Thursday, July 28, 2016

Espionage of Consciousness

FRIENDS,

How are you? I'm busy as fuck & hope you are too.

I have scheduled top surgery. I won't tell you the date because I don't want you casting spells on me on the operating table. But I can't wait!

(But I will wait.)

So….here is the next part of the Howl-length epic. You've been waiting anxiously. If you notice that I go between "you" & "I" as subjects, always know that "You" & "I" both mean "me." And also they mean "all of you, all of us."

Enj. Oy.

*******************************************

JUL -- SEP

Summer is the most monstrous segment of time's caterpillar
The noise of taming nature bleeds green into the perpetually sweaty ear cavity. Palm the hazy yellow pill, gulp it
The only thing that stops the white of noise is forbidden yellow tablet dissolved upon humid tongue & halting
A hellish cycle that began somewhere by the schoolyard where obsessive compulsive lawnmower man
Loomed again, again & against the pulpit of dawn

I run on slippery octopus feet    I slip on my own tears and disappear in a cloud of ink
This transparent inkcloud you peer through now. 

[My vow to stay sober is being revised] NEW VOW & TESTAMENT:

If I make it 10 years without I may check in
W/ the occult elixir once again. It's not required. But it will be allowed on days like July XX 2015 when XXXXX
The people who are visual thinkers would never notice how goddamn loud the daytime summer, tears into my paper 
Machete speaker cabinet skull

I am an auditory pupil, thinking immobilized, just flashes of insight all day long between tears, between mower clips & bullet spray & loud loud basketballs bouncing down the street; cracked asphalt playground lacking minor puppetmasters, they bounce alone reclaiming their net worth by making noise.

A night in the city of my garage making the only noise I can tolerate--music. Tube trance my own sub-genre of organic bleeps responding to electronica as she searched for the right word to finish her artificial thought

By Independence Day I made my choice
Between the tailor & the surgeon
It's hard to wait on these long slippery feet
How do humans sit, patient, flipping through slick zines with their parched inkless fingertips
How do they live in such hard hard heads?

The door held open by aliens, all domesticated & legal

How are you? Please step on the scale.
Me & Pixel as kiddens? Nope that's my very fist black kitty, Hannah


I slipped on cat vomit & cried for an hour. No worry  there was no milkfed this cat -- a true mammary cannibal oddity
The fangs of a vegan lost
Teeth in my house I never found

The soft yellow of the pill dissolves the sun's glaring dictatorship
The sun atop the stems of brains casting coronas all around error & artifice
Around all thoughts even those perceived to be automatic involuntary motion detected sympathy cards of stock response

TransPanTastic

When you care to copy every footstep laid down for you-- 
Sing songs to your cat in homemade videos, play guitar with your old alcoholic hands shaking & sweating just because it's in the rule book
Buy sex toys you do not need.
Consider doing a podcast. It's part of the process, the process can't be stopped & you haven't even got past the initial consult
You spend this summer studying the nuance of your new identity

You decide not to send a thank you document to those who paved the way, happy little footsteps pitter-pattering past the very need for surgery, for needles in your life--

the twilight agony zone of binary boxes, or rather shell game switcheroo at embryonic hormone car wash, squirted but unresponsive, or not hosed down at all. Which is it that caused you to emerge as default gender specimen?

An hourglass w/ cubist tendencies. This is how your time travels, the sands get lost in transit. From shard to shape to shadow. From suitcase to station to supernova. It explodes into a yearglass.

Responded to the rattlesnake; still haven't held a beerglass

Or a chainsaw to your tits

Ears in distress
When chainsaws call like wolves at night your insomnia feels even more like a karmic repercussion, unusual & unconstitutional

They lowered that damn redneck flag, forgive me for saying I'm proud not to be afraid of god (even as "he" pinned me to my own ribcage last year) I'm proud to be gun- and child-free, I'm proud to say I love social justice but hate the poetry!

They lowered their damn trousers & whipped out their dicks
Because every story needs a scene like that.
Yes?

I study The Others--all here for the same reason. But further along in their laboratory body journeys. I feel extra prima donna ballerina. I still cry ballet tears, the broken toes, and my NY fat Abby Lee Miller boss stinking of her own feet, dry cracked voice yelling at my posture, my weary quadracep letdown. Yelling that I'll never make it to the stage…

I walk away and pull a page from my notebook & dance on it, but she doesn't see. I remember those tears like yesterday, all tears on the windshield have dates & reasons pinned microscopically into the shatterproof focal pointe

Ballet is melting flesh. Buttery transcendence from ape to raven to helium to ether and back to butter or human again but so visual it leaves the auditory among us out in the cold vomitorium
Babysitter teaches me & my brother how to feed babies properly--a skill neither of us ever needed


Tuesday finally. Peace. A gift. Sang. Brothers. New webisodes of chaotic watercolor cartoon I love so much, through my own tears it looks like a computer generated image. Lacking humanity. Lacking vision.

Word salad on this planet--you aren't anxious. You are a unit of anxiety--an anxiet.

On this plate you are always the potato never the meat. On this template you are always the sidebar. Contemplate tempest. Men's room euphoria/dysphoria all@once.com I couldn't find myself in the mirror. In the backpack i find someone else's junk & use it to do my business. Women have no business in the genderless bathroom. Women are the most gendered of them all.

Who's spotted a rhino wearing lipstick? A pit bull with breast implants? A tarantula Brazilian-waxed? 

Sometimes men have zero mirrors on the wall. To be free of any reflection is how free I want to be.

Yum. Stress. Mmmm.

Now with more methylethylcellulorhomboid marshmallows.

Very unclever. An age of privilege is coming to a theatre near you & it ends. Loud vocalization of orgasmic opposites shaken like water off your golden retriever, creating that yin thing, that yangxiety

Feels like heart pinata busted & leaking sugar for favors. Please please, pretty please, who taught that to their daughter?
Feels like rodents, spiders, sticky whiskers
Anything but butter flies along your nerves
Anything but horses powering your will to live in this device-shaped society &
Estrodial still controlling your libido

The laboratory journey begins with a letter to the ologist and a Shakespearean wait.
A play at the goddamn hickory-dickory-trickery-dockery tea house, so prior to Boston Harbor we can hardly call it a Party.
Blacked out on Earl Grey, you'll never believe who I forgot seeing there--Elliot. 

(I'll never see him again)

What? I saw him a week later on that couch in that building. Talk to yourselves about how inappropriate catastrophic language is for this scenario.

Who remembers the Vivian Girls and their loving but wrathful creator? Not god, but not Satan. Not like Abby Lee Miller either. I am the Vivian Boy with balanced chakras despite (his my your poem voiced many flaws) Speaking of being a defective dickless version of Humanitor--

I made an invention that I got off the internet
It makes me smarter every time I drink water

Sometimes gotta spend some quality time w/ numbers
Numbers jotted & numbers scribbled out w/ numbers wriitten over them like birds about to poop on their importance
Sometimes time is my only friend & I don't even have to pay it; it is its own currency
After all the attention paid to space
Mass gets its own reception
All 5 senses -- and the 6th I imagine -- round out the 9 dimensions we occupy

Stonewall Birthday
Numeric empirical paranoid conclusion
Phone walls not stone but awfully withholding  when all I get is an ancient archaic analog answering machine

Take our quiz: Can You Draw A Vagina?

Can you draw a weapon from your vagina?

Can you draw medical marijuana into your vagina? 

Is your eye drawn to pointillism? Is your vagina?

In the future, new bodies will be ready & upgraded for our pleasure & utility & there will be no vaginas left, yes?

Can you recall all your residences--the places you've lived since birth?
I can't but I had to anyway.
These government papers are not hyperbole. They are not suggestions. So dig deep, citizen. Where were you the night you were born?
ART!!!

The troll from under the internet's Golden Gate attention span came crawling into your humid ante-chamber
While you waited for Julieticide
Romeo knocked on my nervous system & offered a cocktail I could refuse (but didn't)

The troll thinks you are linked to me (romanxiety, genitoxic masculinities) and you are but only platonically, hemlockishly socratically, aristotally innocently, hella adverbally.

You can't control the remote eyeball army, you can't offer trigger but not bullet warnings, you can't troll me away from my safe place. I tried. You should've been kidnapped. I was. At gunpoint. I didn't even live there at one point. But he tried to get me to stay put. At gunpont. Even on the potty.

Singing is the new crying.
Crying is the new sculpture.
Sculpture is business & business is booming, exploding
Into theatre,

where I fail to resonate with super heroes, 
Where animae won't do it for me anymore--where is the human touch, the alcoholic ink-washes that make your characters pop out of their limitless hallucinogenic skin? Replaced by soft hazy digital 3-D overly lifelike adorbs and yet so lacking luster husks.

Business is blossoming into a rare Tarot orchid a 4th of July lily dropping pollen for bees
Who would rather step in shit

Than enter through August's automatic doors whooshing with wet warmth and crying out for freon
Headache barometer leo-panthera uproar

Rain. Flood. Sing. Guitar. 
Hollow evening misogynous latitude--you're allowed a certain degree even in this heat,
Especially in this cheap August heat

You have acute anxiety issues -- guns help. Safety first! Too many Tuesdays in 2015--most gunshots happen on Tuesdays, 
ask anyone. Social media got my tongue, my ego my exquisite scapulas. I hunch like a gargoyle over its busy sidewalk, observing their puff-chested text for my own cues to evolve

Evolution was going the speed limit but now it accelerates. I'm catching up after lagging a decade behind. Driving like a blue hair in the turn lane for 12 years, blinker on so they know I'm alive. Social media is the new paperwork. We've come a long way. We've gone right back though….

Slipped on the literal & proverbial banana peel, the controversial cliche is problematic for fruit whose skin does not make a mockery of man

Thursday--feeling light & fun! Enjoy the fuck out of it because it's just a surge from the guy next to you. Happiness never your own private property, must plug into the system. Be seen in photographs with rows of friends, paperdolling at your big event, not strong enough to be plastic, mannequins posing alone, self equals selfish, a virtue to some

Write. Guitar. Read. Respond. Silly cartoon, blood is for canvas. Silly art, work is for living.

Left alone in the parking lot w/ cliquish trans guys. Even in the marginal pervzone I am alone. Walled to an even further, exclusive narrow curb club nervous skateboard breakdown balance beam bard burden… I get lost trying to figure out where conversations should begin….

Says the boy who cries good bye on the sidelines. Downtown all torn up by bulldozers & people who never lived here before.
Humans swarm like moths around the Sarasotellite

Today I was interviewed by a saint. Today I swear. My victim died. My valiant parole officer removed me from the prison of my body. Now I'm a murdered woman too. A militant stylist needs to know the gender of my cut.

The house was open to the public, even us. Before we moved in, a leopard lived here. A father figure lectures me in my new dream bedroom. I stand up to him in my sleep. Baptizing turquoise walls w/ my stale tears, trapped in women's prison 40 year incarceration, oh my tiger,  Sleeping tiger.

Sadly, tears do not age like wine. I tried to get drunk on them. Too dry, brutal.

The stoic auction. 95. 98. 109. Sold to the gay couple whose marriage will destroy the neighborhood & all its unseen Dachshund nazi dog owner lesbians & spraypainted hearts on garbage cans also lesbi-owned. Knock it to ruins & build a better fortress for your love graffiti.

The electronic contract. The Beckett on top of the Shakespearean weight, all this waiting in centipede bitcoin. I can wait like a playwright who knows the exact date his engine will die. You are straining for meaning & there is none.

Everyone panics like eternity's out to get them, but I celebrate at the mini-mart taking it personally that I haven't been chosen yet. The stainless crescent v. the scythewhack mascot who's unrecognizable in his threadbare lingerie.

Like I said, the mini-bar has been depleted since double oh seven & I'm still surrounded, shaken by drunks who stir in their dead brain cell habitats. They give me headaches & tell me not to look so horrified.

But the truth is I'm horrified. By this year & its added dimension. If I knocked that wine glass from your fist you'd be the first to adopt my horrified face. How can you tell the dental hygienist Don't touch me! Get the fuck outta my face! It's her job to be there in your head, for your teeth to bleed on her & stink up her gloves. I erase this week w/ some arterial graffiti.

Why does poetry give? I don't know but I'm drowning
In an aspect of the muse that melted on my dashboard, a crayonscape touched by sun in a standstill parking sandlot
And unlike your forgotten child, it came to life
As it liquefied

The dogs remind me I was young not long ago
But now it's time to be old. That's just how it goes.

Summer is your horoscope's dirtiest joke, the punchline divine but directed at your ego's fonatanel. It urges you to switch seats at the sound of a bell, or a chainsaw. Ringing on a liquid shadow limb, why cut on a day that pants for shade, a day whose shirt is a dripping tongue with no deodorant on. Sublingual sweatglands on uberdrive, Axillary stress drool under my thumb the only pulse belonging to its true owner.

Hormones are god & god says it's good to wait in your room.

Howling or scowling or bowling or reading JK Rowling or knitting that cowlneck sweater for someone else's winter, not yours.

The host *must* have a dick to refer to.

The poet laureate must have a penis!

All those critics & pundits must stand to pee or they'll be told to sit down on the sidelines like they do in the restroom. I will walk from the margins to the outskirts & make it to an alternate universe by dinner next year.

You won't believe how loud I will sing in this electric rain storm, you don't understand how inspiring lightning is!! Only I & my lonely ego understand snow. You corrupt rainbows, ignore the sunset unless you have a camera. Enjoying nature is a sacred accomplishment. Congratulations on your eyesight.

A live sacrifice on Jeopardy! Trebek evolves before our eyes, an onyx goddess, superheromoon above his full pouty lip no longer moustachey but utterly clean and sober. Scholarly cockroach flounder amoeba contestant. who will ring in first, who will be the patientest?

Jesusfish subject to evolution too, now a cat with claws scratching holiness into your low-brow paint job. Clouds are patient. Moon is doctored. Clouds separated at birth, moon behind a mask of their silver microsurgery vapors. Stars sacrificed like blurry white lambs. Fuzzy little.

Sun will identify all errors on the chart w/ a big orange smile. Congratulations you survived August.

If you over-identify w/ this team or that politician you may be a: chauvinist
                                                                                                                racist
                                                                                                            exhibitionist
                                                                                                               patriot
                                                                                                             cartoon

You're fired from your art. You must start caring what the world does. We'll tell you when to stop. You're all grown up now.

Fall Fashions.
I used to catalog colours. Organize them like code for a galaxy of sentients whose language is yellow butter urine sunshine blue blood from another planet's vein tap red into scarlet into brickyard, amber amulet, purplish puritanical prunes pureed

Color is the tenth dimension

But I've gotten ahead of my/our self. I was told to go & I went too far, back to the original pattern where god's galaxy-voice asks me to start again & move my mind faster when I talk because my mouth has all the answers. Long short demagogue dialogue high low road brow. Black white binary. Brown yellow second life marginalization. Yellow optimization for poetry publication.

Limitation. Tranquilization. Autism. Oblivion-stim. Don't interrupt--Grrrrrrrrrrr!!!!

1975. Hippie-WASP road trip about to happen. Is my Charlie Chan coloring book racist?


Let's go into broadcasting. Let's go into our minds, garages, hives & tell the world how to enslave colors & sacrifice numbers as the Bible said we should.
Wait, when did we open the Bible? When did we unscrew that childproof cap? Was it the night Alex T became a Somalian warrior w/ mutilated genitalia, female would be my guess…guessed. Guest. Contestant. Flounder. Amoeba.

I hate dinner & a movie.
But not tonight.
Tonight is a rare, well done exception to that medium.
The story told in 90 minute visual format w/ minimal dialogue & overdosing sp/fx obesified on gratuitous eye candy

I stopped the soft yellow pill from melting on my tongue
Fuzzy little lamb stars burnt up & I did not cry!!
I did not make a movie of myself crying & 
My spirit didn't break into the pill dance

Somewhere nearby there's been a breakdown
Of the legal system, break-ins at a neighborly arm's length pace, who can piss farther? You can, burglar winner.

It's the day before my hormonal adventure and I still haven't packed my suitcase. I must've known I wasn't going down that road. Yet. 60% disappointed 40% relieved.

I write. Other writers like what I write. I am a fascist apologist masculist/feminist misogynist. Radical progressive who needs approval from magnetic verbs, slow sung vowels roasted not vocal-fried,

This poem is 75% noun & the Revolution demands more verbs. I've been disapproved, intransitive. Insensitive. Invalid. I'm a writer w/ likes but no loved ones. I'm a subject w/ no verbs to add to the conversation. I'm a gawker in the talker age. Realm. Era.
This is me on a support beam, bent by jet fuel, clung to by past glass relationships.  I will jump soon. I summon courage that doesn't come in the form of a pill & freefall, a lungful of heartache twists my intestines' matching tapestry & just when I'm about to break,
Out come the nubs
The feathery aerodynamism of winged suspense. My fuselage is not too big to fail. I'm flying on my own 20K feet. Be careful of the drones the flocks of geese honking in the slick atmospheric galley.

All the wrong faces
Misogynist
Pugilist
Methodist journalists in the flock of jerks
Weirdo herd noise crowd funded sex and drugs
Entitled laziness, stillness, you've got no rights left
Human being ghostplane crashing on this sad date
You've also no right to avoid your fate, multi-tasking brain
Takes on one more dimension
The Boys' School w/ androgynous uniform questions 
Principal shape color scent texture mass size taste on your tongue buds intersecting with time
Now I know I can stand up for my selves.
Now I know I can fly like a highway paved with the soft crude leftovers of girls & boys who never grew up to be dinosaurs
Riddled w/ rat paw blossoms, black-eyed susans
Lantern-jawed Pedros

Start packing, rats! It's time to make our exit w/ our selfish selves intact. Get more boxes from the liquor store. Liquor never goes out of business. Like mental illness and sarcasm. Repeat like historical phonecalls between powers that be on answering machines before magic rectangular palm-held social devices invented on a rainy waiting room night, singing, telling dick jokes, even laughing into my camera, missing the point of the total eclipse


2-2-16

Friday, July 15, 2016

Suburban Sprawl of Consciousness

All right FRIENDS!

Your attention spans did great w/ those 3 epic poems from 2011. But now prepare for the REAL challenge:

Here is the first half of an epic poem I began writing early this year & am still writing. It is way longer than 'Howl' and just as husky. It could be as long as The Canterbury Tales… so, good luck getting through it. I'll be rooting for you!

Anyways, I'd just like to reiterate something that I iterate often--  IF I WAS THE BOSS OF THIS WORLD I'D TAKE AWAY ALL YOUR GUNS! I'D TAKE AWAY ALL YOUR CARS! AND I WOULD CANCEL XMAS FOREVER! AMEN!

Now here is long, husky free verse nonsense:

*****************************************************

JAN--MAR

I took 68 showers in 2015. Don't be repulsed by the math. I kept clean w/ 292 soldier baths. Water is a resource worth fighting for, an element worth dying for. Grey film sitting still upon the steady gaze of black-eyed peas. Zen cop drama hadn't begun to disappoint. I caught sight of a meteor and instead of joy felt instant paranoia. Took the tinsel off the wreath.

I fill my days w/ prescription ambition. Take away one melancholia tablet, equalling 100 milligrams. I missed the opportunity to educate the Jesus-fearing wino who runs the fruit stand. "I think he wants to be a giirrrlll," she giggled as the customized customer glided away in her bell bottoms and sparkly vest.

My brilliant reply, "Maybe he's a comedian." And a sickeningly hard facepalm from inside skully interrogation center. Tell me again how you're ready to take this journey?

Mercury in retrograde resembles watercolor blood in orbit. Clamped in capillaries meant for ink. Losing lifeforce like Pluto, losing planetary status. I met w/ loved ones & the loveliest one sat alone. I broke the ice & not the bone I threw at Facebook. The book I threw at the dead professor's face. If not my loved one, please be friend #101.

Forgot to take my meds but mid morning reminded me. You're not ready to shave any more milligrams. Look in the mailbox for discarded friends. The awkward knock. Do I answer? I take too long to decide and they are gone. Car trouble on a day you can't afford to open the door. I spend much of winter crying next to the tub. It holds exactly 4 hours worth of tears. No minutes.

Psychologically isolate alter egos. Radioactive decay from pixie dust. Who can tell what's what these days? I  saw your brown eye contact in front of the Blue Owl and no one died. I saw your casual use of black magic and thought, 'Good luck sewing that exit wound shut.' You lived to watch TV another day.

My cat is an aerialist. A daredevil! And I am a washed up rock a dead cartoon star. I need a new prescription, this cockblocking tournaquet around my seratonin reuptake areas will kill anything resembling pleasure. Pleasure, not happiness, is something I can't sacrifice to Big Pharmacies right now.

This is not real writing. This is code for Verbs Are The Scariest Particles of Speech. This is not a Tarot opportunity, it's a neurosurgeon's job. My voice is as cooperative as a cat. Success is being mistaken for a son at Fantastic Sam's. Success is a headache with a good haircut.
Ssssss…..Sssssssss….I am a snake today
In the grass
In the bath
In boxers
In loving synthesis w/ electric shock….ssszzzzz

Jury Summons #4 arrives. I won't go. You are an asshole until proven innocent.

My favorite new coffee shop. Except I've never been back there. Guilty as grey on groundhog day but I haven't been back. Can something be your favorite if it only happens once? God says yes. So do yesterday and the popular kids. Depression passes for Tuesday. Shopping for joydom. Freedom to lie about sniffling & coughing. PJ day. My calendar marked w/ sonnets. Brazen pencil, disoriented ink.

I just draw cartoony stuff 'cause I'm a privileged white queer on the up escalator who doesn't have to try walking in anyone's untied shoes. My sonnets droop on the keyboard. I survive til I get my sex drive back. When I get out, when I volunteer to leave the house, I invite tragedy to aim its weapons at my vacancy. I've got the universe figured out like Level 4 of that one game where you only lose if good stuff happens to you. I never got to meet my 3rd step father. I guess he died today.

Raincheck. Asteroid credit. Acts (or excuses) of God?

I'm going to a place where lots of cool cats stay. Being excited was a mistake. Cats so cool and aloof you could cry & I sure did. It took 45 minutes to finish a 30-minute run. Being curious was a mistake. Short of breath I see no reason to fix my leaky watercolor valve. Yinsulation. Yangxiety. Even cool cats can be awkward. Especially on social media. I've waited 40 years to talk about this and being understood was a risk. I'll pass for one more month.



HAPPY VALENTINES MISTAKE!!! 

The phone says chirp
chirp 
chirp
And I do too. I am up early to be a student of the hive mind.
Teach me Plathy pathology. Equal pay for surrealists. Teach a brain to silence itself and you will sleep in its lap like a cat. A cantankerous cat named Sidney w/ 99 lives and kidney problems.

Is your last name Love? Can I marry you & be true only to your name as it's worn around me like a ringing bell? Is your middle name a place I'd like to be?

We'll see…melancholia, megalomania. Missing mail. What up, boxmaster? Turned into a cockmaster.

Wish I could be the chirping Asperger bird, no vocal boundaries when she asks me about all episodes of Brady Bunch I can't remember watching, or never saw at all. Who censored me so seriously? The narcissists or the no ones? I will cry for 48 hours while I ponder the answer.

A slap in the iris. A POV I cannot see. A good bye I can't speak to Spock.

I stare at enemy territory before entering, before using up the last few words in my vocabble-babble-bubble-sublet-rumor-tumormonger-fishy-horsey-constabulary. Words I've never used before--Yes. Hi. I am fine.

[magnified nerve cells look like hairy eyes]

Green w/ jealousy, amethyst w/ relief. I'll decompress in purple twilight, I'll remain deflated until the leaves blow past my job. Where are my verdant verbs? I'm still searching (foraging, seeking).

Hairy eyes 
Signify a lack of confidence
And resentment for those who have confidence hanging
In their closets w/ price tags 
Still attached

I wear my favorite Tshirt which I've had for 30 years now. Occupy the amethyst evening, elastic vocal cords yodel in a suburban garage to mute the jackhammer. Concrete grave goes quiet like a dead baby's rattle.



Stretch your mind around that insult. It won't reach the conclusion that all 4-inch slabs of meat belong to men and a woman's profile states Salad for life! This little pig went to great lengths not to get all sarcastic & shitty.

Slo-mower. Lawnmower. The farmer in the you're getting a Dell commercial. The laundry in the Westinghouse hellmouth scrubbed of all its liability. The phantom DNA in the arcade of textiles lost forever. These weeks need a rewrite. But they'll sit in the slush pile for decades like you sat on your Kotex pads.

Nothing makes me happier than new socks and that's all I want to share right now.

I've waited 40 years to shut the fuck up. You have the right to remain mysterious. I sweat when I speak up. Even when my mouth is dry my armpits sob into my sleeves til everyone around me grows uncomfortable & must laugh or risk leaking fluids themselves. My skin, I believe, is made of Kleenex.

Poetry + tea = my 19th century past lover and I say Dear Mr. Moneybags, Please be reasonable and give me a hand-out. Since then
I have changed my name 8x.
Since then
I quit swallowing 200 more milligrams of unnatural response
Since then I've had
317 favorite songs…wait…
318
I don't want no jive!

Fridays are always sharp as porcupines. Scalpels at the end of the week. Occupy Porcupine Street. Use scalpels to dig the rest of your tears out so you don't have to push from the inside. Like giving birth to sadness. Like taking a dump on a single Kleenex ply. Preparing me for 2 days off the blade, away from the spoon, forked and serrated into variables so untravelled I'll write a separate poem about it later.

I choose all noise in life drowned in music. I make all choices based on the ratio of amethyst to jade. How sad will I be if I don't try, how jealous and bitter will I grow?I page through my arcade of memories, my brain stacked in slices, little invoices of all the shit I've bought on this planet.

Majestic straitjacket! I grew outta you! Try to fit in my closet now--it's as big as a broken social construct! The straitjackets of self-loathing are exposed to the nosy eye.

I wonder how this Thursday differs from last & find that all my inner Thursdays are retracted. No looking back, these dates will not be referenced for any reason. Never a Friday that didn't begin w/ the acute jab of Thursday, but never any penetration between days.

Let's go to the cafe where writers can be seen being writers. It may be enemy territory But I don't expect the joint to be terrorized. It may be traumatic to transition socially. A potential hello quickly reshaped into fuck you, but this is no place for the jihad of deep non-thinkers.

Emotional magazine content bursting at spines, killing spree with deft buttery knives. Final score: 100s to dozens. Troops to eggs. Break Benjamins to buy donuts.

I thought my effortless genius was a gift from a god even diviner than God. But it was a trick played by Allah on my ego. My ego full of swiss cheese loopholes. I cannot deploy this tactic any longer. My ego has died of heart cancer. It died reading aloud, subversive literature to an unprepared crowd. In front of boat owners and golden uteri chasing after poopy changelings. Disapproving stares firing 400 rounds per iamb. 

I chased my mind down for perfect words, notes from beautiful throats. I chose to abandon my clothes. Soft-spoken mystery gone streaking across a blank canvas. Streaking across the master keyboard.

1-7-16

****************************

APR -- JUN

Can't you see me feeling instead of thinking? It's a nice change--to feel good enough not to think. Obeying the stop sign, flipping off the green light. I run so the meat on my legs doesn't spoil. I run for hours but still decompose in the shower. My endorphin factory has shut down. Is this depression or onset dementia? Time will tell.

Now droplets of history congealing into fine art particles for someday's perspective. For someday's detectives.

Lovely to walk under the crucified bunny moon. Full on all haunches, dying on hind quarters, caught in night's pinhole camera forever,

or as long as any solar system lasts.

It's like the city turned upside down while I remained standing on a burial ground of eggshells. Fetal egos in my shaman's mind. I feel incapable but pull it off for a second, a treasured microsecond. 

When day is so good night looks like bad blood, gangrene, jungle rot to a lawnmower's gaze. Hack, hack away at my overgrown jealousy for i am the long streak of garbage-gray between greens. Be above the pain you meet on this planet. Be front page news. Be the nerve that calls the tribune. Be the vagina that chronicles its journey from the infinite vaginas it glimpses in the hand mirror.

Death & taxes & burritos & broken water heaters & refunds all in the rearview mirror by nightfall. All in the suitcase in the car in the garage in Sarasota preparing to be elsewhere in the telescope by tomorrow. New noise, necessary noise. Drown out the kryptonite glare. I see you under a knife getting repaired. The traces of estrogen's footsteps removed from the topsoil.

The invisible fence of time and privacy. You have a well-constructed family. I live in a tent w/out a pole.

When I let strangers in they look around like they've just found all the missing child-messiahs in the world. It's a look of fear & amusement hooked together like rollercoaster tracks. I ride it like the bicycle I got in Kindergarten.



I'm paying someone to be my friend. It's embarrassing, but it's a choice I'm making. Choosing vanilla at the ice cream shoppe of 69 flavors. My delirium shakes, vanilla. But I know someday I'll be the single malt Scotch I was always meant to be. Paying for a friend is a step in that direction.

I'm still prone to leaking blood when the right chemicals seep through the membranes around my whale corpse. A bloated submarine hides below my Peter Pan surface. But I can still bleed, one forgotten sailor still aboard, long drowned in the wreckage but still hoarding those red cells in heart corners & bone pockets

My blood still likes to dance. It pumps my lungs for info. It strafes my unprotected areas with cancer rays. Finds, of all things, colorful water in my veins. My blood is with the Bolshoi Ballet.

This Just Out: Bicycle/helicopter leaps over the fence to the White House's green lawn endangering the black Prsident and pinkening the cheeks of Secret Service slackers (I try to respond how Allen Ginsberg would if this had happened in his day. His words will always eat mine right off the page.)

And I will keep on 
Keep on typing
Trying tampering stamping
In ink, scrap-booking all
My gendered garments
Spaying & neutering a closet full of lies

And releasing them into the wild

When I add or subtract chemicals from the black tower of my spine, I can feel that shit! Anxiety maggots come crawling through my whole genome, getting into shoulder joints and weakening my knees. I want to make an entrance but my jaw is made of slime. Hello sounds like bad poetry. My dependance on chemicles--does it make me more human?

Feed my addiction to the pale yellow sun. Wait til the stars get a view of your chalk outline.

The spider smooshed on your doorstep. What's left of a werewolf howling at you--Brace yourself for the chip implant future you won't enjoy in the slightest. Here it comes.

Horniness is very life-affirming. It's the best reward for pushing through day-star withdrawal. Giving birth to spontaneous thoughts, reactive phrases with a fermented brain. i will drink the blood of grapes again someday.

On the day you came to me I thought the happiness bubble would only get bigger. Inflating my heart like blood-flavored gum. But I should've learned from exploding houses. If you keep blowing the walls will come down, the gum will return to its flaccid state. 

Since you came the bubble has burst over & over. "Happy Anniversary" says the power outage says the lawnmower says the wasp nest says the automatic pesticide spray melting my shoes to the floor. I pay you to be my friend & you pretend to like my poetry.

I pay music to be my friend and it's not ashamed to be seen inside my head.

The road is: long
black
fast
asleep
dangerous
And I'm on it
I'm back on the pale yellow pill
And no one calls me "Miss, miss, Madam!" on this trip

The museum is: bright
white
Mexican
morbid
light
Crushed under a bus & thrown in a fountain. What's more goth, your will to resurrect a broken spine or the dead dj haunting the taqueria? You decide. 



Am I talking like alphabet soup in a trash can? Throw a tomato if I've stopped making sense but don't throw shade on my memory yet. Road trips back toward home surprisingly full of song. Living dj haunts the dash, makes the wheel spin way back in space to your poopy little angels. Afraid to use the public litter box.

Still running at the mouth and legs. Still frozen in the middle. Still hear spiders howl like human wolves. You empathize with scavenger's remorse. The spider is a cannibal. Out, out damn voice! Still soaked in sodium hydroxide, your uncertainty is just like your mother's. Pour detergent down your throat, nothing removes a voiceprint like Drano. Polite libel, sir, will not get you a more expedient character assassination.

A child's correct gender assignment ends a century old conflict. Is this just a phase? Goddammit, no!

I'm alone w/ my social media trying to piece the carefully curated snippets to the horrors that inspired them. I am a failure, unfriended.
It's time for my yearly evaluation.
Isn't it a little early?
Yes. At least wait til the Mad Men finale. Sure, I can wait til 1970 if you insist.

I'm ready to be on a solitary retreat, away from trans-societal restraints. Handcuffs would be more cozy than the cold stares and lack of "most important thing."

The most important things are: Quiet
Dates canceled by rain
Facts checked by doctors in white coats and cute peeptoe wedges.
She's a doctor who has time for nail polish. She doesn't have time for me.
I'm not on the list of important things
Quiet as i may be

Take a hike in the post-rainy July-like May

Listen to the moods of your guitar, high chord pressure, melancholia, busy being successful too busy to stop. No. Busy is no excuse. You make time for what's important to you. Hating on the left side of the brain the howling poets of modern-american Greece.

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
Vicious.
Vicious who?
Vicious Aloysius.

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
The girl in the dragon costume w/out tattoos.

[Let's play this game for months!]

Runner's High v. Hormones that won't quit making you cry

Moon's Menacing Crescent v. Victoria's Lack of Self Respect

Hormones win 1st round. Moon wins next.
(Consult the crescent lunar zodiac in which one sign is an airplane & all the rest are living things)

Good mornin'

   Good mornin'

       Good mornin'

Did you dream of electric penises? No but maybe my phone did.

Black v. white on a blood-smeared rain-soaked chessboard. I gave you a scare with my lack of hand-eye coordination, but you won in the end. Because you don't have to dream of penises. You don't have to live with my mess.

I forgot how it felt to get caught in the rain's lightning cage. Middle age middle-class white privilege punk not afraid to get my hair wet, not afraid to get shocked out of my shoes. A binder full of women in binders pretending to be men. They'll never be "real men" (Mitt Romney's air quotes)

Data day robots. Info fertile
The cows come home
To abort 
Microcephalic calves
And be damned to a hell that is a rocking boat
So unlike the meadow

I'm seeing the future & I'm not finding myself there. Have i been dropped like a cold genetically mutilated potato? Aquariuuuss! AAaaaaaahhhh-Quaaaaariiuuuuussssss!!!!!

All the truths I once knew are retiring to be w/ their families. What they didn't tell me was the real truth: They're dying. The rain promised but the cloud never shook. Skull broke into a headache instead. We live w/ choices of others but ignore our own robotic motions
Quoth Marilyn Monroe
"I'm bored
W/ platinum
& diamonds
But valium is
A girl's best friend"

In a fit of submissiveness she hoped to get published but banged her head against the bed instead.

Politics, you are correct!

I hear your motorcycles circling my paranoia. Your tiny smelly scrotums sticking to the seats. I couldn't be less impressed. My annoyance stuck in second gear.Get lost said the raven overhead.


My name is a poem
And yours is pornography to my ears
I was gendered correctly in the cat house & knew the happiness that brought

Would be quickly blown to bits

And it was… Like sands in the litter box

These are the moments we'd love to forget

But which burrow into our heads like septic drill bits.

Sick black kittens EVERYwhere. My magnificent privileged panther doesn't get it. Vibrating purr lord. He knows the vascular anatomy of my humanity & sinks his teeth in.

My name is whiny poetry and my hands flash fiction in sign language only Geminis understand. Free bleeding & the Future of Femininity. The hoax that drove the bus over a cliff and onto the camel's back. A single-hump highway that crumbles like original infrastructure  There's no future for feminine tentacles. Here's where we slip into the kind of genetic engineering I've always dreamed of.

Asleep like a street. Awake like a saint. I wipe your blood out, not just away from the screen. A verbose & indiscreet genocide. Gendercide. Gumbocide.
Your babies will be made of carbon on a 3-D matrix & you'll love them like devices, hold them in the palm of your mind, bypassing the gore of maternity and Father's Day will be the loudest holiday of all!!

Juliet is dead, but long live she--Let her die by hormones that begin w/ T--Let her be memorized like a nursery rhyme--and please God let me stop crying…


1-22-16

Thursday, July 14, 2016

Tampon Strings of Consciousness

FRIENDICOOTS,

Here is the 3rd & final installment of the Epic Poembomb 2011. I read this one at The Tea House & everyone clapped & said  "Tell us how you really feel."

****************

THE EPIC EPILOGUE  

Who told me life was 80%
Maintenance  50% Interruption?
That those apportioned moments warp
In and out of your schedule like bits of music
Trying to be a song
Time's infrastructure crumbles if you
Look too close, plan too far in advance but
Sit quiet at the red light and it springs back
A covalent bond between you and 
Your paycheck, 
A broken synapse between knowing & understanding
God's currency wadded up in your brain
The winnings from your corporal slot machine
Concentric lemons, interrupted by bells

Let's talk about the maintenance of time
That isn't obliged to children, boss, bathroom, lawn
That bony outstretched serpent
Atomic invisible vertebrae owned by 
Your DNA birthright estate
Patrolled by no skin degree or bracket of age
Trap this treasure in your photographic cache
To grow wise w/out TV
To show your mugshots on the hour
You killed not only time but the weather 
News of Ghadaffi breaking, his symphonic regime
Warping to a close
His lips loose and bleeding from the puppets' felt/ after birthing
Never sewn up
Oh, fall like a tree dying of thirst from your bookshelf
Fly like a personal playstation prostitute to your next level of karma
Quit interrupting my neutral swatches of gambling time
My ears riddled with whole ringtones 
Your eyes shut against the drone of clouds 

Quit interrupting my well-manicured lawn
With mass hysteria/ You can't get 6 billion heads to turn
In heliotropic unison
So go there alone 
Far from the light through East Village NY
Past post-apocalypse West Coast, beyond dystopian Yemen
And Syria yearning for cooler colors
Into aeropausal orbit where the
Trash hasn't been collected yet
Into black holes' opiate entry wounds and out
Like buck shot into the hide of your computer
Right where you left your light
In that hedonistic port
Your liver staring at the screen
Your pancreas a submarine 

Fingers married to opinion in anonymous
Mommas' boy ceremony
Open scissor /put a ring on and it's no longer
A torture device
You can run with it /you can cut the cord
Unplug the mindless conductor
Who shouts "All Aboard!"
And the desperate texters disobey 
Leave three car lengths at the light,
Engineer Joe getting heart broken on his phone
But no one's eye contacts another
More passengers died on this keyboard
Than icy rails or trainsick stop motion 
First world intersections

Secretary Clinton can't shovel the mess alone--
She leads me to the TV w/ her post surgical eye bags 
This is the view she chooses for me
Her spaced-out medicated gaze
Introduces me to a slow drip of images
A ship turning 'round on choppy poison seas
A silence of dial tone on eternal hold, sloppy voice-printed
Admissions of indifference
Such diverse global movers & shakers
Join hands on Facebook
To maintain an innocent profile
With anti-social enemy media
The nerve to leave a paper plastic perjury
Trail


2*28*11


Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Sidewalks of Consciousness

JIGGLYFRIENDS,

HEY!!! IT'S ONE OF THOSE WEEKS THAT I FEEL LIKE TALKING IN ALL CAPS & SAYING FUCK A LOT!!!

INTENSE!!! EDGY!!! THAT SLITHERING UNEASE THAT MAKES MY HEAD THROB IN METALLIC HUES AND GIVES MY SPINE A PRICKLY SPIDERY CARESS.

IS IT THE 'T' ?  (maybe. I know there is a period of irritability on T)

IS IT BECAUSE WE'RE HAVING YET ANOTHER SUMMER OF VIOLENCE? (YES)

It could be many things. But what I notice is I feel more like my old self. Not the female self, per se, but the pre-nervous breakdown self.

I've already admitted to you that I carried a lot of anger around all my life, but when the "breakdown" happened all that anger turned into SORROW. GRIEF. HORROR. REGRET. PARANOID EPISODES. MONTHS OF INSOMNIA. AND BUCKETS & CISTERNS & FUEL TANKS OF TEARS TEARS TEARS TEARS THAT WOULDN'T STOP FLOWING.  

And I know that SORROW breaks down into COMPASSION. I'm an empathic person & I think I arrived on this Earth and had to immediately close up all the compassion centers in my porous nervous system. 

Well, I think in 2014 they were forced back open. And as excruciating as it was I'm glad I was broken down into sadness & compassion. It forced me to deal with my life. It allowed me to reconnect with my family after 11 years of estrangement.

But what about anger? It is a gross feeling. Certainly I didn't like being sad, but I was really thankful not to be so angry anymore. I noticed its absence right away.

I think about how angry I used to get--angry enough that I've kept myself off the streets at times. I think that in any one mile radius there are a handful of people who are angry enough to commit a violent crime. In any 2 mile radius there's someone angry enough to kill someone. And in any 10 mile radius there's someone who could go off & commit mass murder.

And we all get guns! Yay! And we all get to make babies without a license! YeeHaww!!! pow-pow-pow!

(Anyways…I kind of like that my snarky side has reemerged. I take it as a sign of healing. As long as it doesn't turn into T rage.)

Here is part two of the 'HOWL' tribute. [Allen Ginsberg would never write a poem this skinny & useless, but ENJOY.]

**********************


ANOTHER GIANT EPIC (this one only 6 pages)

Sunday: be receptive to joy without forgetting
Where the mines are buried.

Hollywood on parade tonite! Palm trees
Covered in rust, coconuts tasteful on the red carpet
Shallow haikus by the host,
"Who are you wearing?
Dolce & Gabbana.
Stunning."
Gowns like shimmering husks
Covering femininity up.

California in pre-wildfire glory
If I named my lovers after states,
You'd be California
Pure as fresh-rolled sushi
You have Hollywood eyes, a Yosemite smile,
Metacarpals of Death Valley
You have earthquake loins & joshua lungs
Kidneys that are hundreds of degrees
You are a desert heart
A sky-scraping spleen
A canyon to make a peninsula stiffen.
And I arrived at the port 
Of your gentle elbow,
Ready to be warmed.

Do I have a mapful of lovers?
No, only a few.
I have an Oregon, a Hawaii.
A New Jersey.
Shockingly South Carolina.
Metastatic Connecticut.
All those lovers, but no Colorado.
No shortness of breath in Boulder,
No sex sweat in Denver.

*****
Our spaceship grows rooms it didn't have before
We find lost items,
Treasures we thought we'd never see again
We walk in on card groups stubbing out cigarettes,
Embarassed to be found.
The house has cancer,
Growing like a crab in the attic,
Like pigeons in the bathtub, dirty
The plumbing has leukemia &
Lead poisoning & it would crush your skull
Over the adage,
"Pipes don't kill, people do."

Jury duty.
Third time.
I find you guilty of poisoning the city
I find you guilty in my auditory mind
You said, "SO??" in that tone that dissected my soul
You grabbed my neck &
Shouted, "I love you!" through your teeth
The truth in your eyes was victimization
I didn't name you after a state,
Didn't love you that way....

Stockholm Syndrome in the spider web
My paper-thin divorce gone through
Like a miracle,
Like a destiny only my open hand knew,
Only my coconut teeth tasted
"Sign here," said the red ex,
Green w/ jealousy.
Republican? Over-heated? Paint-splattered? Blood-soaked?
Thermometer heartbeat
Spills a projectile of Mercury
Your throat is broken glass
Larynx sliced beyond another song
Eyeballs calloused by all they saw
In just one lifetime,
You spill like cat piss on the welcome mat.

If lovers are states,
Family goes by city names:
Buffalo. Philadelphia. Who can I relate to
In the West?
Certainly not Boise.
So elitist!
Never Olympia.
Always, always there is Hollywood
And that's my family from now on
I answer to their adoption,
I'll reach around the stars & 
Bring them full-circle to rest
@ Forest Lawn Glendale
Where I worked on black, white, indigent, broken canvases
Where I applied for a job w/ no underware
Where the old guy in the red vest joked
That I was overqualified &
Then disappeared down the shag freeway.
The 405. The 101. The 110.
Three times a lady,
But most often a man.

&&&&&&&

Found in the formaldehyde forest
Taking care of your dead face
Making sure eyes didn't sink &
Mouth didn't leak.
Taking charge of your arteries
Not so attractive in their lifeless noodlefest
Slice thru & 
Bring me next the metallic nerve, 
Which remains intact
Then....like slicing cellophane
A blind incision in the vein
Hard to tell when to fold the blade like a laser
Or play your hand on all vessels
Aluminum precision, Sodium nitrate,
Pentathol cocktail, Oil rig truth serum
Slap those cards on the embalming table
Octopus inkstained headlines
Suctioned the life outta the Observer

*****
This is notably surreal.
What music played today
Auditory full house
System of a Down
Thank the academy w/ animation
Lesbian favors on cartoon TV
Thank the schoolmaster
For making you write "a hundred ways
To pretend you're not gay,"
Write the tell-all essay
Of being trapped in claustrophobic girl-flesh
Write the story of your pussy,
Which ruined your life, but helped you graduate
Magna Cum Secretly
A best-seller in dying bookstores
A robbery in space, the Pharmacy
W/ a gun to its gluttonous vault
A structure growing rooms & tumors
Scientist drug dealer legalese
The hero changed into a coward
A scarecrow's daughter, always in danger
Going up in flames while 
The treasured son smothers in the closet.

The flames need a 'scrip for 
Their paranoid visions
The cinders of celluloid 
No longer a cure for a million
Lonely masturbating eyes
Need something stronger
Get this neck off my shoulders
Get this universe off my neck
Helium anvil still in place
A blockage in the salt-mines of my brain
A Paxil pixellation,
Scrambling aversions into absolute indifference.

A scary uncaring mountain peak
A dog-doo snowcone national park disaster
A hole in your gray mushroom matter
Showing ecstatic traffic lights w/ wind & rain
A violent memory jarred by modern technology
Warns of your proximity to danger
You feel down the side of the mountain
Til fluorescent sherpas take your hands
And they lead only to jellyfish stings,
Rape in a churchyard, a carillon witness
Silent amongst condominiums
Even the penthouse unaware
When she was attacked in Episcopal moonlight...

She survived,
Became more fungus in your mind
Ugly like all the others at birth
But then...she was a moldy swan
And, bleached by stars,
Swam radiant toward the wheelchair fountain &
Sat there for eternity, while still going far.

******
Help me compose a TWEET
To my relatives in heaven
@deadflowers how much of a slave rape
Occurred on the plantation?
@gatorwhiskey you taught me to drink
Like a minor pirate cursing the 9th grade nest
@faghagsag secrets are lies of omission 
(Twitter is over capacity)

I will send no conversational cupcakes
To my new digital overlords
But I will always, always
Maintain a healthy dialogue w/ the sky
Our astro-holograph equations
Spelling & numerology & mathematix & geography
All baked together in one bomb
One cupcake bomb falling from the 
Space Station cafeteria...
And a radioactive lens scorching the Earth,
An errant satellite, going rogue
After intelligence data received
From hysterical Paterson mother
To Manhattan hearing Hitler's intentions
So many years later, still translating
Into alien subtext,
Then copied & pasted as 9/11.

Through music & words
The message tried to bake itself
Into my modern brain.
Starving, waiting in long lines
To witness a real rape
To see what I could call 
The things that happened to me?
Pisces/Scorpio/Aries/Leo formula
Functions to reveal a corrupt puzzle
Full of lab rat, low-grade,
Experimental savagery
5,000 odd-shaped pieces of truth
Reveal fingerprints all over me.
But blood?
A fractured trapezoid?
A traveling blister?
Trace the lineage,
Read between the jigsaw peices,
Check the dumpster for story books
All evidence linked to this case
Can be found in the nervous DNA,
The walls @ the YMCA,
The luminous pediatric Xray.


2 * 27 * 11


Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Streams of Concrete Consciousness

Hello Friends,

Oh my god I have a lingering case of techno rage & can't concentrate on work so I'm going to share, as promised, an EPIC POEM written in 2011.

This poem was supposed to be my attempt at a modern day 'HOWL.' It's an abject travesty of that. But it is still an enjoyable poem. It is 10 pages long, but it's skinny. Please try to have an attention span & finish the whole thing.

***Brief T Update*****

SO, it's my 7th month on T. Physically I feel strong & energetic & horny. I love the few, subtle changes I've undergone so far. I do wish this was going faster though. I look in the mirror & get very dysphoric about how fat & feminine I still am.

I'm having to fight the urge to return to disordered eating. I know it's an odd & terrible urge for someone of my age. It's gross & it's such a vain white Wasp-y way of thinking. But I am nothing if not the programmed robot of two WASP-y fat-phobic misogynist… robots.

Aren't I so brave for being honest? I'll let you know how it goes.


********************************

A LONG-ASS EPIC POEM IN THE STYLE OF AG THAT WILL SERIOUSLY COMPROMISE YOUR ATTENTION SPAN


He compared me to his mother
Doomed at forty, lost to her chaos
Doomed by medicine & steroids
Doomed by Hitler's echo & God's choices
All the things that terrorize us now
In her paranoid prophecy

Smile, for you are not doomed
No matter the phase of moon,
You have already won
Smile @ the same time every day
Because the universe watches
Like God & Hitler & the FBI
The universe has its eye on you
And knows your routine.

So in your spaceship life,
If you are a zombie at fifty
A rebel @ sixty
An assassin @ ninety
You can't let your day end gravity
Lure you below the stars
Where blackhole's latent skeletons
Light up every few years

You can't give up on ghosts of joy
Magic things like music will remain
As sparkles in the synaptic forge
Powerful words leave a breadcrumb trail
When you reach your next doomed decade
They'll whisper you to the exit

****

I'm the second or third generation of
Unwanted short-sighted predestined mediocrity
Wasted flesh, crooked spine,  cramped skull
And most tragically, the compromised heart
At the center of the shitstorm
Looking like a guilty strawberry,
An octopus w/ thorns.
We grow like weeds, we bloom like healthy roses
In the sun,
But in the shade of our chromosome garden,
We spew poison from secret stems
In our dream houses
We draw pisttols & patent the very hate,
The passive-aggressive moment
That brings the gun to life,
That brings death upon the crowd
Every few minutes in America.
We are programmed to do this.
Believing it is good.
Wanting so badly for our babies
To have better guns than we had,
For them to be better guns than we ever were!


Zigzagger through generations
Exaggerated in a microscope of loathing
The mothers & sons of denial
The fathers & daughters of rage
Kicking over shelves of evidence
The emotional biographies
Of parents, grandparents, robot librarians.
The non-fiction that guided me
Along thin icy rails
No magical forest clearings
Or romantic dancefloors...
Here is the platform
The rollercoaster will arrive
And you will be forced to ride
Even though your spine is crushed.

Over & over, the refrain of machine gun history
Tells her secrets, tells mine & his & theirs,
But hers are where we begin
A form inside an eggshell matrix
If she played her cards wrong,
My synapses got the blame
The robot in the rain, blinded by
Self-preservation
Assumed I was 'Ignu', or 'Humanitor'
(she was programmed)
In the sixth house, 
I memorized her hand
Jack-off Hearts & Asshole of Diamonds
The biggest loss, though,
The 5 of us Kids
Love never reshuffled
To withstand the next generation.

[You say 'Ignu' and I say 'Humanitor']
And we say the same thing
The shelf full of prescriptions 
Kicked down into hearts & veins
Holding families together w/ dextrose skin
Families on fire
W/ an elephant snout to hose them down
And the elephant remains deaf blind invisible
The elephant cries, "i'm not to blame!"
The flaming family replies, "You're insane."

Now here comes that little robot girl
She responds to praise & commands
Coming from afar, distant academies
Perceptions of love sex happiness,
Informed by strict hot wires
She skates gracefully through the marketplace
And knows how to replicate herself
A sweet little robot to hide behind
While she studies this buried hate & 
Plots the doom of her creators
Her replication took a wrong turn
And she brought to life a sentient elf

****
You were born deadmeat
A pink pepperoni infant
Detained by chromosomes, foreign rights 
Read silently by karma police
And before you could sing your
First anthem of protest
Robot-lady stole your vocal cords
Safe keeping in her throat
Destroyed by fire upstate New York
Always list the location of your echo,
Your generational footprint.
Transposing the letters to craft
Operatic mistakes, big erroneous typos
About your very own history
Egotistical trips through dark hallways,
Apostrophes in all the wrong places
Hunched before a posse'
When there's only one assassin
And she's standing at your window

Breathtaking view of history, hers & mine
The shallow dish where our DNA met
I remember the womb like a familiar tavern,
A place where I did a slow dance w/ speed
Because, you see...
I'm the abortion that speaks from the grave
The biohazard bin in your global clinic
I speak through the canula that sucks me away
Good bye to the matrix
Lose your alcoholic future drag-king miracle
Your precious little molestor of tomorrow
I robbed your house in 1985!!!
I am a formless blob
Asked to complete the tasks of a god!

The sweet lips of a robot 
Kissed me at night
The drunk lips of Humanitor,
I breathed in their vapors
Did she ever kiss her mother's drunk lips?
I kissed her Busch Bavarian
Aluminum beer can &
Blew smoke rings on her lap &
Loved it!
No robots aloud. Abortions only.

If she is the robot & I'm the abortion
Grandmother was a giant spider
Dusting her own angel figurine
OCD spinning, looming &
Threatening to upset the banana box
Grandfather an octopus...what the fuck else
Would he be.....?


I found YOU in the FSU library
6 or 7 magic floors of knowledge
Where I used to escape sorority stares, 
Fraternity gazes
The deadly library silence
Reeking of stale forest
A slight fairy decomp & mushroom spontaneity
No one was interested in being near the poetry,
Except me.
Robot abortion Tallahassee lassie 18.
I found you there & I saw
You had all the same favorite words as me
You were Whitman, as you remember him
Activating my new mind
You were Shelley as an Iraqi vet
Vietnam west fighting right now
To give me something to recount
You were telling the truth in the most
Beautiful senseless catastrophic even-toned way
And from that day called Mar14 '87
I promised to be a robotabortion 
Of prophetic words,
Like you instructed me to be.


****

In your cyber-gothic home
Where you were the only victim
I saw invisible 'round the corner
Your circuits burning
Your motherboard giving off little puffs of smoke
Not rings, but mini dynamite plumes
Those were your emotions coming thru
The only ones I ever saw in your crystalline visage
Those were the tears you cried w/
Tiny bleeps of sorrow or bitchiness

In your manmade retina,
You couldn't quite receive the data
The visual drama
That was my undoing
Relating abuse to authorities
To the ramparts o'er which we watched
To the red rockets' FAIL
I won't reveal your name, your age,
Your sexless religion
I don't want to see your face in court
Grandmother's spider eyes shine through
Genetic insect/robot tissue
****

No one's retina knows
What another man's retina knows
Period.
Don't spread your emotional disease
This goes for women, children, amputees
Your retinas may attend the gala,
The same optic venue reported back to the lens
But the travels into temporal lounges,
Cerebral backrooms, and frontal warehouses
All prismatic interpretations fly
Inward like Humanitor's wandering
Separate at this juncture,
For love will rarely translate
From the eyeball checkpoint

The headlines that most offend
Nowadays our planetary bitch gang-raped
And the billion-headed witness saw nothing
On chloroform & everyone busy w/ billiards
Pretending not to see.

Another robotic memory--
How I panicked I was going crazy
Mistaking bad depression for onset schizophrenia
I was ready, though
Ready to give in to the screaming
My heart wanted to be on the floor
A raw beating baby heart,
Aborted with the rest of the giblets
Words so transformative
I thought they could tell me to lose it
If I read them 3x over,
Then listen to R.E.M. 
Adam Ant was the antidote
A prescription to kick off the shelf
Pills spillt all over the floor
Like my heartblood
All sopped up w/ carpet, a human thing...

I threw away the book they
Made when I was born
A scrapbook of their early adventures
With their guinea piglet
You told me to do it.
They didn't get it.
She was a robot who couldn't shit & he was a frat boy w/ eyes.

I have his eyes.
His retinas.
No spidervision, 
Processed octopus-meat conceived
Terrorist guilt
None o' that behind these eyes
This lizard brain on loan
From a corrupt insurance firm.
Tell the location?
Never.
I have her throat, or she has mine
A joyless voice box that seeks
Revenge when next door's tools
Grind away my sleep...

An abortion's regret is neverending
(Look at all the togetherness & structure
We could've enjoyed)
Do parents matter, really?
Do their nerve strings hang us w/ purpose
Do they have renewed sexual urges
Butterfly ramblings decoded
In genealogical order
Simply by flicking your emotional switch
Which, like the G-spot, doesn't really exist


Can females string words together like beads?
Can they understand the equations that stitch the universe
Into its rightful patterns?
Can they have the same amount of fun
On an earth that doesn't love them?
Can they pray to a God
That purposely made them inferior?
I used to wonder if intelligence
Was truly in direct proportion
To anatomy nowhere near the brain,
I had a strong belief
That female happiness was just oblivion,
A slate wiped clean
And male happiness was the yardstick of bliss

Those were the breadcrumbs
That spilled from the platter of truth
Always the aborted youth
Remains years & years behind his peers
I know the hormone juice that squirts emphatically
Through closed endocrine corridors
Only leaking out when life & death are ultimata--
Swim for the big oval prize,
Or detatch from the matrix &
Bleed sadly on products, 
Made especially for monthly death?

360 cycles of loss,
An exorbitant amount of blood
Shed in the name of Humanitor,
Or 'Ignu', my favorite new word for you,
Y'all.

Most of you are not abortions.
Or robots. Some of you are.
But most of you are not.
Just Ignu. Humanitor.
Put here to enjoy! Fuck up!
Laugh! Fall in love! Get drunk!
Make babies! Fuck up more!
Work Play Drink Sleep Chores Die.
That's you & your complexity.
Your calendar.
Your agenda.

You don't realize how easily
You can lose your humanity
Become an octopus of guilt,
A robot of pain & denial
A spider of fractured vision
Or a walking talking abortion
Do you realize the paper-thin divide
Between you & I?
That six-lane freeway
Is a tiny balance beam in eternity,
Assured of your vertigo
In a busy, exciting galaxy like America
There are no floor mats. No cushions or springs.
Motion sickness plunge into a toilet bowl,
Black hole plumbing out your personal space.


Prophetic owl replaced
By spiders in her nest
A second generation of owls mechanized
To shred flesh from afar--
A strong beak w/ an urgent song
Generation three came to be
On a hateful breeze
Sperm floating, slow motion across the room
So deliberate & exclusive
No girls allowed
But androgen insensitive (or hooked onto speed?)
She broke all the nuclear rules, 
Shattered the family egg
Disgraced DNA pushed all the elevator buttons
And sent it through the roof!
A place so aloof, 
So close to the eye of the universe
No secret garden could grow up there
No dream house in the glare
The octopus in the manslaughter sky
His suction cups palming coins, playing cards
And silencing neon pink screams.


2* 26*11