utterance and saying

light and dark

oracular

throat a chime

I had the wrong idea from

and wrote “why don’t you”

older stitches mend older wounds

hope for magic

petals are a part of

unfolding

please remain conscious

tenure half sleeping

stepping occurs

as sitting

yarn

wait

to see it rain

heavens

enfold with pigment

all this breathing wanting opaque mud

intuition

time the waves

let the gods

feel like dying

OUTLASTED NEED

notice varied style to begin unconscious loss

autumnal cold fervor

no independence disease

romantic sundry item

gold and scarlet house

fragrant memories of disasters deepen

memorize passing over particular do tell

forgotten story unnerved brilliant

lathing blotted night god

weave her usual net

you swirl up into the black

word roughly the moon in creasing

blended could have had it been distance

volume floating through life

curve skies and things hidden

do you know this word

sundry

romanticize is to notice

items

varieties volume scatter

glass shattered on black

rote

the postures for collision

phantom

do you know this word

could be that having it

foray

would be the beginning

color

irradiated callow skin

autumnal cold brilliance

wax

temporal silk sanguine

her

virgule sun draw union

goodnight monolith or

token

rewarding to have lasted

outlasted

need

draw people

I need something sugar coated, half expectant : 15 minutes out put through severe grilling only 10 remain : preservation expenses : still no figures for use, whose your italian jungle? old preservation expenses : I ought to have forget it, the old die out vomiting pharmaceuticals : population means disease but lasts expect otherwise : effusion of blood, library of ornate himself : to say stop eating me my phone is ringing fantasy : Baubles and bags the custom, pink is take me later meat.

In the mouth

If there is one best way to test hearts it is in the mouth unless it is obvious. Has it been that way for you in quit a while? I have. Then count the breaths until to fuck. These two torsos are unfulfilled. These two stories hold unceasingly. It was as thick like blood and jewels at its peak was stepping down over them at your instruction. Today i am going to be alone. Today I am going to be alone. Today I am going to be alone. With a palm to your spine luster I can still do that from here. No, to you. Or without my hand.

this is a good album

my new broken .03

my pencils fuckin broken

sweet heart

I will drive you to the bus stop

blend

the best thing just discovered

pouring a dollop of scotch right into the pot of amateur witch

mint

rose

tulsi

chamomile

smoke the mugwort

legs crossed

elasticity in readiness

not rediness, which it is

I got my name from

so aimless

I don't go in the water by myself

this year

because of my pencil broken

one and the other

now you're a philosopher

and you can re-define words like entropy or

what does the window washer become when it looks into the mirror

mechanical

I drink by myself

tender nudity

with only a couple sheets written out

I would rather fuck

would that change everything

.03

thank you for throwing me some scraps

WHAT I THINK ABOUT: WHILE DOING LAUNDRY, SMOKING, OR DICKING OFF AT WORK

Thank you Jenni for sharing Alice Notely with me

Closer to me & closer

Now I feel like being more free

Like…

But I still want to write simply

To have you know that I am a person

And am interested in explaining personal things

What I think about

Thinking is a droplet of moister passing upward

For me

In my throat

Underneath

Lives gremlins

A closed door

What I think about

Is time

A concept that can be arranged

As a cloud with rays of light that look gray passing through it

As a circle

Like the revolution of stars and there lovers gravitation

And as a stream

With its westward or eastward flow bringing everything towards a great body

That body is you

Body can be used to describe the flesh of mammals

Or the sea

Anything else?

Plants are not called bodies

And either are stones

The difference between stones and rocks is whether or not they have been picked up

And if they have

Whether or not they’ve been placed or just thrown around a bit

Sometimes they have been placed poorly and should have just been cast off

That is the beginning of a wall

Unless there is water enough to take down them

And they are a stone

What I think about is being something

If it is good enough to be that

If it is good enough for me

If it is good enough for me to let them see it

It is alright to come home from work and take a nap

Or on Sunday to do absolutely nothing

It is alright

showing up at a woman’s door with nothing accomplished

no need to anyway

One could live there life this way

And in the end having altered nothing

Presented nothing

Have changed everything

The life of an artist

But what woman’s door would you show up at then

If by accident I see myself

A reflection in a shop window

Passing by

I think How sexy you are

I am

And why aren’t there arms all wrapped around me

Because then I would burry all this again

A lethargic lover

With nothing to prove

So like being naked in very nice sheets

Feels better

Or with enough open window to be spotted

It also lets the fresh breeze in

The difference between the quality of linen

Absolutely

SICKENING EXPLOSION OF SEED

This is a poem I like from late spring but don't know how to end

A month has passed and now as I said the lilacs are open
noted, didn’t I, the post cerulean sky

I said, those are for you, pointing out this spray of blossoms atop the dresser

did you notice the lilacs are open?

it is now that we have come to touch again

the day I walked around with those branches reaching out my breast pocket

opening

thus

sickening explosion of seed

sickening to you

no storm pounding the branches against the shutters

no tearing them asunder

the temperature just remains to hot

it was sickening explosion of seed

incomparable, that beauty

of knotted old woods repetitious innocence

sprouting and falling

a push, and out luxurious foliage

green that is silver

witnesses the sun

drinking at the branches

this is not death of or rebirth of like winter bequeaths spring

is loss of and growth of

that which unfolds now that the petals have blown

at the point that once held them, again one witnesses the undistinguishable

distinguished when I took off your clothing

It was your mouth telling me without speaking

again groans at a blood ritual

and the knocking at a gate opening

fingering the softness of intricate and ornate iron reds

perceives it to be there just before It takes him

wet dew

lying in the moist soil under overgrown thickets

prostrations, intent on listening

for a small touch as I give to you

so this wrist

and first this hand

that I remember whispering into through my lips, a part of my mouth

prayers that give rise to scented flowers

I AM ON THE PEAK OF A MOUNTAIN/CRACKLING ELECTRIC HEAT/ IN ANCIENT TIMES IT WAS STILL LIKE THIS

Journal entry 07/17/10

I am on the peak of a mountain
one side fulfilled, the other dropping off in despair

I am on the peak of a mountain
also it is my advent of time
I create with all the organism
these stories future and past
giving birth to my parents
I restore it
having received life through them
I am estranged

I am on the peak of a mountain
being fulfilled means
nurtured through small things
from the well I fill my water vessel up to the brim
finding my home here
calming down

I want to be alive
in love
to sing
to kiss her
I need to be comfortable
comforted

I need to create something I am proud of
a song
medicine

I am proud of this song by Bjork

"5 Years"

“You think you're denying me of something
well I've got plenty
you're the one who's missing out
but you won't notice
'til after five years
if you'll live that long
you'll wake up
all loveless

I dare you
to take me on
I dare you
to show me your palms

I'm so bored with cowards
that say they want
then they can't handle

you can't handle love
you can't handle love
you just can't handle

I dare you
to take me on
I dare you
to show me your palms

what's so scary ?
not a threat in sight
you just can't handle
you can't handle love”

I am proud of this poem in Alice Walkers book

“For two who
slipped away
almost
entirely:
my “part” Cherokee
Great-grandmother
Tallulah
(Grandmama Lula)
on my mother’s side
about whom
only one
agreed-upon
thing
is known:
her hair was so long
she could sit on it;

and my white (Anglo-Irish?)
great-great-grandfather
on my father’s side;
nameless
(Walker, perhaps?),
whose only remembered act
is that he raped
a child:
my great-great-grandmother,
who bore his son,
my great-grandfather,
when she was eleven.

Rest in peace
the meaning of your lives
is still
unfolding.

Rest in peace
In me
The meaning of your lives
Is still
Unfolding.

Rest in peace, in me.
The meaning of your lives
Is still
Unfolding.

Rest. In me
The meaning of your lives
Is still
Unfolding.

Rest. In peace
In me
The meaning
Of our lives
Is still
Unfolding.

Rest.”

I don’t remember much of my dreams last night
but oh, how I love to go there

I don’t want to remember her telling me that she cant give me what I want
estrangement
remembers the tapping on the center of her chest
waking her up, scented openings
ambrosia is a flower

Surrounded by half of boulders loud crazies at Café Roma

Like my grandmother, she’s given me half my style
which I can only acquire from lovely woman
porcelain
it has become dark features
so I am looking good
A kind of food
and let it go
with a smile
whith the remnants of tears not yet dried in the corners of my eyes

Lie
10 years I Ching, 5 years
I know it doesn’t work this way
summer follows spring
neither of us can control its growth
in the shape that it does
like the jungle of trees
with its mocking of birds
some unlucky weather
thunder disperses the clouds
no sorcery here
magic works out
this path with its own will

“I dare you to show me your palms”


A bit of poem that I write here now and was started earlier about my childhood

From within the sound
blows of hot steam
my mothers laborious torso plump
over the ironing board
is my childhood folded up on the sofa
crackling electric heat

Where I sang from
there was always a room meant only for Sundays best
the crisp blue garments falling off of huge shoulders
starched on the pew picking at meat under nails
from across the room this child’s stolen peak at the hairs of gendered monstrosity
his nakedness always hidden under holy white sheets

The second time I left
my father was forlorn on the concrete steps
the suburban stoop still shaded by red brick and juniper
like the city
my mother was still fucking mad

like my mother
the city was still fucking

like my fucking mother
the city was mad

A bit of poem that is just about time

the ages it has taken for water to remove mountains and leave behind canyons
are tied to the past not necessarily rotations
there are new stories that are to be told

So a mouth is open
A thought leaves ones throat
slightly changed
in ancient times it was still like this

That is all, just thought I’d try to share something in this hot month where I haven’t really been writing much but need to blog or else you might start to think I’m not real

love

and these too

Most of the time I am listening to some album or song on repeat for weeks at a time

we're here to listen, or you could say we're hear to listen

6/13 journaling

Then it dawned on me this morning while making breakfast, self worth, have I really strayed so far from my core that I have lost sight of this elementary truth? While I have been engaged trying to share warmth with her, And receive warmth from her, Warmth from the world, can the world give one worth? It does, yet through my own lens. Then there are some that I cannot give to myself. Like tender mouths, touch, the feeling of bodies becoming transparent to each other as they twist, grasp brutally, caress, unknot.

These are beauties only lovers know. These are that which I desire, from her, or from some where that I have not yet met. There is loss, rejection, desire. How can one contain these voices and maintain worth? Self love? I make the long voyage away from lover back to self containment, my own happiness, my worth.

I speak to her within my own vortex of fictitious dialogue . “It doesn’t feel good to me, hanging out with you.” “I give always to you, you cannot give to me what I need, or what I want, or you don’t.” but you never hear this coming out of my mouth, because you will never ask. That is what is meant by this feels bad, and you don’t give me what I need, which differs with what I want, in that what I want is a lover.

need

Just to be received, cared for, cared about, facilitated, nurtured. Ahhhhh. Release. Breath, ok that no emailed poem, text, or call in the night will save me. Loitering in dreams does help a bit. The scrambled imagery of woman from my life and ones of the dreamers invention, taunting, placating. And then eventually one must get up.

If you wear yoga pants casually i will

be friends and even dress up for the both of us

whatever cloth unknotted and knotted from irresistible woman

last night was another night where I calmly sat spinning

In the comfort of your home, with its wooden floors

and quarreling idiosyncrasies

mine too, quarreling, I am in the arms of my lovers and bereaved

inside my chest, a mire, my mind a reckless fictitious confabulation

Jaunts on the phone today, I also feel the summer weighted with solitude

Even though I am busy with them

(Adrian Orange) - “Its not that I don’t want no friends, but just that I am really alone anyway until the end”

why I smoke

Why do I stand here in the cold burning my mouth
my singed tongue meets my longing for a mothers milk I never knew
Oh lovely mother
you also fell from lofty heights
a nocturnal owl witnessing the deformed and bludgeoned reality of the emergency room
forgot me
to tell me of your love
which is certainly there beneath your worn face
driving you mad
that is why I smoke

GRACECENTEREDINCREASE (having crossed some great waters)

Hope is a hard place to maintain
A person who hopes he wont spend another summer here
the only recourse to dream
under the mountains
one is constantly looking upward for inspiration
where above the skyline of pine branching out reluctantly blaring sun across the sharpness of black rock
I live
heady, billowing, clouds, under-shadowed, seamless blues, the sky
since I came back from "the city" I have only lived to dream
collected scraps of mugwort
So (sleeping with mouth open) I could be closer to her, intense brown eyes
I have been filling up on shadows of her adorning me with touch that I have written the script for
when I awake I am disoriented
Where am I?
this place under the mountains
after crossing the great waters, literally
body and mind
there is always a toll?
As I have been taught "bring a prayer"
A week ago I was perched up on a sunken sea craft
a long gentle crossing, the prayers did help
bottle beach, I loved those woman picking at her endless laundering of humanity
across the planes I kept myself from weeping by admitting I could learn
to be friends
climbing into bed just awkward when she finally rolls over to me for a moment and holds my stiff unresponsive body
now we have two
and a very lovely drive between friends
expansive mind
joy at knowing the world as beautiful
the color- grass and sage, mounded hills mingled with awkward rows of corn bleeding at her contours
then as the purple sky reflected farewell to the sun great forested bodies of water surrounded by giants
dark emerald clusters, shimmering these weeping arches, juniper
what silver left behind catches on what resembles russian olive
A shaman in the clouds
the purple reflected in water
talking softly of longing
paths
without mentioning the feet, souls
I meant to
They where scattered among the shore
notice the wind molding the sand and the squawking of sea birds
the same wind that has stirred me all along
and encouraged the bells ring (just often enough)
A bell that is forged by human hand, fire and wind
sounds just so
to the ear
we have inner truth, or centeredness
a spring that swallows the noise
a leaf who trembles the wind
a flower who gave birth to its seed
hope is like a child
The heart is an infant and a miser
every breath one endures the dream