Thursday, July 26, 2012

Love 1

.Acid Island.

Lfe is good, if you breathe, if you exhale the matter you make matter. All I see is I Sea All. Time is flying cos I’m not holdin’ it down. I’m loving me in a people are strange way. I am loving me. It’s utter blasphemy, ecstasy. I love. I do. It’s an explosive love, for my cognition, I’ve broke all permission, all permitted admission.

            She spoke words,   that would melt in      your hands.

This whole existence of mine is beautiful and BEYOND, beyond all my juggled words and loving licks and artistic tricks.

I am not “lucky”, I just AM. Happily so, and I’ma run with it. I am brilliant, given gifts from the Creator, for a Reason. I am to follow my sepia-stained golden road, all the way to my destiny and back, I’ma fly above all cliffs, a static laugh, a fluid craft, an unborn, daft, death  .…..   the answer, is  Y e s. 


I feel fear to give eternal love, that cascades in cycles within my mettle. I feel fear that some Self other than I, will tire in the enslavement of I.

I want.
I desire.
My Self rages.
                        In lust, fiery and surprising, I rage.
I wish, I dream, to love deeply in a way that I shake, shaking

I am patient , not rushing the eternal Now,

Yet roaring in silence.

Roaring muted so loud I scream in color. My lack of intimacy
Compels me to a murdered waterfall of tears.
To burst at the seams.

I need to feel that someone will love me without wishing to ensnare me, to keep me in their pocket, or as a metal locket. I am not a robot.

How can I fully and freely love on a level past the transitory, past the superficial, past the ego?

How can I have that, which I know so well, in return? I am scared to be taken…

“Because you know that gentleness is stronger than severity, that water is stronger than rock, that love is stronger than force.”

“Perhaps you seek too much, that as a result of your seeking you cannot find.”

The Alchemist- Paolo Coelho

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

2011 Manuscripts: November 11

Location: Crimson Woods of Humbwarts

What was I thinking? Mari. Ah. The mother in her rots and divulges itself, rolling like invisible green stitched hills of sludge out the pore of the earth. There is so much anger there, did she recognize in real time what she wanted from her attraction of me. I pick flies up, they canoodle in my cavern of a nostril, I can identify them hair by minutae hair. Ah. Mari. What? Did you want me to bring you happiness, bring you my eternal rosy checked child that sits in my well and sings lullabies to sleep and while in sleep. I don’t recognize the point, I don’t recognize her state, shes kept it so locked up, the fly has flown away. Her sludge slips back up and in, and yet I still want to touch her. To be close to her, my idea of her. No, the soft her that I see beneath the sludge, the shiny pink conch shell that is far past flirted with grime. We are two aloof crabs in the coasts of courtship. We met pincer to pincer and neither clawed soft shell. But that is how I am, my skittering will carry on. My deep fed desire for my mother’s love in precious other female spirits will haunt me forever more. Delightfully so. Things come full circle, and as another bloody knuckle tore wall for me, I tear wall up in the Boldt. Strange, being aware of your Oedipus complex and being fine with it. Nothing to be not fine about, as I see. Yet in Mari, there is not sweet. There is neutered fruit, crisp and tart, and breaking my teethe. Ah. Mari. And yet here I type, tippy tappy along, crab crawling, soul divulgin’, sludge diverging, livingroom of this living groom. Why, Mari? Why the long face. Will I have to write a song about how you pin pricked my record player face. How did I flittingly follow your tune? What was there that I could birth? And what of this now, here, this tippity typing. What of it? Why do I find the need to one-two binary code my fee-ling. Or lack thereof. What do I feel for her….lust, disgust, …..ah the nurturer in me looms! Oy vey. I could see the possible symbiosis, I could imagine it.

And there, there it is. The culprit. Imagination.
Devastation. No, carnation and re- re-re-re-re incarn[innate ascend]ion.
 I can imagine us, as I can every psycho-lover that enters my womb of a forest, my pine-treed dilettante, my evergreen serenade.

I take what I can work with, and work with it wonders. Work it to wonder.
To full of wonders, until it is transformed, and in my state of quixotic thunderlust, I fall like acid rain, disheveled and pulling up the scratchy-clothed socks of lethargy.

Too much gain, turn down the speakers ac/dc, ah I see deceit. Self deceit. My favorite fool of a took. Tool of a fool, book of a fucking dedicated to the Self.

I am learning to be alone. To be without the obsessive mother impulse that drives me through water like a blinded hydra.


2011 Manuscripts: December 1

Location: Humboldt Hauser

Talkin’ mazes through smiles, miles ahead of human stalkin’

Its all so made fake in the mind. What a beautiful captor, a false pretender, horribly false irony of human dictating.

I am shooting through roots to return to desert fruits, Salty peaks and nippled freaks.

I havent seen my father in five months. I havent seen my brother, my fellow lover, my own. I havent seen the younger dichotomy of me, the other angel, not fallen. With a sax to axe my bullshit that is so sludged and so sweet, sweet as can be.

The one that you loved is gone. Here is my steed and I, one in the same.

I am going to swallow the feet of Kenyans running, Saharan hallucinations in my dreams, where Avaoln is lost to me. A lot of exploration in nightwoods of yore, to yore, true fool’s are golden.

I am hesitant, quiet. Araid to be myself in front of theose who hold power over me. My father. My fether. My bood runs purple, over your ice tundras that hug the insides of your eyes, the lairs of your mind. A beautiful captor. You are taken.

And I am almost free. And in that way, I am already emancipated, masturbated, celebrated, continuated, forever less.

Nothing can stop me, because I am everything.

My ego stifles my unending patience. I look to attain the moment of ego slippage so that my electricity can fully warp me in the purplest true.

I do not want to be anything FOR anyone. I simply want to be. The survival mechanism that splinters my organism, dissects my faculties, analyzes me and does not synthesize or sow my fields, that is the gray twilight of cages propagating and curvature coming to leave my essence resting in smoke.

I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me. 

I am the bitter Uniqorn, solitariomnipresence.

Quiero todos cosas. Por favor. Comprende.

I am so close. To a world so foreign that I imbibed for centuries. I’ve been here for so long. So long. Too short, you know. A thousand and one nights I’ll spend. And wherever you wish, or whoever you dream,             I’ll be the shadow and the light beam.

2011 Manuscripts: August

Location: The Salty Sea to Sea to See Again

I’m I’m stutter stutter you binary onetwo type bullshit. My body is lethargic, drowning like mad in this concrete jungle. I shudder to know my first thoughts are PMS. Does it exist? Well yes my female body is preparing to beat eggs out. I’ll make a bunt velvet cake with my bloody cunt. I feel a harshness looming looming looming up inside of me. A trueness. But I am very distrustful after this Spain trip and Lanelle and Games People Play and Myself and my Demon.

Is there truth, universal? Or will I find my own patented version?

If it is on an individual basis then why the fuck should I judge anyone for their actions or thoughts or mode of motions? And vice versa. Ah but I see a mass adoption of “truth” by passive flocks of beings, catholic school blocks inside many heads, like baptism bowls in the dark.

Spain was uncomfortable. I stepped wide grinning into a mouth of hungry consumption. Never satisfied, is that my type? No fuck that, fuck types. I’M just an insecure gangly confused youngun. Haven’t even hit 20 human made lengths called years.

I don’t like any of these measurements. TIME, SPACE. I am distrustful. My eyes are more wide. Don’t measure them, however.

Spain. Cancellation. Catala. Y Portugal. I am afraid to look at the pictures. I am afraid to look at her face. I don’t know what is right or wrong. My WHOLE BEING IS A TADPOLE FETUS, SWIRLING AROUND IN A SWIMMING WOMB UPON A DISMAL POND.

I am changing so much and so rapidly that I could potentially fit anywhere. If I felt the compulsion. Problem is, I get back from a location I assumed I’d find fulfillment in, and I feel NOTHING. No compulsion for anything. Except art. Which may have been some blassi brainwashing, clandestino.

Art. Yes, I want to create. But there is conflict there. I doubt myself. And I do not feel the heavy motion of my genius. The sultry brusque voice yelling at me and hurling grapefruits in the name of art.  I am decidedly undecided and not even that. CONFUSED. Fuck you Kerouac.

Spain. Dammit. My mind is a frenzied staircase of marbles. Bounce!
Spain. Masochism. Masoooccchhiiisssmmmm. Jizm. A prison.

My father. My lover. Myself. mY MOTHER TOO. Do we all operate in this back slashin saunter step. ?

I can barely process anything now. My pinkie toe is bleeding cos I’m picking at it in pain and stress. Anxiety from what? Having no home? Trusting no one and disgust of the human race which I am. No mummy and daddy, I’m not ashamed of being weird or queer or strange, I’m ashamed I share your blood, your epidermis, your genus and species! I’m discontent with my fellow kin. Collective kin.

Why must we play games? Why must our hearts also be concrete and the skin a cold stone labyrinth. Even the phantom would be proud of this torture chamber.

And on top of that we beat up ourselves. An added irony is our motion to destroy ourselves. Perhaps because the concrete living is too painful and we are too lazy to transform the pain, much less the conditions.

A lot of it is fake I see. It’s like a large swab of saliva cracking through my eve’s apple. Unpleasant like rotten heavy fruits, made heavy by their stones and life’s bruises.

Day in, day out. It’s a methodical habit.
Will I develop a habit? Haven’t I already? Is my life a habit? Is that human…human consistency. Is life just a series of habits…slightly varied, and then death.

I hope death is cooler.

Marbles dancing in my masquerade mind. 

The Summer I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Atomic Bomb

May 15th 2012
Location: The Salt City

A Poemme For All the Travelers

When they think you’re crazy.
And the lights from the moldavites ring the shakles round your bodice like crackling embers in a fiery temple.

When they solidfy you of your design.

Crazed from little sleep and little friends.

Well is dry and bubbling up again, foamed at the mouth like a dreadful and vengeful sea, of haughtiness.

I sea. Radical fractals. Classical music in synthetic synchronicity on a purple stallion in an old dream that is really too young.

Impotence, impatience. On a fucking computer screen, I shine the sheen I’ve made in fake and authentic highs, teeth chattering or clenching or falling into place upon anothers skin.

I am motion only. And yet its far more simple and too complex. Seven planes of existence and much more. My heart hurts from ensnared smoke and withheld watery explosions.

And yet there lies love. All caked in a muddy sweat across valleys of a slothful desert. Horrendous energy.

And in other’s eyes I find my peace. Oases of swathed experientials, all cacti of prickly soothedness, I sleep.

I sleep in your eyes. In mine, I cry. In mine I see multiples, so many other eyes, I collect like a rusted orphan after marbles in a flea market. Hands bruised between the search by feet and ground.

Inhale, exhale spurned.

Intuition haunts me and guides me, my inner compulsion like a broken shooting star. Black like coal and still burning gold.

Why do I fear the addiction of the reflection?

Good question.

Don’t capitalize for me. Do not capitalize me. Correct me. Institutionalize my talons that sing the rapture of the evil raptor of the saintly sky dwelling siren.


I create so that I do not disappear. So that my passage is eternal and infinite always and yet                         I wish to rebel against my passage against all that has ever been of me, of everything.

A young boy hooded and pointed ear. Massage my passage of time. All I ever said was ‘clock’. All I’ve ever regurgitated was vagaries from the whispy windows of my ghostly architecture. haunted trappings of a long lost burp. Blood-in-a-syringe burp, of wisdom far into the future’s past.

I am not insane, I am nothing of words. I am a keeper of time and of vagary. I am a sage who is like a virile mare, white and lost in the woods.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

2011 Manuscripts: November 1

November Sometimethe
Location: Cognitive Labyrinthe

A Necessary RockanAHard Place: What goes Down Must Come

I’ve got so much to say, to one two type, binary babblings, who knows whats coming from my finger pecked mind. I kinda hate life right now, just the bursts of it I feel in my gut that aint quite a gut right now, feelin low functioinal. Low functioning, fluctuating. I think of my life in comparion, like comparing paintings and I simultaneously appreciate and despise my lifestyle. I was bout to say my blessings but really its all about perception. I engage in activities that we deem luxury and high living and its all perception. I LIVE IN AN ALIENATED SOCIETY THAT DISTRUSTS ITSELF IN TOTALITY. Our “standard” of living is deemed the best in the world, and this is false. False false false it is not tea time, never will be he-re. Our specialization has been at great cost. This society I have grown up in is crumbling, person by person, crumb by crumb, crack in the ice. I see it every where I go, especially when in crowds or completely alone. Im either sensory overloaded or sensory overloaded, unless Im tired then I am practically drunk.
Why am I found so attractive. Inga says she can spot a self-actualized person from a mile away. Am I soon to be actualizee? Interesante. I don’t know, and I don’t care right now. Its all about scrambling, in flux. Entropy, I want to appease me, I want a change in reality, a change in society, a change in me. I’m hanging in cruxed balance, between warm wood and cold nails a’peircin. I devalue my experiences, and I shouldn’t. Or should i? and look at it under a different lens, change the fishing for love for the fishing for self. Self love, so easy to say or sputter or type or utter, but not to do. A daily process. One day at a time. Its true man , woman, distinct-ians, martians. I want to go to space one day. I could if I wanted to. Itd be fascinating, if I so choose it to be. My perception is so fragile I feel, so innocent and recently clay-smeared upon a red rock wall. I’m a young orb, a young energy. My time is so few and so limitless, I’ve been here for an eternity and not at all. And yet this society only sees juxtaposed colors and I see a spectrum, starkness only comes in realization, not perception, and I can see beauty serenity and malicious callousness all in one glance of an eyeball, all in the back of your head, my head, the cats head. I can see so much simultaneously that my mind chews on for long burps of time before I understand, before I hit the Starkness. Crispy realization, bon. I feel out of my element, my lungs have been drying since I was 17 I think, drying out my element. I need mar. the sea. Marthesea. Marthesea. I need artistic inclinations and idiotic foolish aspirations and meaningless sex as art and meaningless art as sex, and all the meaning of those two combined. I need silence and yet I fear it. Even this clicking of white keyed devils, staring at me in mirrors of paris, set me off in a way where my discomfort cant truly touch me, not yet. One day I will fully slide in to my crazy, and all these energies around me will mute into salt and peppered teevee screens.

I like this stream, floating up it, thrashing down it. Navigating, im learnin, and I begin to trust myself, and distrust the world around me less. Dark times, darker than ive seen, is an omen of ominousness. Ready set grow. I see death and killing, and a lot of concrete growing, how doth the green riseth from grey? Good question bad question just a neutral suggestion. I don’t quite accumulate it all, I just ;let it loose and do so frivoulously and with cunning, not fastidious in my perfectionist way. And I wonder if people can see my insecurities and I wonder all the time if I am just like everybody else: convinced I am special, convinced the condition of bagged flesh doesn’t wrap me. It does, it doesn’t. maybe in actuality it does, but if my perception paints me, if, then I am not in the condition. I am a cerebral entity. Here by mistake. To watch and die in silence, or in the loudest sonic boom, or both at once. Why do I search for fulfillment at the end of rosy red lips and fine check bones, wide canals of smiles and breasts for the horizons? Why? Why do I seek the beauty which I myself could be, incarnate, and yet could never be? Why do all being both attract and repulse me, and why do I fear to be lonely? And yet crave loneliness. And yet crave ugliness and dirtiness and utter depravity and the like, the faint. Why do I want to smash my head between my could-be lovers car door and steel vee-hicle, slice my skin with sickles of laughs, of frustrating hesitates, my mind fights fate, my mind fights all. And I lose to it continuosly, for most of the awake time, and only in thee deepsest hours, when all is dark and frothy black, like cold syrups from bleeding willows, I come alive. More alive than if my brain were bursting its brim, attacking the sky. More than if my body dies, and mind kept onward. More when I am in a lull, a swift lull where all makes true and sense is achieved, where I am most natural and therefore most everything, greatness omnipresence, no seeping doubt or barraging egomania, no hair cutting of tight jean dressing, no girl-i-croon-for-you or shut the fuck up slobbering dickwad, none of that. Just sunny, just a Viracocha like lull, a quiet existence, a humming that is broken in perfection. When I am asleep, or in my farthest escape.

Life is so easy and it is so hard.
My reality makes little sense.
I am told I am lucky but do not feel it.
I feel to escape.
Escape what?
I feel dark times.
I feel my destiny is coming to nibble my ass
Then bite a chunk out
Hopefully of my head, not my butt.
I want to learn to mind-quiet.
I think either this society will have to go, or I will have to go.
I am okay with dying, whenever.
I am okay with dieing, whenever.
I am content with sensation.
I am content with my own stimulation, and yet am needy.
So needy.
So wanting of someone to affirm it is permissible for my existence.
I feel guilty.
For my breath upon this earth, when it has too many breaths already.  
For my rearing in a society built upon shame and guilt.
For a devience of love, from everyone by everyone, almost.
I feel guilty.
But that means nothing.
For even the smallest waxing of milky hope appears on both sky and earth, in reflections.
I am so thankful to be able to REFLECT.
I am so thankful to be a reflector.

And yet, it terrifies me.


2011 Manuscripts: December

December 15th 2011
Location: Deep Underground


One day I am going to write a play. Or a novel. Or the longest endless transcript you’ve ever smelt. burning Paper with the eyes of a dark elf.[]


It is all so befuddled. I remember a room of potions. I remember falling from a ship, a very large ship. I remember Jack, I remember slum streets deserted.


I am going to dream Avalon’s world. And then I will know.

He comes to me, in the waking world. He takes over my body. He has so much anger. So much fire, it tinkers away in me like a busted heater.

Not necessarily dream, but fall. I will fall sideways into his world. I will be him, in me. I’ve done it so many a time. But I was too selfish to see. To see he.

Now. I a m ready.

Avalon, I want to know your world. Even if the black on white one-two binary type is but a fake, I do this anyway. I want to know your world.

It is our world. Just like this waking rule is ours.

I wonder and I remember. Do I hide you? Do I smother you deep within, just as you do I in the night world?

I want to bridge our binary. Symbiose. I will not lie, right now, except the lies I believe myself. I will be honest: I am so tired, Avalon.

I am so tired by this waking world. That never sleeps, and despises a dream. The dream that keeps alive those awake.

I realize I need you. And perhaps you need me. Together, strength in infinity. 
Like a long lost friend. That is how I feel about you. A long lost lover, even. Yes.

I’m beginning my search. My scouring of the empty bowls of the dark expanse that is beyond any human thought, word, theory.

I’m looking for you… a companion within me, and without me.

Perhaps this is a self-made consolation for destiny. Perhaps this heeds not your long, candle-wicked ear. But, if you are right here, in that which I yet cannot feel, then you know what I have begun to exhale. You see what I have released.

Can we meet, some sunny night? 

2011 Manuscripts: Late November

November 30th 2011
Location: Thee Boldt; The Jester’s Court


Christmas lights an no sleep nights. Withering, dithering, rhyming myself into oblivion and beyond, short of a frond. Except Botanies gone, and I’m synapomorphied into change, yet again, and always. Catalyzed. Catatonic. I am at the same time, all the cats.

Patricia, and Natalie. Sweet honey bees. Patricia looks at me with a mother’s love. Why do I strike deep in mines of fools gold when the richness is on the level I was birthed upon? Pits of hell entice me, the heaven is where I am all ready at. And I, O I. I want both. Greedy goblin saint of both heaven and hell. I could see the beauty, mm.

I see the beauty. Fuck, I see the beauty. On such a professionalound, level, profoundessional level. So fresh and so clean.
Morgan Le Fay
I havent been scouring for desire. Not up in these parts. And yet I have, but not consciously.

So, Meems. Yes, I typitty type Meemsi. When ya gonna get off your blue balled board and jump into the SEE. ?

You breathe best when you are drowning, you know that, fishee?

I know. Its time to pursue. Pursue my desire. Learn my desire. And not become the desires of some other desirers desire. Damn desiring. Objectionable Buddha.

 So is the dragon cloner slain? Not truly, I will be the perpetual wrapper of balloon strings ‘pon dragons. But I am okay with that, as long I see the that the beauty in front of me is in actuality, a pyro-nostriled behemoth ready to lurch me to an obscure cave.

AVALON. VIRACOCHA. PAIN. The youngest brother. You lay deep inside me. You emerged today, you drove my desire today.

Who are you? Who is this Avalon?

When true loves meet.

Monday, July 23, 2012

2011 Manuscripts : October


Date: 10/28/2011

I don’t understand where I am. Lyrics I be writing but the rest I am fighting.
Rhyming seems school girl, deconstruct the shit out of that til the divine pooping is nothing more than wasted words, slurred sexual innuendos, attractions animalistic and sometimes I wish I could beat down somebody,
I want to make music that lets everyone become overwhelmed with my perceptive pain, my deep wells gone aplundered by fucker after fucker.
How I wish I lip the sweat from your neck and still call you friend in the morning.
Why does sex rule everything? Why does the human species revolve its every motion round procreation. Why do all these people terrify me, less their faces and more there feces, there shit, their feelings. Save me. Myself. I talk to you as if a wiser yogi. I detach myself and straddle the chair and pep talk you like a blue eyed babe, coddled, swaddled. My identity swallowed. I cant contain myself, my scrawny upper body is reeling in envy of muscular lower. I feel my talent untapped, stunted. I feel wasted time but not so, prep period. The calm before the storm except its thunderous right now and my running isn’t the rumble.
My stillness is so loud. And yet ive never felt my heart beat like this its as if my body can speak of whats coming, if only I knew morse code, do figures of the figure my heart is a beaten, a bleating, god a bleeding, violence. Why so much focus, cos I know its wrong, I feel it every where I go. I suffocate in violent thought slewn from others dead beat eyes.
Laughter comes hollow when I know so much violence. And into the art world I retreat.
A mareality I am instating, to flee the disease. But I know already, I am so sure that I will never forget the violence and the hate, I can never forget the hollowed iris, the brutality I have never occipitally perceived but have transcendentally embodied. I am lover and a hater. I am so extreme sometimes and I wonder always if some kind soul will love me, cos I havent met the spirit who guides and gaurds my wells. 

2011 Manuscripts: August

So undesirable and misspelled, come numbers and vicious life. Eyes lay black, I write about flies at mob dinner parties, cooing sweet hummings to swooped ear. I have no idea where I am in life right now. I feel in free fall, my skin is slowly sprinting from my bone. I believe in worthlessness, and only little else. I am the coward and I cannot move. The biggest judge and from which halls I rise to fall out, cobbled bruises, numb kowtowing cries, half hearted. Art is where the truth is, and I do not believe myself an artist.

I am an artist. I am a coward. I hate myself right now, I hate my cowardice. I am angry at my impotence. I am drowning by the hand of both tear duct and mucous membrane. I feel nothing. I feel no compulsion except flitting anxiety in slow motion time that feels like many a ravenous stampede of creatures hailing from hell. I am even made discontent and cruel by this freefallwrite, for it is not what I want and it is Holden Caulfieldesque. I see myself as optimistic, but many a times it was pure sugary numbness.

My resilience and mystique scares me. My malleability of personality is a terror like a sportscoat hanging in the dark. I can fill anyone’s head.

Will I write college essays till I die.? Let inertia take me flailing, or sweet cold docility, with the bloody ink trailing down paper, wood, carpet. Or the one-two binary type of death.




I am an egomaniac. I believe in my superiority. I am the heaviest rock in the sea.
With the bitten tongue of coincidings, I feel that I am worthless. I feel a force penetrating me, installing ice columns in my every tubile, creating a tundra of  throbbing unfeeling, burning me into uncaring. I stand alone in this ice haven and the twinkling of small black notes freed from paper accompany my frosted leather coat. Solitude. Fear.

I am bound? Or am I mobile?
Am I just the fumbling tripper, the twang-scarred acrobat of avoidance?

Sprinting from myself like my pencil-legged father. Eyes filled with turquoise lead, crying fools gold, slivers of venomous idle chat sifting through Lord Capitalism’s room.

I will leave this unfinished because nothing can be worth recognition and yet fame is what I crave. Attention is my withdrawal, and the hermit is my drug.

My fish are fighting. The pierced lion envelops the whitemare’s left neck. 

The trees are mourning for me. And praying that I find my peace. 

I need to believe in something other than my worthlessness and impotence.

I need to believe in myself.

2011 Manuscripts: November

Exactly Non-Exactlies: One, Dun Dun Dun the Begging the-questioninnings

Location: Arcata, CA, 1355 Queer streete. Apt A for Winner, but not really. At all.
                        Further Location: Bright blue room, sitting on carpet of capitalism, leaning on the purple bed of privilege.

Date: November 11th, 2011; 11-11-11.
Time: Western ideology of time- 8:48 pm. In current “timezone”.
            Martian time: Now; Grok time.
             My time: sleepy.

Doings; happenstancings: I had a moment, now, eating cereal and yogurt and Kobe’s zante currants. A moment like all the rest, but different. I want to take moments, like this, to type down everything I am doing at the moment, for future reference. [If all the Ifs fall into place, that is.] A moment of moments, exactly what I am doing. But of course, not at all, or, only, but. Eats, shoots, leaves.

I sit here now, comp in lap, clitoris for a head, angry, disenchanted, and hopeful beyond any fart of the brain (a habitual excreter). In front of me is my school baton rouge backpack, an electric guitar slumped up against the wall like James Dean, but too fuzzy from the drinks to hit on Oswald mi cello (!). Oswald, standing wounded but graceful, like a bloody crane I see at the marshes. I’m devouring cereal, eating too quickly but not enough, hating that food costs money and therefore my life costs money. I owe the world payment just to defecate. At least I have deemed it sublime poopings. Grreat Shits. I am the shit, a suspect narcissist according to ----, the too-skinny academic who finds me attractive and loveable, frustrated too cos I wont make a move on her, insecurities abound. Cereal bowl could whistle, I licked it clean, unlike cunts as of late.

I’m worried about my body. No, not the physical appearance, for once. I am worried about my digestive system, my intestines. The damage done, the needle and the damage done, from stress and life and Being. I am worried about my arms, which crack and are too spindly. I know I need worry less and work more. And maybe as I Live I will let myself grow into my Spirit; strong and solid. I am putting hope in the future, right Now. Grok. Grok it out.

Going to the greenhouse. A noche. Alana is performing, all them vicious and vivacious ladies, gentlemen, gentladies and ladymen. Justin, beautiful.

Moving from queer street. To homoerotic street. All I want right now is to have my own apartment, Now. And be fucking ----- over every appliance and piece of furniture in both Plaza design and said apartment.

Denying the biological, I do. But, eh, I am an animal. A graceful cat, lynx. A Uniqorn, truly. Above all else, Viracocha and a Uniqorn.
Narcissistic. Gotta, cos its paired with disgust and shame toosies. Lets fix this nightmare up and face eleveneleveneleven.

I tried for exact and fingered abstract. Who knew, sublime poo.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

A Liminal Virgin: First Post

ello. I have a feeling this will be a hard blog to follow. Perhaps I want it to be hard for you to follow. Perhaps I want this blog to be like a fruit bowl in a dark as night kitchen. A fruit bowl where I don't really want you to find the pomegranate, as it is hidden betwixt apples and other less sensual fruit. And the greatest fear of mine... that you will reach right in and cup the red shelled fruit, unclench your jaw and bite, and hate the taste of it all.

Enjoy. I feel like it is time to share. For anyone and for no one.

Actually, for me.   


Maria .A. Rechsteiner