Stream Of Derogatory Demagogical Delight

FRIENDS,

What's up in the O-diary? Just catching up w/ a backlog of creative writing that I need to share or I'll explode. Mostly daily streams of consciousness that seem worthy of being read. But also this summer I'm going to treat you to my epic masterpieces.

Back in 2011 I wrote a series of epic poems. I always wrote short dinky poems & I wanted to try to write something like Howl or The Odyssey or Romeo & Julius Caesaret. So I wrote some long poems and though they were not great I called them epic. And I shared them with you, and you actually liked them. So I'm going to share those again. Then….

I have written 4 new epic poems that are so epic they make Howl look like a haiku. I will share those w/ you this summer if I can get them all typed up by Sept 21. 

Sorry for not doing any new art. I know the kind of art I do isn't really considered "ART!!!!!!" in its newest sense. It leaves me wondering, 'Why bother doing art anymore?' I have made so much art in my life it's practically pollution. And yet I still want to tell visual stories.

We'll see what happens with art. 

We'll see what happens with the life it imitates.

This year has been a trip--I never knew I could feel so normal. Just when I'm about to become a freak on the outside I feel so normal inside. (No, I'm not calling trans people freaks, I'm just anticipating that that's how I'll be seen by some folks). I look forward to being confusing. Just don't shoot me.

I feel great. But there's this shadowy regret lurking. How did I waste decades of my life trying so hard to be something I didn't want to be? To make other people happier & more comfortable.

Cispeople: SICKO!!!

Transpeople: YOU'RE NOT TRANS ENOUGH BECAUSE YOU TRIED TO LIKE BEING A GIRL TOO LONG!!!!

[I'm writing a play about what's in your heads. I miss my early 30s when I was a true creative genius!! (It's okay, I'm not a genius anymore so it's not stuck-up of me to say I was.)] Remember,

Genius is often temporary

Sanity is always temporary

You don't get to keep that shit.

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STREAMS OF DEROGATORY DEMAGOGICAL DELIGHT:

Would you rather err on the side of paranoia, or be the clown full of bravado teetering on the cliff's edge? The clown is fun to watch for awhile, flailing and juggling and silently chewing the scenery. The paranoid's blather draws some disciples but alienates the largest portion of public pie chart. One fine day the clown's jagged axis takes a steep hike and down he goes, audience left gawking at an empty skyline. And the paranoid's poetry comes into focus as a neon brand of psychic self help scripture.  9-28-15  [AN OLD ONE!!!]

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Guns v. Cats>>>the purr report>>>the coiling recoil of a tail>>>swatting your shoulder out of joint>>>the catnip magazine loaded and shoved into place on the scratching post>>>stream of distemper and litter box rage>>>caught in the crossfire of knit ammunition>>>the intarsia pattern of probability>>>how many children in their fuzzy Fall sweaters will  catch a claw in the face>>>how many red blooded Americans will volunteer to loosen their heart valves around Thanksgiving by picking up that ball of fur and aiming it at their laps>>> 10-22-15  [another old one!]

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Excessive force from the spirit world. As opposed to a war in the flesh it is appropriate to bare all. To lay all your cards on the bathroom floor and wear your uniform in the shower. Unlike hand to hand combat there is only one mortal in the game---and you're it. In both types of war you must be on high alert, listening for bootsteps, crunching leaves, pindrops or IEDS. But spirits will show you pictures in your dreams, and you must follow their command. There will be no shouting sergeants or practice raids. Only a soggy pillow and the haunting sense of deja vu--you've done this before in broken frames. Now you have to do it in one take. 11-9-15

Fucking gorgeous!

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Found the missing photographs. My life when it was lived by others. Now I live with others, for others. Myself is another. Pour me one. Poor me…I'm too happy to belong to your sad massacre. I have obsessed over Memories & Mysteries like a 33rd degree Mason. Right in the middle of life when everyone else had cut those ties I went rappelling down into the core of my forgetfulness. The edge is impressive but the depths are where the answers lie & lie in tongue-tied wait for the gun the engine that could wait no longer. Treasure that glistened with indignity fooled me once, and saved me twice when it taught me to fish for life. What I've learned: fuck milk. Dip your Oreos in iced tea. 11-15-15

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We were not born together but we've met at an intersection that will soon be the crux of a brand new culture. You always lived in my right brain where nothing is real. You've migrated left-- and now I can feel you outside my skull. We share this brain so beautifully. I slosh around in the deep end. You stick your finger in. The results are the same. We both win. Hypodermic crotch-candy, epidemic bed wetness. Couch potato mash-up parade of slanted raindrops torn fluish mucus membrane ring finger unadorned but wrapped around two explosive tentacles avoiding legal channels calling 'here pussy, here pussy' til the double secret agent peeks through the crack and gathers intel your lopsided skull is perfectly functional deep in those trenches it still fires when enemy cells divide into three separate entities. 12-14-15

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All the purple velvet and artificial rainbows in the world could not prepare me for 1999. What an exciting time to be alive! And I'd waited so long, ever since the radio waves of 1982 turned my inertia toward this ultimate future. My century, nay my only millennium, was going to be cut from me. A juvenile malignancy. Of course in 8th grade I never thought I'd make it to that aurora borealis. I assumed I'd be viewing the Northern lights from the nosebleed-brain hemorrhage seats. Or I'd be the mother of twins--a single gemini child shy en route to the bash but full of the extra stardust that blesses double spirits. Making them sneeze so hard they transcend their very skin. It's not courage, it's their bonus strands of lavender nerve tissue. The metallic elements of our system braided and cabled, entrapping our human conditions; this single doublet carries the overload of information and releases it in the notes of a Billboard hit. 4-22-16

[A little something I wrote for Prince 6/7/1958--4/21/2016]

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All right. That's all I want to share with you today. I reached pretty far into the archives. You are welcome.