack, a snack of cheese and a chocolate-chip muffin and i could feel fulfilled enough, no, sated, no, satiety is not possible for me, i am all longing and wanting and demands, this makes me impossible and impetuous and so boringly human. i know that none of the above elements of this paragraph were meant to go together and that's somehow the point, a nudge towards regard for real impact.
at least i have philip glass' glassworks and songs from the trilogy (bed) to carry me along right now. so innately beautiful. talk about longing and unspoken confusion.
i need to learn ASL. i work with this boy who is deaf and speaks and yes, i sound crude, but i can't understand a thing he says and it's so tiresome, for me and definitely for him, i'm sure--as i smile and agree with everything after asking "what" for the third time. i always end up flapping and gesticulating into my own sign language, which he is patient enough to allow and obviously keen/tactful enough to grab the gist of.
i need to finish my MSW stuff.
i need to stop typing as the music carries, cuts up into crescendos,diminuendos.unsettling, but completely lovely and bigger than me, than this, certainly. it's like thinking about tomorrow's lunch plan while orgasming. ok, close. ish. ish.
i need to tweeze.
i love cheese sticks. you know, the string cheese, reminds me of college and shreds of cheese sticking between notebook pages. i bet this time around, classrooms will consist of laptops and their owners, no more chewed pen caps and spirally notebooks--that silence of clacking--suppose that's an outdated description of typing noise; one reserved for typewriters--what is that distinctive noise modern laptop keyboards make? like the sound a keyboard, an electronic-something makes when muted, a really boring sound, but just annoying enough, annoying because the real noise is missing, and what's left is some hollowed, emptied-box version. mother of god, i'm going to be a student again. god, i hope so. college was the best slice of life i've consumed so far. consumed while knowing so, consumed through all sides of remembering. i know i can't go back to that, but i can try to integrate my especially-jaded self with the nostalgic ideal of student-megan, grad-student-megan.
and i don't feel like writing anymore tonight. "knee 5" is playing. even though it was something i put on a mix-tape for a Boy once, years ago now, good pick megan, very romantic, but unexpected and fresh. unmatched elsewhere, in any true way. all these things are necessary elements, yes, for a mix-tape, yes, for romance. i do not fabricate expertise. no need to. i only have what i hope for and feel and don't know--mostly don't know.
09 December 2008 @ 06:05 am
Regular morning thing...Thing...to time travel, feel back to high school, that time so many people gauged deeper into their sockets for eyes, despite themselves, all in the same vacant space, parental-presence shoveled out, moved clean and respectfully tidy, but the holes, in the ground, that ground so plural, if I counted each blink before I got even near what it all was, how it measured and where it went and where it stopped-- we were all discovering ourselves through envy untouched by the skins we starved of—
We were discovered enough to finally turn ourselves entirely to the others---and those others…they turned us into and along, towards this moment, This kind of moment; which is simply a eulogy for the bits that were grasped and how long it took us to see them, a memorial for these imperfections we waited on, famished to feel through the touch of our own fingers. These fucking laughable inabilities we still own so perfectly; to never remember enough and always forget with our tongues what the rest of our bodies, fucking bodies, bodies fucking-- always know, they knew then, they practically swell from the juices of feelingknowing memories now…too much loss of carbon dioxide-panting and sweating like tarps; dewing, a sagging memory from before--
I declare, more prayer, to these limbs, orbs, stumps and innards, if I ever had the chance for emotional-memory-autopsy, I’d slice with that 10-blade, so sweet, as if across gifts of ripened citrus—bodies, oh body, I don’t really know you, but I am certain you got it all while I was busy flexing senses at the next guy girl creature time thing laser printer memory of the color-wheel all great and auto and fleeing-gone..
Told again, again all over that the Present is to be revered and within it we are also revered before the ticking, the tock-ticking of next and next-- and more than we were or are…but fuck you or thank you Cartesians, I have both feet on and long bruised legs, all within the riptide of my mind-- even with this elegance that catches eyes in easy, random contexts—-but if I asked me, which I am, or you asked, fuck, I don’t really know where, how and the butter-cream of in between..the best I could offer is some fucking hum, hymn of song to evoke something I know meant something around the time of then—was it then for you? Too?
.…and the tired ticking kickerkicking--which I’ve become-—is this my body, which twitches and tremors like the best and worse Looney-tunery—-
who expects the white and grey lumps and fissures, as if they promote excellency, instead of tired pinwheels of thoughts and cravings for the worst substances. As others maintain and I respond, just then, if only I had a distant language to translate it farther away from here--
I am wired to receive external tune-ups of the chemical variety, and I end up; tune-up or not, deliberating synergy at the strawberry-jello level.
I am absolutely a full-platter meal of influence, sliding, mashed and messy, unexplored to significant degrees, thank lord, but how else are people, but growing and rowing with other people searching for the hook, the words… That’s what we do. That’s where, how, when and what we are…im no reductionist, least I think not—sometimes. As usual, more to come. I think this piece of writing makes simple, important sense to me, but I also think everyone else would rightfully disagree.
I dare me to seizure; I dare these muscles and nerve cells, jammed with their loaded ammo, felt and unseen, these twin-dimmed lids, under opaque cerebral twilight, soon-to-be night, only the night, its mythos, all its amnesia self-serving— not quite a cocktail of one’s own whims, not quite a sudden desire for a dense-sweet, strawberry milkshake. No illusion of snow or bodily fluids; from person, animal, perhaps some bugs, certainly other life-forms. No illusion of snow, so I shall not switch up and darken the suddenly-real fence posts-Robert-frost identified to serve—served to identify---

nighttime eventually intercepted with that sun-growth, that bigger-than-now now, venom and noiseless--of something other than sun; sharked from... shards of gritty, bitten and compelling resolve, an owned path first burned, long ago in the haste of hopeful collective universe appeal, or in preparation for collective dread-- seared like our smiles glitter as embers do...embers stamped onto retinas, stamped in this 24-hour memory, circadian; I think I will throw up now, it all up up up…
Current Music: cat power
24 November 2008 @ 10:48 pm
It's amazing to reach a place and get it--really fucking feel it beyond the bones and the messy-heart-thumps to the genes that connect you (me) to a person so amazing, stunning and simply there as he's always been, as my grandfather, the man in the role i never felt or thought deeply enough about, deeply enough in this way right now. i am stunned. floored by his beauty. i found a collection of his poetry in my bookcase last night, Night Works, one of his many collections he's written throughout his years. and i hate that it took THIS LONG to get it, i call myself a reader and a writer, an intellectual, a highly-charged feeler of words and the longing and charge in the currents that exist before and within and beyond the words---
i just have to share some of his work. this livejournal has persisted and subsisted for years, and i neglect it, both deliberately and without thought, and i have no real idea if anyone else actually reads it--but this is almost irrelevant to me. in this particular moment,having the privilege of copying-down the poetry that this amazing man created, from the human-ness of his being...wow...i'm so thick sometimes. i suppose we all are; we see grandfathers and family members and whoever in such fixed roles, even with the awareness that they do and think and feel amazing things. i guess it's me meeting the emotions that he pushed out into the world, no, pushed is not the right word--this is about who he is, has been, how, where, why...all the ways he is and does...to find and feel that union, that connection with a person who is both a stranger, a complete stranger to me and to find and feel his words in just the ways that i know them, before i knew that i knew them and with all the certainty that i've felt them so importantly--

so, to share some of my favorites:

Invocation to the Muse

Oh god, Mind, snarl some song at me,
Spit, swear, puke some red obscenity,
Anger me from indifference and sloth.
Mind, rake my spirit's body blue with pain;
Belabor me till I sing again.

(this one below so relevant in this November-ish of November):

Suicide Weather

All right rain,
For the love of man,
Stop your dull, cold, wet cascade,
Your sullen gray parade
Of weeping grief.
Leaves are down and blackening;
Trees twitch in aimless nakedness;
Autumn's warm-red song is drowned
In gray out-of-time and cold rain.

Oh weather,
Become winter,
Which is wept of its grief
And stands high and clean cold,
Waiting for snow.
The change of seasons is hard on the soul,
And this is suicide weather.

The Question

Who sings me sleepy
Underneath this bleeding moon
Might know the height of my desire,
The red and rolling urge
Of blood's hot muscled surge.

And when beneath this ragged sky
Desire cracks and fires fly,
So stung, day rusted dreams
Flame in flaring archs for joy of it;
Then fall away in sleep's dark lovely pit.

For meanly angled are the sticks of day;
Crissed and crossed the hard lines play
Chopsticks of despair upon the nag of the self,
Where I's sit cramped in closets of the sun
Or scrape along like boneless skeletons.

But timeless is self's loss
In rollicked love and sleep's dark toss;
Relief from bright is dark delight
In shadowed symmetry of night.
SO i ask of winds that sing so sweetly soon,
Who sings me sleepy underneath the moon?

--just a few....more to come--
Current Music: velvet underground--perfect day--
29 August 2008 @ 11:16 pm
(this was written in one of my larger notebooks on 05/19/07; during that 6-month dark period i moved back home...)

A mother’s silence is never still for very long. I become still instead, matted up somewhere in the netting of her domestic routines; as the microwave heeds instructions, that hot-breath hum; we’re all nerves, back of my neck one long, taut wire until Ding! Her clogs are here, then there, one kicked over the other onto the dogs’ bed, and the house waits.
Music always in the background, but she is distracted by the rhythm of desires; her internal, lonely kingdom I’ve always believed in. The image of a resting spot, a space within is too scary, I don’t like that I feel betrayed and as if I betray her; it’s too unknown and shifty, confusing…behind blinking eyes, that blackened woodsy smudging of secrets, mother secrets. Family secrets.
She does her things. She lets out the dogs, her laughter follows them as they tumble over their front ends in the eagerness to seek out new places—then pulled back into perspective, trotting, looping in and out, dashing in front, off to the side—of a father’s car, after 5, 6pm, work. The timed-feeling of the next minute; that final clap of the door shutting; following the sudden crunching stilling of tires on sandy driveway. I can see the images of his predictable coffee cups ringed with that stale brown, over-with stain, wedged, forgotten underneath the passenger seat from the inevitable downward spin, emptied at some intersection where red-light timing sent it there, on that sun-strangled ride to work I do not know of; cannot know in my own bones.
When dad comes in, oblivious to this bound territory, always almost sacred-silent as he comes into the routines, the moments of mom circling, turning the bread-mixer on, sponging up coffee dribbles from the counter or left resting absently on a hardcover book jacket. Glancing at the answering machine; neon-red “2.” This glance is for me—they called, here, for you, again—and these repetitive, automated messages are her eternal admonishments, for me, combined with all the decades dad wouldn’t pay either, couldn’t pay, didn’t pay; the agony of these lives being owned in this stitching of obligations, this begging politely on the phone for the right to deny fears and insecurities. Now she gulps, silently knowing her life has never been her own and what she does is maintain the Stitching, lies stiffly when the house is dark and breathing in sleep, her eyes shiny-white and busy calculating the student loans, tripled now. The three children have grown up, grown up somewhere else. The dogs are the kids now, kind of, and this time around the affections are simple, unpolluted with the living room’s collective of family neuroses—ER is on—
I track your love (concern) in the tones of conversation with dad. You stay mutely distracted when I come down and cross through the kitchen before dinner, with my seltzer can, books under my arm, but I think I hear you speaking to me, I’m sure; when you stir vegetables in the pan, sizzling brownish, unnoticed, noisy on the stove, turning for your glass of modest Chardonnay, rolling your eyes about that chic-flick Diane Keaton movie you rented last night because there was nothing left.
I don’t think it’s that you want to drop your instruments of routine and press your palms into the counter's surface and demand, ask me something, maybe anything about all the times, the things and the feelings—the missed substance and the remaining spotted-stains, leaking onto tiles, surfaces of this house; we know best—
When I inhabited a bedroom this time around I was that girl, who I peddled gingerly around in, riding a retired creaky bike like a loner getting away, in the unseen hours past bedtime. I also bounce her back, forth, down, down, onto blind concrete; these are my nightly-lit slide shows of memories and I can’t leave this room. Always curling up into this moment, fully aware but dumb in feet, legs to be used. This is me with irony and context, see how my surroundings curve around me, gently drop, drag, like plants potted into gravel-dry soil, brought home.
I cannot make that final loop, pull up and snip the thread, I cannot loosen and pour rounded, age and memory-softened mementos warm under my thumbs holding them down; under my thumbs as I think about them—-how they were and are and how and now, as they settle and sink. Outside my bedroom window; that first glance out, and again, the first breathless pop in the firmament, the starry blink upwards, all that shifty blackened clotting of sky around me. I can’t think of anything and if I really wanted to, if my desire for dog-eared endorsed nostalgia and the crackling-thin aluminum wrinkles of adolescent years took form, formed like scissors or a spear, or a heavy black iron pan—
These are the tools of home, these are here and we all know them without thinking. Occasionally they are defined by the stretch of an arm reaching up from a busy thinker in the kitchen. They continue; deposited remains, like old Christmas-printed red-green-gold-paper napkins left on top of the fridge, left until the very end of everything in that House, however and when that will be.
I cannot hear my parents speak-- when I sit in any room other than the one possessed with that combined import of parental discussion—there--my instant slither into paranoia. This is the homecoming, and again, bedrooms end up as consequences; bona fide fallout shelters-- not on the original blueprint—but the thin-walled rooms always manage to kill time, rooms short of breath and spatially, still ergonomically all fucking wrong and lacking somehow, but--- those low tones of conversation, I’m catching the slow beating sarcasm drill, always could, commanding dry response, silently--- and always part of some routine in the kitchen; cracking the ice cube tray for ice, the glass of Chardonnay.
There--my mother moving until stilled in response, perched in reaction to words spoken-- indications of the effect had. As if normal capacities for movement, activity, shortens-out or freezes up, in pauses of time. And then she is off on the way she started, but with frowns, expression deepened, lopsided with distraction. Am I really still a significant subject of these pre-dinner parental discussions? It is here, there, that parents capitulate into a single measure of targeted concern, that forever-arriving nod to task, humming their confirmations again and again. I moved back home and become that teenage girl I was here, I moved back home and I forget that I remembered her.
29 August 2008 @ 12:00 am
Undecided, stuck in the inbetween-ness of wanting to do something; put forth, and the gray brittle-boned materials sticking out and through my heart, or whatever is inside that pulls from above and below, stomach stretched up like putty, mind doing that sudden death-drop of roller coasters, you know, the 90 degree angle sick-drop.. . I sit here and I feel I feel something and I want to express what it is, this heavy heaviness, all this sickening confusion about everything, everything...
there are those moments we remember because we all have these moments sometimes self-served in our own muttering monologues of hope, and yes, sometimes we genuinely offer to others in the best ways we can speak them... when we are suddenly there, randomly exposing ourselves, from or to a song, a poem, words said or read out loud and we hear them as they are spoken from the original throat; spiking from its deeper heat, this is how our veins prick all the way down through the inert passageways of folding chair legs, or nappy, odorous couches in living rooms , somewhere .
Once, the arrangement of shadows and terror and indescribable harmony underneath; staccato street-lights, in a person— their way, that way untouched now, yet—
The way someone can stretch us past our own eyes and we see something so much we remember it without words near our own, we remember it in our feet and never know how to see it again, through our hands, touching, with our eyes. We are experts at filling in the gaps--- Some collection of drum beats, a man’s voice singing until reality erupts all its coloring, that’s what we feel like in the furious furnace of the room, the room we maintain, always. We leave, squeezing our eyes as we blink, and our palms and hairlines are hot and damp and unnoticed-- outside, outside the room--
And the history of all there is without all the lines ranking in-betweens, and the maestro of mortality, those theatrics in his sudden gestured bends, of time lines, sinking as if into an ocean, the way that an ocean can sink any thing it’s offered, its great black-grey after-cough, that gaping lesson in ultimate consumption. And after, the canceled space, the voices negated… there is nothing but the atoms and the void…
i will vent about today. my day, although i'm not sure it belonged to me.

i get to work at noon, hungry, a bit twitchy, but otherwise in a good space. One of my clients comes up to me in the lunch line (today was quesadillas...mmm, cheese) and tells me that his girlfriend is upset about something that happened last night and she wants to talk to me. I find her in the courtyard, with the highly-pressurized facial expression i see all the time here. we go out back to my office and this face crumples like bits of soggy paper towel. She tells me she was raped last night, by someone who happens to be at the teen center at the moment. i won't share the details of our subsequent conversation, but it involved lots and lots of "this is not your fault" and "you didn't deserve this because you were drunk" responses on my end. she tells me her mother doesn't believe her, and that she thinks that anything that happened was a consequence of her drinking. She tells me people are already warning her against telling anyone because she's lying and she will get jumped. Her boyfriend believes her and people are also threatening him. she tells me the grisly moment-to-moment account of the event, and i jot key phrases down, like "dragged by hair into bedroom," "held knife beside her during rape," "warned not to tell anyone because he'll kill her--motioned knife across throat."
we finish filling our protection from harassment form, later to become protection from abuse, which holds more clout, although if you don't talk to the right clerk at the courthouse, they won't allow it, because "abuse" is defined by 3 or more occurances. uh huh. we call for an advocate from sexual assault crisis services to meet us at court. we get the boyfriend, waiting out in the drop-in.

we go to court and meet this fumbling waste of an advocate, a woman named Marty. Marty does a lot of staring blankly and looking confused about where to go from here. She looks at me a lot, whenever a question is asked, because i'm the person trained in sexual assault treatment and victim advocacy. We don't have the address of the boy who raped my client, and they won't file a report without the exact address. of course this agitates my poor client. it agitates me, as well,but i can't yell or kick the table like i want to. Marty suggests driving by the apartment of the rapist. this sounds a bit shady to me, but i decide to do it, if it gets the slime-fuck away from this poor girl. In retrospect, this was an absolutely horrible thing to suggest, and for me to agree to. Send a victim of sexual assault away from safe place, in the car of young female teen center caseworker to do a couple drivebys to scan for a building number on rapist's apartment building. have any of you seen me drive and try to obtain information in my surroundings? it usually involves some kind of near-crash or scenario where i drive away and quickly, nervous for 48 hours about a potential door-knocking or phone call from a Law Enforcement Officer.
my two clients and i go outside to my car, parked in front of the courthouse. It has already been ticketed. who the fuck would ticket someone helping a rape victim file protection paperwork? Near my car are three females who use the teen center. Somehow the universe has timed it perfectly so that the queen homicidal-suicidal-rage-filled-fucking-pissed-and-personality-disordered client leading this group of similiarly dysfunctional girls is perched right beside my car. like fat pigeons on a perfectly beautiful sunny day, the clement green of the park lolling behind them like a goddamn edward hopper painting.

she spots us walking towards the car and starts screeching about talkin' shit because you wanted to fuck him, you fucked him three nights in a row--she comes around the expired meter and i order the kids to get in the car and lock the doors. i do the same. my female client is super-smart and has locked the door before i even tell her to. this move turns out to be a parallel to adding volatile chemicals to an already seething hiss for leader-of-the-pack girl, who starts screaming orders to get out of the car. she rattles off ass-kickin' talk and bangs against my car, pulling on the handle of the passenger side door, bracing against it with her foot, where my female client is sitting, yelling back: "i'll get a restraint order against you too, you fat fucking cunt!" toughgirl is pounding against my car, I'm yelling at her too at this point, to get away from the car, as i jolt into reverse and literally bump this bitch out of the way. we zip off, luckily my car can still zip, ganggirl yelling, running and waving fists at us in the rearview mirror. her minions stand with fuck-you faces beside her.

let me give some background here. last night, gang-girl leader, i'll call her...Dizzy... to protect confidentiality, came into the teen center, barking up hell clouds. She let everyone around her, including staff, know she was going to kill one of the girls that comes here. I also happen to work with the targeted girl, (not the same girl i've already discussed). my client already knows this, Dizzy has been threatening her for a week or so, only today have the threats elevated from "kick your ass" to "i'm going to kill you." Dizzy goes to confront my client, however, a protective friend stands between them. A protective pregnant friend. there was no ass-kickin right then.
Dizzy leaves and i talk to my client, devising a plan for her to stay safe. She doesn't want the cops involved, and that makes sense, especially now. that would guarantee death. you don't snitch if you live on the streets. i learned that right away in this particular field. (not because i've lived on the streets. i don't even like camping on the weekends, hello.) this is ultimate betrayal and it's incredibly dangerous. and if there is no concrete situation, nothing happens except imminent death and pissy cops.

fast-forward to 10ish minutes later. my client has left. Dizzy comes barreling in, fuckin' pissed. she has the pressurized look i described earlier. she wants to talk to a staff person out back, right the fuck now. she picks me. we go out back to the office. at that moment i'm a little intimidated. i haven't had much one-on-one with this girl and she's a tough-fucking-bitch. you get that. she's also someone i am SO intrigued by. if this girl used her powers for good instead of evil, she would be the goddamn President of the World by now. i've never met a young girl who is such an advocate for herself, is so unconditionally loyal to her friends and who has dealt with more horrible trauma and pain from birth. and she's a mean motherfucker. this girl can and will tear the toughest boy's dick off. in her words. actually every time she gets pissed at staff, she'll yell, "get the fuck off my dick!" "quit riding my motherfuckin' cock!" i always want to yell that when i get annoyed by someone....

Dizzy sits down and gives me the scoop. it's been a long time since she's held a gun. She's fucking pissed. a girl here is talking shit, actually, the only thing that comes out of her mouth is shit. spreading lies about her friend, how he tried to drug her,rape her,(this is common here) and now she won't even come near Dizzy to say it to her face. Dizzy's not afraid to kill anyone. Dizzy's not afraid to punch her fat fucking bitch-ass friend in the stomach and kill her baby. After Dizzy finishes here, she's going to her uncle's house, getting his gun, and shooting (former) bitch, shooting her fat cunt friend and her (pussy, not fuckin' tough, and people around here know i fight guys) boyfriend, and then shooting herself afterwards. that was the jist of our conversation.
Dizzy does not remove her eyes from mine the entire time. like a laser-suction-tunnel of fury. then she stops suddenly, saying, "i feel better now, i'm done talking" and gets up to leave. i won't give all the details of the rest of the night, but it involved a lot of phone calls and attempts at some phantasmal version of protection for as many people as possible. i hate the cops too. i hate calling them and having to ask them to come to the teen center for whatever reason. anytime a cop enters the teen center, it's like an elephant filled with inky black slime exploded and saturated everyone with sticky venom-tar. cops are severely retarded and whole-heartedly dangerous when it comes to mental health and dealing with crises. and they are also all-around remedials in most situations involving homelessness, not wanting to be homeless, and wanting to be intoxicated. say no-no to the po-po.

so back to today's situation. Dizzy ain't too fond of life right now, probably not me either. one of the scarier parts of yesterday's situation (there are so many to choose from) is that my client never came back to the teen center last night, like she told me she would, and she hasn't been around today. When someone makes specific threats against another person, social workers have A Duty To Warn. that means when she does come in, along with the other two targets, we all have to sit down and i have to explain that their lives are in danger and why. It amazes me that the Bayside area of Portland doesn't just explode into black-orange death-flames of pain and fury. and this is Portland Maine. for christ sakes.

Can you imagine being raped, running away from the scene to the shelter, where the cops are called because you're freaking out, and have "become a danger to others", and the next day when you have the guts and strength to report the rape--your life, your boyfriend's life is threatened because you were a lying snitch? telling your mother and she hangs up on you, after yelling that it was your fault because you drank? actually being in That Situation, where you have to convince others, friends, family, that you didn't ask for it, that you aren't lying and that you weren't actually alone and drunk and wanted to cheat on your boyfriend? this is the bullshit of decades ago, right? when you had to convince a judge that it wasn't your fault because you had on tight jeans. And this isn't a scenario where pruned, wilfull conservatives fight against the slut trying to ruin some guy's life because she wants attention. this is right now, and these are kids, 18, 19 years old, so controlled by the alpha-supportive pack leader/street father-figure that they try to hurt or kill someone else when situations that threaten their sense of control in their world arises. Homeless kids, with fucked-up abuse and trauma histories, kids who throw around any kind of threat or talk and land in Spring Harbor for 24 hours, where the system brands them as manipulative borderline personality disorder cases,"not biological but characterological" which means they're fucked up because of WHO THEY HAVE BECOME and HOW THEY HAVE ADAPTED and not "real" illness, that is "genetic" and therefore funded, then take away or never provide any long-term support or assistance. then they actually jump an older homeless man for his scripts, and become fucked-up traumatized manipulative-personality-disorder cases in Warren until they get out and become homeless adults, or fossilized scared kids of a bullshit system in a bullshit world.

fishing for the positive fishing for the positive...ooh, does this mean now i'm an almost-tough-bitch? tough mofo by proxy? D'oh.
28 March 2007 @ 07:26 pm
nothing like an earlobe-licking to distract a girl from suicidal ideation. thanks, mr. chad.
04 March 2007 @ 09:30 pm
art decorates the walls of the teen center-- my new place of employment-- art created entirely by homeless teens. undeniably beautiful, in the way that mass surfaces covered with splashes and kaleidoscopic shots of color and emotion are --striking and stimulating, intent expressed through the action of the art, everything else besides the point--but not necessarily.

one of the paintings above the staff desk states "My Heart is a Fuck-hole." now this is teen-angst. this is angst uttered from the battle-pit of first and repeated impact,and initially i thought, "ohh, uhh, whoah"--but who would argue with the power of this statement? these kids are traumatized and emotionally, spiritually, physically raked and shredded--and even when they aren't, who doesn't feel that way at some point by the second decade of life?

but today i couldn't think up anything more apt, any better formula of words and form to spell out my own emotional place. (in no way am i aligning myself with the same dimension of abuse many of these kids have gone through.)
--But yes, "my heart is a fuck-hole." i am the pitted concavity for someone else's emotional jerk-off. they turn around and leave, and i reflect on the mess left with me, on me, in me--a mess, a consequence--direct, immediate, inevitable in all its stupid, shamefully-evident retrospect-- because i allowed and perpetuated this immediate and exclusive capacity--in myself.

call it love, you
skewer it good, add
cabbage and applesauce,
then heat it from the
left side,
then heat it from the right
put it in a box
give it away
leave it on a doorstep
vomiting as you go
into the

--from "it's the way you play the game"

a sticky pooling revulsion. love is dog from hell, says bukowski. if love leaves anything behind, i comprehend it best, at this moment in my life, in the simple vivid terminology of human excrement.
i never move far enough away, fast enough in any other(better)direction, and here i am again.

Love will make you drink and gamble
Make you stay out all night long

Love will make you do things
That you know is wrong

Love is just like the faucet
It turns off and on
Love is just like the faucet
It turns off and on

Sometimes when you think its on baby
It has turned off and gone

(Billie Holiday, "Fine and Mellow")
28 February 2007 @ 06:20 pm
goodbye and goodnight, unemployment,
you taught me a fine lesson, one that includes the unconditional emphasis on red wine and hard liquor, the necessary language of rationalization so contingent on the intensity of the preceding liquids swallowed without question and preferably with an upper; without context and always, without potential afterthoughts of diluting ambivalence--
and the related, essential connection to the private world of intensive sleeping-while-downloading all episodes of The Office to watch repeatedly, cackling with nothing less than faith and flowering commitment to each 22-minute slot of commentary on my own souring--but always absurdly awkward life of commitment-phobic-colored rejections, tragedy and chemical hilarity--
14 February 2007 @ 03:37 pm
--you know you're broke when strawberry and cream calcium chews from the back of the medicine cabinet become a treat--
Current Mood: none,or other
being unemployed means living in a lack of structured time. sometimes i sleep from 10am to 3pm and i'm good, and then i'll find myself gritting my teeth towards my ineffectual, oblivious mind later that day/next morning; it's 6am and this means nothing to the switch in my brain that is supposed to shut OFF sometime when it is dark out.
here i am at 8:04am sunday morning, and this may not be shocking to some, but i've also been up since 5am.
to make something more structured and help my own mind avoid total slippery-schizo-screaming destruction, i've compiled a list of quote-worthy quotes that mean something, something firm and curling in the certainties of black font. as certain as the coffee dribbling down my chin and cookies for breakfast.

if you want your dreams to come true, don't sleep.--yiddish proverb

love is like war: easy to begin but very hard to stop.---H.L.Mencken

her clothes have no buttons. there are two missing from my jacket. this lady and i are almost of the same religion.--Guillaume Apollinaire

kilgore trout once wrote a short story which was a dialogue between two pieces of yeast. they were discussing the possible purposes of life as they ate sugar and suffocated in their own excrement. because of their limited intelligence, they never came close to guessing they were made of champagne.--kurt vonnegut

it was an unspoken pleasure that having...ruined so much and repaired little, we had endured.--lillian hellman

find a job you like and you add five days to your week.--H.jackson brown jr.

the human imagination...has great difficulty in livng strictly within the confines of a materialist practice or philosophy. it dreams, like a dog in its basket, of hares in the open.--john berger

and suddenly i understood; everything became extraordinarily clear and simple. everything: life and death, the meaning of existence. and even stronger than this revelation was my surprise: how had no one on earth yet understood this thing, so extraordinarily simple? i had a feeling that a message had been transmitted to me, that i should remember, so as to be able to communicate it ot men. i woke up...with this idea in mind: not to forget what i had seen. a second later, i forgot.---mircea eliade

the hardest learned lesson: that people only have their kind of love to give, not our kind.--mignon McLaughlin

i believe in the incomprehensibility of god.--honore de balzac

i daresay anything can be made holy by being sincerely worshiped.--iris murdock

now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still for once on the face of the earth, let's not speak in any language; let's stop for a second, and not move our arms so much.--pablo neruda

the universe is like a safe to which there is a combination. but the combination is locked in the safe.--peter de vries

the idea that nations should love one another, or that business concerns or marketing boards should love one another,or that a man in Portugal should love a man in Peru of whom he has never heard--it is absurd, unreal, dangerous...the fact is we can only love what we know personally. and we cannot know much.--E.M. Forster

we only begin to live when we conceive life as a tragedy...--W.B.Yeats

hold on to the now, the here, through which all the future plunges to the past...--james joyce

i can only lean enviously against the boundary and hate, hate, hate the boys who can dispel sexual hunger freely, without misgiving, and be whole, while i drag out from date to date in soggy desire, always unfulfilled.--sylvia plath

so this is what we have to learn to be part of a community; to respond blindly to electric sirens shrilling in the middle of the night. i hate it--sylvia plath

for the average man, the world is weird because if he's not bored with it, he's at odds with it. for a warrior, the world is weird because it is stupendous, awesome, mysterious, unfathomable. a warrior must assume responsibility for being here, in this marvelous world, in this marvelous time.--carlos casteneda

avoid safety. the very word has a mean sound. --constance wagner

live to the point of tears.--albert camus

a man who looks for security, even in the mind, is like a man who would chop off his limbs in order to have artificial ones which will give him no pain or trouble.--henry miller

always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. that'll teach you to keep your mouth shut.--earnest hemingway

i can't deceive myself out of the bare stark realization that no matter how enthusiastic you are, no matter how sure that character is fate, nothing is real, past or future, when you are alone in your room with the clock ticking loudly into the false cheerful brilliance of the electric light.--sylvia plath

empty rooms would yawn mocking at me from every side. God, life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaity of parties with no purpose despite the false grinning faces we all wear...yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship--but the loneliness of the soul ini ts appalling self-consiousness, is horrible and overpowering.
--and to think: i am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined , with the ability to realize my own existence--sylvia plath

i was walking across a bridge one day, and i saw a man standing on the edge,about to jump off. so i ran over, and said, "stop! don't do it!..there's so much to live for!" he said, "like what?" i said, "well, are you religious or atheist?" he said, "religious." i said, "me too! are you christian or buddhist?" he said, "christian." "Me too! are you catholic or protestant?" he said, "protestant." i said, "me too! are you episcopalian or baptist?" he said, "baptist." i said, "wow! me too! are you baptist church of god or baptist church of the lord?" he said, "baptist church of god." i said, "me too! are you original baptist church of god, or reformed baptist church of god?" he said, "reformed baptist church of god." i said, "me too! are you reformed baptist church of god, reformation of 1879, or reformed baptist church of god, reformation of 1915?" he said, " reformed baptist church of god, reformation of 1915." i said, "die, heretic scum." and pushed him off.---emo phillips
this is Crazy.
Jumping from bed, out from my nest of covers and its soft rumpled warmth, with a glee, peculiar, excitable, not dark or complicated, or contingent, nope, here I am, imbued and glowing with this fresh, this glee of something...or just glee----Glee, as glee is.
See, I was lying in bed, finally sleepy and relaxed and grinning widely in simple appreciation for the pharmaceutical blessing that has enabled me to...lie down in bed, grinning. Relaxed. Finally sleepy.
It means more than me to successfully shift from the terror-survivor shallow and short rhythms of coping, hoping, unable to see or hear beyond the muffly press-buttons, erratic panting of the people up and down, scootching to fix boots and not enough time to catch a sneeze, to stop the little girl from skipping, scurrying ..all the way down aisle 8, its yellow cracked tiles gleamed supermarket perfunctory, ugly. One two three four. Sides Yellow. Sheet of glass. The surplus of dirt, walking and stoking residue, textures of adhesives not mixed properly. Sand, grainy, defined, certain angles are Aztec . Other are as runny as noses. With their hopscotch, flattened villages and cracked roads, frozen ice-crevices deep in yellow, the flattened tile couldn’t possibly feel comfortable doing as it was.
. The squares each contain spider-whisper-thin scrawlings of stories sung from a little girl’s mouth, tapping a dandelion up-down across her cheeks, pulling it between her clamped knees. Letting it droop, forsaken, winded . Slow. Little girl whispers, but not the story. Rolling the meek stem, sticky where the weak fibers whisper and fray onto the gauze, and the gauze soon puffs up, snarling goldenrod and sparks of black spitting strands, tensile. hubris. this is the mane. the man. The lion. Grassy flat lands set some stage somewhere. For the lions with teeth and drooling eyes and hot fiery liver kidneys gurgling and steaming and the rushing red-purple of demonic-psychotic lungs, will they cave, will they cave, these tunnels caught pink, syringe’s stream, the lightning rushes through, through, laser slashes, and then the squishy sigh of the rest of the beast as it crumples, stretches, shivers its pleasure as eyes blink, and blink glint, black shuddering under..

January 25, 2007. 4:10am. This was a dream? I think that I was on my way to sleep, my brain was also preparing and shifting, pulling each glove off, checking the temperature, the current..
And THEN, my body told me to get up and write So I did. And I dreamed. No one needs to hold a grudge here. It’s about time my brain blew up the walls and doors between sleeping and dreaming, thinking and writing.
Damn dichotomy of mental state/exercising expression.
Blow up all the chalkboards
Next week...
18 December 2006 @ 11:37 pm
(-as past-tense as sandy beach shoes forced into default closet hibernation.)

summer, an amputee after the September landing-
first buried, then marked dead with history’s hasty crucifix settling-- those everlasting anonymous anchors,
the pungent aching steam of an individual already fossilized mouthless,
rose to the surface, the grim pages soaked blank by the wet-eyed excesses of the observer----

We stood in each other’s driveways with hands shielding our eyes even though the averted clouds had bowed ashen autumn victory, and sidled modestly off stage. I wove my hands tight across my hair and wished for a red felt hat, so I could feel myself as the important fated image,
a flag, perched and burning scarlet seduction, in victory for some breathless orphan soldier...

I want the pressured textbook headline, with its font of proud cliches,
I mouth this as an abrupt first sentence, its suggestive mint garnish, the hopeful prologue salivating,
anticipation untethered and aligning to glistening compass points,
the nerved-up stiletto--
---thrill under-the-table, four-cornered perversion...
Smiling teeth...

rolling on and on with the flop-heavy inertia of heavy carpet, but forward,
expectant in the reach of an embrace,
--of the candle-lit centerpiece,
the puffed senile, buttoned-etiquette bosom
stuffed fat with proud pieces
of slacked creases and pressed sleeves
aborted suddenly to flesh and buttons
quietly to the damp troops inking noxious,
the whisky-beards already fermented hopeless in the swamp-still,
dead-end of the underarm.

and the lost half-moons of brandy-or-bourbon, deflected unsteadily to late-night performances, with underage giggling and sneaking
sock-footed, scampering children,
pajama-costumed rodents of the tick-tocking after-hours—

—then- I was
--jerked into orthodontic gratitude, by the–
by the nervous snapping,
pressed faces of queens and lawn-fixated men, clicking their silvery motioning fingers, tongues.

But the minds, mine and in the reflected glances
from child to child,
from sisters to forgotten garage-uncles...minds with blackened compasses, remembering
sermons of the womb,
muffled with the spring buoyancy of narcotic cyclicity,
single units, candy-striped rhythm of thought and action—

......stroking round and round tick ticking clocks as pressured as
swollen-trap mothers-to-be, helpless as pincushions–
there, that gag-green glimpse of maternal apocalypse–blinking down the trap door; amnesia, epidural, for fuck’s sake, I believe in the shit of the universe more than you (she spits bile-venom, like a laser-cue, on a scrub, an ontological splat of biological sewerage)

anticipating the immortal dread, spread-eagle trap,
of humanity, diluted,
and the stain spreading and peppering,
a domino rush, separate and all-together-now, gawking in a communion
spitting and screaming like trees—

as the dogs and neighbors round their eyes at each other, pushing for someone to snap this bloated old driftwood habit–these weekends when people become folks-with-collars,
as though this century has rotated delirious, out of habit, mistaken,
but ultimately choosing
the ether-blooded-thrill, the evaporating flushed-carnation mist
the flesh deliverance.

dressed into community habit, humming hopeful togetherness,
hymns as spasmodic and astute as acid reflux.

there is so much that must be easier than the camouflage sidestep on this runny-nosed time line, lines of timing, timed right, retrospective–
excessive with typos, slick with ink that will smear,
sniffling in the early symptoms of senility.

oh, to be so hopeful, as senile as the angels,
please, please, May I soar
in that blissful immortal puppetry,
sequined and orgasming redemption
upon the lost dolls and the crumbling soapy bits
of toddling image and rhyme,

like 10-year old batteries cursed to purgatory by the warning juries of our shared domestic histories,
teachers, brothers, dictating mothers
clapping palms, shaking finger
of apocalyptic punishment for those who turn a blind eye and bury them under and inside
cartons and papers and peels and strings
underneath yesterday’s forgetfuls–
the darkened dumpster, history’s pitted well of forgotten children--

I am not there but here and there
and always within the walking lines, the drummed stumped
Walls nailed still-
I am within and I am-
perpetuated by the round warmth of a cat
with too many names.

If I was to dig and dig and dig–
if I was more than one thing
of name and place–
already and too late badly antidromic with that hot,
white-blind purpose
and faceless energy
of a shovel.

I sit in cold heat of fluorescent lighting,
my cat settles into her warm bath of blankets.

I settle back with legs crossed out of habit and function
and clench my teeth against the worrisome particles,
the dusty nauseating winds of a restless stomach
garbled intestinal luck, lunchtime karma,

The purblind phone calls all day.

Today was a day for doing and
self-involving contracts,
I slept until four; till I could no longer avoid blinking
away the darkened
window through the blinds,
crooked and chewed silly-tragic by the cat.
I looked up the Kremlin
and then Bolshevik, left-handed and taking notes
too fast in my own crooked blue smear.
a class on 20th century Russian history would be fascinating and more than that would be too important
in these weekends of owned hours,
thawing those frozen obsessions,
shelling memories
of chores and social duties, a stupid housemaid
soaking in my own greenmoldish exposures.
21 September 2006 @ 12:11 am
lately i've been hanging out in front of maine medical late at night. this is where and when the true opportunities for meeting and interacting with human beings take place. just talked to kurt, who's wife of a week is presently in surgery for a grapefruit-sized ovarian cyst. people will talk, really speak from their source, with trembling styrofoam cups of black coffee and just-started-again cigarettes, lit and re-lit in the clumsy breezes of early fall.
they will tell you how quickly and intensely they realize what really matters in their lives and how much their love has jumped out,pulled them out and flagged them down, from under the dormant dull casings of everyday hubris, moment-to-moment myopia, burrowed under the easy mudslides of non-communication that threatened eventual total erosion---
and the necessity of mental and emotional persistence born from such vulnerablity renews some of my own hope in the possibilities of people, of better people, sharing themselves with me, of myself sharing with the raw people of the night, these nights, someday a better night for me.
someday a raw person for me.
09 September 2006 @ 12:17 am
at this moment i am listening to Nightwish.
tarja turunen. tingles. everywhere. listen.
classified as symphonic/gothic/power opera/metal, from Finland, and this woman-WOMAN- has the most spooky-beautiful chords of anyone contemporary--oh, oh, here's my official sexist statement- i really think female vocalists soar well beyond male vocals in terms of quality, penetration and affect- there is a definite depth, range, cutting beautiful simplicity to the female croon and i have always been more affected emotionally and spiritually when the lady sings...aohhhh..
but that's just like my opinion...man.
oh, and since i'm writing about music and not obsessing into my own chirping-manic psychosic-i like it there-- i have to say to the imaginary people that i pretend read my journal- well, to be fair, i never write in it, nor do i add-or subtract- people...wait, what?
oh- secret chiefs 3. it has become a cliche to dig mr. bungle. listen to bungle's Trey Spruance's (and i never capitalize) Secret Chiefs 3, it is the greatest band since the one i talked about earlier. like surfing with the electric organ- but we're going back to Persia- and a whole lot of other wonderful sounds. really neat, neater than bungle. same family as sleepytime gorilla museum, with the complete experience of music as More- aesthetic and spatial, theological and philosophical, visual, theatrical, concentrated, fluid play--
--sleepytime reminds me of a uniquely older, deeper and elegant beauty that contemporary media and theatrics lack-
oh, and secret chiefs 3. they are currently a constellation of seven planets. look it up.

oh, my belly hurts. stupid lack of sleep, i always feel it gastrointestinally.
I just exhaled instead of inhaling my--
Twice, each time clearly bewildered to the cause and the why of this dusty bemusement-now I am listening to the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy and it is so hushed and sacred and glittery, like snow, like confusion and quiet glee, darkened rows and well-placed hands---and instruments, louder until----catching caught --- like old women with puckered faces and finger- painted lipstick– spoke so fondly of robert louis stevenson--
but gliding surely and eagerly into a comfortable nook, could be more spent, if only if she’d realized the benefits of dehydration when it comes to mass produce, bulking up our world, our hearts, our shopping carts--

Hollow, eager voices chime sweetly and twist festively above our heads as bawdy mistletoe couples eager to dance or look afar or yawn–throw popcorn -into other yawning, merry pits with teeth, always the teeth catching--
--of sleeker-than-silver twines hoping and chiming, charging at us with glitter and capable-bodied slashes of light--
and the long, graceful mystic-legs drop neatly one then slide one below and below----

all that time I really lost to a world so much louder and slower than yours. Who’s?
I can’t say.really,
I don’t remember a telling, or a showing afternoon, or even late morning,( early morning is for the moribund and uncouth dwellers of the night....in the filth of the moon’s grey garments! )

....louder until it echoes-echoes-choes-choes–osss-oss-s...

sans balloons, we savor the swiftly economized stature of no-longer-an-event.
candles, lah-tee-dah toys and--
its so filmy and I can hear our feet, excuse me, my feet, swishing but not like my other flash-vision of a swish--
half frozen nantucket nectar left where it was seen last and shoo’ed into public trash cans mouthing “thanks” as we walk away, looking back, just to see–shoo’ed and shushed by that woman with the kid who follows directions– we all swear they don’t exist..
Altogether not distasteful.

this cellophane-clicking shutter, tearing up, and shuffling distant and quiet through sniffles

and fine citizen profiles turning into foreign gobs of oil paint, clipped grass, lingering sizzle of Big Red in the space between my nose and your chewing...
stiff at first like a vast deck of white 8 by11 ,
you present your times new roman with tastefully used italics for voice----love map for a cast morning in venice but without the budget—or the music.
No bands. .no voice, droning or moaning, shrieking and croaking
no more than 3:30 minutes...

--- and lost somewhere under the, the stuff on your floor...you know, where you stubbed your toe..

I and we always forget about the audience that cares-

I silently and deliciously mouth, “watery-foam-puke-green delite- 6 0z per thin-lipped susie or marie, who’s she gonna be?...”

hold, wait, too much eyebrow, squirming. And raising me one. (Always, perpetual meet-and-great twinkles of certainty in this world, you find em at the card table, better than sex, they say, and without the---....) Chuckle chuckle, ears burn red. Not mine. Someone who shouldn’t be distracting this..me...
someone who should fold sweetly away, into the rain for the one chance at ever experiencing pure, gleaming .....
. --prepared since summer of...?

” into the fan, i repeat, speak only into the fan. I don’t have to tell you that never gets old.”--

And cheaper than all the surgeries you wish you couldn’t afford to have but took back home, to the office, then with you at your dentist- that’s supposed to be funny, cause....well.....

But, crackling cereal and frogs following us like dogs, we were shrieking exhilarated because it all felt so familiar and the embers-splashing full and we knew it all like our merry christmas-wide smiles masticate grossly

puckered, wooly shakespeare-like, she swore, but..more...moist.
--because he got down on his bad knee with the brandy half-poured, special, a holiday-red promise, promise of a kiss, (hell, I’ll just take the bottle if it means I can go home–)

but instead I read...thought, hoped, blinked , blinked again and that was your cue to shift and switch, the parts that stood out, the parts that mattered, no don’t worry about details, details become like odds and ends of a not-quite-teetotaler’s wine cellar

See? I could have sworn the sky even winked, the left-behind wrinkles are like elephant skin, see?
. freezing into a chopped-block of a very scaly, crumbly but-not-sweet bellowing
slitherinthesky all the way, ohm’s... of nature, baby...

-enter top hat-stiff-grim.grim as I am
grimly cementing four gone-through-the-drier game pieces onto squares drawn just now--
-- and holding VERY still for all the nice ladies, using your supervision of fierce costumes and
ahhhhhh– and

Some other person besides me on this arthritic log–

. Begging for a square inch or a baker’s dozen..–ohhh, I really don’t know But, you know, the one I got last time?It was so good- I didn’t think about ice cream the same way for like half a month-- an now, if I see it I put it smack in the center of my vision, I use my filth(it was christened “intimate”) to beam down, weave and divide into multitudes of fat, streaming light. To fade like sunning tissue paper–or OR thanatos’s gloat, (no silly, not GOAT) too plain in the sun, better, BETTER in the grey lust of dawn...

---balancing for fun on a boat to nowhere.

bowing our legs and whipping off hats already rippling, playing catch with the wind......fin.

I catch a glimpse of you now- and-- now–and--- last week I would have never thought you up--

only tonight does Tchaikovsky’s Love Theme gleam too brightly even without surround-sound, or something.
and I duck and giggle immediately, thinking about other things; this morning and what to write at the beginning of this poem.

Suddenly something caught his eye–
–and it was just a cat crossing the grass.
Flute –hip–Flute –hop
Commands the army of four
or more-
-or alone
I am–
but one.

Freshly scented like what Florists would fantasize about if fantasies could be bottled and gently, finely, misted.? Apron strings plead
Little boys see and eeee
and howl behind their seatbelt on the ride home from,

(Thinking about the editor’s knife in the too-long thought-mumble-confession of a highly-aroused plane. It goes out like a squalid melting confession, a rasping last wish fumbling as though it were a fish--
--with very dry lips)

but always going to
Like pinging coins, excitable spare change spare hope- glory train of copper--
spent with the charismatic tremor of blinking and parched lashes

wandering up the tree, that squat and senseless foolish mound of rings and screams.

Gobbly-jelly clues and catch-alls, that’s all a pond has to offer.

And that half-armed book? Turned in on himself and eventually all anyone ever knew for sure was that books should never stay silent for too long because once a word has settled into its own shadowy spine, into flaky, flaky bits of light-beam fodder,
the rest, all of them, fling uselessly, in rubber-band style boing slowly first an arc, then only a flash, replaced by a more likeable emotional projection with greasy tint of cheap remorse.

Sad. But not really, like jim bean all tuckered out in the gravel bits of early morning. Better him than me.

Words forgotten like sad bats when reduced-to-soggy-black ink clots of meaning
that was what it was
when it was allowed, but now
crumples like an allergy-ridden agoraphobe the first time she caught sight of a new jersey shopping mall through the car window framing her silent, determined husband, his ghastly curled lips and sagging sense of ...significance...

(“there is nothing left for me in this world” she swore), too aware of the grime left stuck to all the ridges and bumps,
once love evaporates
we can only
depend on mud
and the fruits of our labor.
13 July 2006 @ 02:35 am
well, tonight was a night of pure karaoke liberation.
oh, go ahead--
jump to that conclusion,
because that was me, up there in the light, singing a little marvin gaye, the best, the best for karaoke of course, "let's get it on"--a sweet little duet with the chad pennell, um hmmm...

and don't forget the sassy R-E-S-P-E-C-T of ms. aretha, led by no one sweeter and more soulful than miss kristine, or the righteous independent call of destiny's child, we were all there and no one will ever forget what it means...to be an independent woman.keeping it real, keeping it strong.

there was more but i'm just not going to write about it.
why? because i am really, stupidly drunk.

goodnight, my sweet audience (uh, assuming there is still or ever was an actual "audience")
Current Location: huh?
Current Mood: spinny head
Current Music: jumbled mix of the past few hours
06 July 2006 @ 11:07 pm
Romance and Cigarettes is a fabulous, drunk-on-its-own-aesthetic-delight film that all should enjoy.
and yes, it's done by the Coen brothers, with a beautiful cast including the monstrously-sexy-ugly christopher walken, steve buscemi...
oooh, i don't think i've seen the sloppy glee of romantic tragedy expressed so delightfully.
what a fun, honest, theatrical performance.
see it!
Current Location: four-cornered reality
Current Mood: gleeful hostility
Current Music: a slow drug--pj harvey
06 July 2006 @ 06:01 pm
to the motherfucker of all motherfuckers,
you didn't have to put a yellow piece of metal on my car's tire. you didn't have to do anything to my car.
there was no need to get out of your car to provoke such a flagrant act of horror onto my car.
there's been an easy, unspoken agreement between me and the guys, your guys...and we all know that my green car lives on hill street, and it's ok if it doesn't get moved hourly. we've all known this for some time now.
i hate you.
a lot.
145 dollars of hate.
no, my hate can't be quantified, especially since this is credit card quantification and it mostly means i have maxed out another card and in my stormy sea of debt this exists as only a surfer's wave of punishment.
i know people.
i have a client who was a bill collector for the hell's angels for 10 years. he's gonna hurt you. i know because i asked him. it's ok that it violates staff/client relationship. it's ok because he said yes with the wide, knowing grin of a guy who can hit other guy's legs with baseball bats and not look back.
oh yeahh, i'll redefine "boot" for you. (ok, that was dumb)

i hope to kick you while you're down,
26 June 2006 @ 01:03 am
-a chance found within its own cosmic necessity

How sexual this demand is-
to be alone and willful with words, to determine the sky a living figure of rage and conflict and trust.
How sexual is this lacking when silenced--

Only here, determined, curving and red.
Only here can I smile and carry it along. only
Only here
has it has made me visceral and globally an antidromic organ
and if that is true, your severed liver's other.

Is this fantasy of bigger-than-blue eyes,
as if once i met the sky and it winked
more lonesome than I am?

This left-over, non-budging and open-eyed, open-mouthed dream of a child–
that I was and still hate to be.
alongside the rails where we were traveling and trembling in opposites.
it is me, thoughtlessly committed to the cycle, still surprising,
the rush, the return, as a passion-prayer.

Remembrance of what I was closer to then–-simple,
trusting faith in the shared meanings of need and thought, excitement and silence, want and hurting

maybe i understand us best when we are the red muscle, tissue beating, still i am antidromic; the open-mouthed polyglot organ tucked inside, away--outside of us and still open-mouthed, sucking in the air the way i remember; when all the tumbling of us, me was contained in our own drunken novel. but i am here and on a plane and the window-you and the aisle-other-you talked anyway--i am a foreigner and there is always the seatbelt to stare at.

If I was to translate the world
into a language I could trust,
there would be no world.
Not a place -but this-

you have the bigger-than-blues, you and i stretch longer
than a landscape of intestines--
yet still we scatter, like a cat's attention,
not only are we migrating in and out of our continents of bodies and orating with our eyes

truth is a too-late whore,
frigid too long, revolting against its own values.

time becomes an object to fling somewhere else.

I want what I imagine. And there is no time for shame, I simply can’t wait for it.
I imagine again and again, were these the wishes of Freud in his own conceived womb?

Footsteps across bodies, sweet rot within
shadows charged with glittery dust.

placentas are worn in wide-eyed dreams-
-our war-halo is deliberate.
tissue filaments, sweet and white-hot
feasting on the eager demands
of the burning-up, craving, sky.

This is the pulsing placenta, the union,
the tantalizing, darker conflicts of mouthing desires.

not the words of lovers, or literature, or the inhabited space between our hips.
This is not a long-internalized, feminine fantasy of repressed desire.
This is not mother’s romance with uninhibited submission
or unresolved, infantile longing.

-not even some cracked, pseudo-freudian-dressed-in-buddhist-sacrifice.

Closing my eyes for the last wasted instant-
leaning back with my
palms up.

This is the dream of nature,
where mountains become mountains,
peaking with the bliss of conflict.
Current Location: electro-charged skull
Current Mood: come on...
Current Music: jingle jangle purrrrrr