FRIENDS,
How are you liking this rain? I am loving it. I hope you are too.
I also hope you're loving this storm of carefully arranged words I've been dropping on you. The drought is over, sort of. I still don't have any art. I sat down & tried to doodle the other day & I couldn't even draw a face. How the fuck does that happen? Kind of like how I forget to how to play guitar if I stop playing for 2 weeks. The I have to learn all over again.
Bizarre. I wish I could pull my brain out & look at it & tweak the parts that are malfunctioning. But alas, I don't have that kind of access to the inside of my skull. I hope you all do.
Here's some Streams of Standing Rainwater rolling down the streets of your selfhood:
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Months without dreaming then this: a saturation of color bombing the pillows. Panning back and forth across a timeline only recognizable as mine because the dream data was in place. Embedded somewhere below the images was the script. There is clutter in my head I cannot access til I sleep, and this morning I swept and swept. I'm cleaning the hoard of several decades. The grief hoard. The identity hoard. The ways I can't afford to think anymore. Even the kittens and butterflies whose fleeting antics kept me distracted from larger beasts' authority--they've run out the door. The brush of the broom would break their wings, disrupt their whiskers. Antennae so sensitive to evolution. The straw that broke the kitten's back? A pin-drop from an old black hole. A drop of hormone on the floor. 1-29-16
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The history of WEIRD: Before, it was living in a freakshow of a body but having a sound mind. Then, it was having enough dough to buy the freakshow. It became throughout the ages something to hide behind suit & tie. At times it was something to flaunt. With just a touch of genius, madness was a way to make a living. In this Gregorian future, weirdness is alive and well, taking many cloud-like shapes. Let's have a peek through the screen:
He's ugly and alone--weird!
She's not afraid of her own mind--WEIRD.
It's been four years since he got laid--sad. But weird!
She prefers the company of cats. Or dogs. Or ferrets. Or donkeys. Way fuckin' weird.
He or she has done a lot of drugs and survived the flat line of the soul. Groovy, wild, high-five, you're really fucking weird, man!
She was born male but has volunteered for that ultimate pay cut. Too weird for my taste.
He was born female but thinks he deserves a promotion. Not cool at all, man. Get the fuck outta here before I show you who's boss. 1-31-16
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I've been having a torrid affair with my subconscious lately. Don't tell anyone, but I've had dreams as lucid as Tokyo for a straight week. Not the crescendo of nightmares that wouldn't stop for the sun, wouldn't stop for anything but the soft yellow pill. These are the dreams my brain was born to produce. Character-driven with SPF/X so hi tech they can afford to be subtle. They don't insult the intelligence of the dreamer. And the porn…so saturated with tenderness for the whole person. Not -centric. No harem of Barely 18 15-year-olds getting plunged & squirted in the face by the Lord. Hetero-scripture is a gospel too sad for candlelight. But I know what love is, I know what it looks like. Pitch black with dancing neon pixels. Press your meaty hands against your eyelids and listen. That is love. 2-1-16
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Hey! Punxatawney Pete here. Strapping on my microphone and my ice skates. Waiting for Pittsburgh Philomena and Philadelphia Pris as they prep for their supporting roles. My co-anchoring concubines need a lot more work than I do, what with the face spackle the eye paint the nose shadow the chin waxing the Brazilian deforestation the eyebrow flagellation the mascara (oh please don't skip the mascara) the lip grease the nail residue the boob scaffolding the bling fix-it the wardrobe fire drill the test shots fired at the spectacle until it's viewable annnnnd….the clitoral rhinestones. It's a helluva an effort for our team of special effects rodents but it sure makes me look like a vision of authority, a streamlined no-nonsense news messiah, a voice of reason between two eager-to-agree beavers….AAaaahhgghhhh!! What's that? Six more years of backlash before history has its Hegelian synthesis! 2-2-16
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Can I write inside this tube? Will I hear my own thoughts beneath the headphones blaring "Chicago Now!" Morning responds to the news break: airplane hole leaks 55-year-old death passenger. Fuzzy exotic animal curls up with 99-year-old sleep citizen. The murder of 13-year-old Match.com liver transplant recipient child was committed by slut-shaming 18-year-old athlete nova and complicit dick-whipped amateur grave-digging 19-year-old female. Suicide bomber v. female suicide bomber. Stripper v. male stripper. Pocketbook v. manbag. "It" v. "they." One is offensive; one is trending. The only one offensive to me is "she." 2-3-16
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Floors made of fire, sidewalks of ice. Just keep the dirt swept under the rug. Good work if the wind can find it. Roof tops made a statement, ceilings closed the argument. No one gets through the door without an exclamation, "Why this is so unfair!" Heart's made of seafood, brain's made of gravy. I could load the boat with bananas but I'd choke before I slipped on the peel. Head over gristly heel, hand over succulent fist. What is your name? Cut like a cookie from the master dough boy? No. I am not shortening, I'm a brand new breed of bread. My name means wine in French; yours means moon in ancient Greece. Have you ever drowned in ammonia? Have you ever shot yourself with the opposite sex? 2-6-16
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Okay, that's enough for now. Like I said, I write a paragraph of gibberish every morning when I wake up. So maybe that's why it seems like it doesn't make sense & you hate it. Have you ever considered that?
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