Zin Is A Type Of Vin

O' MERRY XMAS FRIENDS!!!

I hope this Xmas Eve finds you all drunk, stoned, in love, or at least not trapped at work with a heavy cold and 17 inches of snow between you and your yule log-infested hearth.

I've been meaning to check in at the Octopus Diary sooner, but friends… I have been getting so many hits from Russia that I'm downright paranoid about it. As you know 2016 was my 10 year anniversary of being an Octopus Diarist (you can read about it here). And I don't plan on quitting just because the Russians are either spying on me personally, or routing a fake news site anonymously through my blogspot address ---

----- OKILLAKATZE COMRADES!---------

but you know. These are silly fragile egg times. And though most of you shun diaryzing as something adults don't do, I will diarize the fuck out of 2017 because we face the reality of having our freedom of press taken away and 

I would rather die pressing freely than live w/ only freedom of speech as my means of getting across…

I have for you today an Epic Poem--now that Moonchild is officially a senior citizen he is eligible for colonoscopies. He is also eligible to be called MoonSenior. This long poem is about my time in the waiting room while he got his colon scoped. I've been writing such long poems lately & they get rejected by the presses for being too long. 

Small, economy-size poetry is in vogue these days. Long elastic odysseys are not. So I will share them here. Feel free to give me feedback if you can manage to read the whole thing.

Also--I have ART for you!!! Yes, I spent the Winter Solstice getting reacquainted w/ watercolors. But don't get too excited--they are just experiments. I literally made something from the rorschach stains on the palette paper leftover from my last painting (of Shelter Cat & Trust Fund Baby). But it was good to get the hands & wrists & brushes coordinated again.

Rorschach experiment #1  Pixel Pisses Off the Puscine Priestess

So here's the COLONOSCOPY POEM:

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

We are traffic drooling over the lip of sunrise

Who leaves these big gaps  2-3 car lengths untightened at lights

Texting "out of fuel" perhaps?

We turn and signal parkway pique;  once auto immunity's 4-door wall breaks, usually a surge in the stream of concrete

But speedy's distracted by copilot's 3" French caresses, cranking flow valve

To carb and nozzle to

Slow drip 

Now we've broken walls & laws no one saw

I agree to wait  [?]  hours in this snug McNugget box

Within  [?]  minutes

2 Trump cards shuffle in and slap gnarly hands on my arm rest/privacy fence

One believes her volume's set to Indoor but I endure this: 

I don't write anything from my own head,  just regurgitate content from 

Nooz-sites I believe in. One today re: Reagan calling from the 80s to put prayer back in school & she responds with a long thought from her own head! As if she knows everything!

To paraphrase, poor libtard network kin so brainwashed, reciting all the godless scripture of the classroom, babbling about progress when what we need is a brake pedal, a retraction

I mustn't misconduct this War on Conduct, wherein I'll need a brochure of trigger warnings after every intake of breath, that sublime feline tip off I'm about to claw your flipside to bits  Wherein sensual assault is no mere tone crime 

Bandaging my former armor's spastic knees, strengthening my anti-social core, softened turd-like by lack of use

I clutch my book like a steering wheel, words roll by my eyes but they have pirated one whole 

Brain hemisphere, filled my throat w/ fossilized frogs, 

All sphincters from anal to mental clenched around my spinal flagpole

Because these G-mas would have me carry stones 3K miles from home

To build a border so concrete in the franchise of consciousness

One could only stand before it & try to order tacos

Try to classify rapists, or outline some of the good ones in chalk

These old clucks muted by their own lack of authority, deafened by their

Blocked cockiness, silent bowels waiting to take the exam, 

Can't stop their liquid whisper's confluence 

Live-streaming into my well

Watch towering overprotective over families overvalued

But not appreciated

As if she knows everything!

These G-mas would stack pixels to add VIP room to the Constitution. They'd say it was the divine occult will of their departed Daddies who served 

Heroes, honey, forced Hitler to his hemlock hive

God's own image said the flag was sacred and not to be burnt in red-skinned blue-flamed white-hot protest

While those involuntary vaginas call it Symbol of our fatal design flaw, our flow of scoliosis, our unclasped, neckless genuflection, Daddy rises for the post-mortem anthem

For Him the new fascists cut coupons and throats, cut themselves off at the pituitary knees,

If you were black I'd color you all over & have you drink from the leaden fountain! 

If you were brown you'd be raptured back to Aztec temples, sacrificed to America's

Overnight jungle, to its overgrown honey-do, listing like a ship off a cliff!

And were you queer, you'd plead for Pentecostal boot camp--Make me in your atomic-saxon image!

Make *nameless genital configuration* swell!

O little old lady tilled by the patriarchy when America was ripe for

The pickin' of slim cotton dresses, linen winging it between fucks, 

When America was so well-fluffed everyone had a donkeyshow! Everyone had an acre of virgin g-spot soil!

Now general admission is an admitted mess

But these angels don't even sing in the shower

Before gassing the rainbowed gutter 

11-21-16 

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

Congratulations on reading that. You're good. I really hope this weekend is filled with love & joy for everyone.  2016 was one of those years that really rattled the scaffolding and threatened to collapse the structure, the jagged mystical steeple of an Illuminati that reached the pinnacle of its erudite elitism. Not the structure you were thinking, right?

Rorschach turned into self portrait

Anyway…I shuddered w/ dread to face the news of my world, my country each day…and yet…my life, at my house, in my head, was terrific. Fucking grand. I am happy to have my mind back, and I promise more art & less jacking off in 2017. But I am on alert, ready to take action or fight or flight whenever the time is right. No polite nazi here. Intelligent anger, no artifice, 'kay?

Installment Plan of Consciousness

FRIENDS!!!!

Here it is. The final installment of the Epic Poem. Yes, it is all one poem. I wrote it from daily notes I took while trying to …keep my mind distracted in 2015? Anyway it reminded me of Howl or some thing maybe Shakespeare would write. It's too long to submit to regular poetry places.

Luckily I can share it here until Trumpo & Putin come to silence me Pussy Riot style.

And, folks, enjoy it. Because for the next few weeks I will be concentrating on getting into optimal shape for surgery. That means I probably won't be sitting at my desk writing very much. So, yeah, this long long poem should get you through the summer.

TW: very very long poem w/ vitriolic nouns & verbal vinegar

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

OCT -- DEC

Part 4 begins w/ brain chemistry of fine silk

I'm finally drunk on oxygen

A bunch of angry guys claim they were raped by sorority sisters

I choose to believe

But I can't take the journey into light for them

A waning smirk of moonlight, too cowardly to lead

I expect to be punched not kissed on the lip

But there was the kiss--sent to my inbox

My face was dusted for prints of disbelief

A smear, a campaign to lure me from my cave?

3 million 4chan orphans displaced from their basements, Can we give them asylum? Change their diapers between

Games? (collect their baby pictures from the mantles of their mental health)

Will they find new hide-outs in younger mothers' wombs?

My skin erupts in lesions just thinking about it. Sunspots, indoor cancer. I can't combat the rash of refugees. FU Jesus, I choose to read the enemy's manifesto. To know him as I knew myself at the console of my inguinal triangle.

An epic hallucination, young hive-master! Low-fiving all reset buttons to childhood. Fetushood if possible. Separation of church and sperm.  Integration of egg & stake. All over my hand like lava. Just wait 3 weeks. 

(20 days to be exact--new egg anatomy is external jelly with shell embedded. New egg law = must soak in saline cup until man woman & census takers agree there's room for one more)

Resist the moon-colored half-tablet

You may still be the star of YouTube's panic attack culture, for yours are rare gems not just pearls clutched for attention. Well, that was my nervous break, off to the clubs now!  Cancel my sympathectomy.

Bitch be trippin in her own ego boots. I roll my eyes that barely qualify as art supplies. With my own pastel brown I doodle more bloodshot, heart-tattoo eyes. I forget to breathe at the psychiatrist's & she charges extra for my monotone hysteria.

I just met my family again. I remember them. New people in there now, some young ones with the same pastel eyeballs I got in the genetic whirlpool app auction. Unnerving feature film so familiar yet utterly foreign (& subtext buried next to its open wound interpretation). I wanted to be the highest octave of Iroquois DNA but my lilting jewel-tone heart particles will go on.

I'm packing my 2-spirit suitcases & taking flight, Across the highway--a phallic trajectory in my second class seating chart citizenry. Why do I always sit by the tall guy, the loud chick, the farting asshole, the fat lady on the snake-bodied plane? Why do they always have to sit next to the compact perfectly polite silently judgmental prick?

Psychotronic interference on a dead doctor's birthday, the curse still hangs in the air. A sword of Damocles edged into a twist above the toilet. You never noticed it there before, hanging by a thread of your own hair. And did you notice the frog in the bowl before it menaced your bits like a rubber missile? You laughed, the curse is lifted!

Now you may walk out of jail. Into a sun-drenched paranoia, roomier than orange jumpsuits but still your throat's zipper tightens. You close the deal in a beige handshake bandage room. The sterile hugs, the remains of a Japanese lunch in your teeth, let's get this done. My brain ballooning like a buyer's market in technicolor popcorn bursts. My past haunted cement gun meadow grey.

The new neighborhood is not a kinghood, clergyhood or mayorhood. Already uncovered lesbian hearts on both sides &  oh my, a gay couple walking their mop dogs. A pox on our community? I wait for the signs. Stop octagons bonding with unholy suds. Stick figure vaginas v. full feature length penis film. Transgressive cult v. wholesome family. 

There will be no close-captioned karaoke in this subdivision. My own mind ghetto gentrified even if Billy Bob remains behind the fence. A ghost w/ a leafblown intelligence quotient, pouring gasoline on the notes that come from my throat. Busy red-necked ghost, busy busy body, industrious & loud about it & constant as a black dog panting and skirting the body fence, liberally musking my personal property line, panties drying in the sun's pre-paranoid glare.

A panther & a snow leopard displaced from their privilege by ghost dogs. We must remember to honor ghosts. They are most unruly when they are feeling snubbed, shut out of the awards ceremony. We would be nothing without the post-traumatized spirits left here as bellhops for our human baggage bondage felineage chimpanzeal firearmature! MARTYRDOM!  DIM SUN!  Create more roles for dearly departed supporting souls!

 [Post mortem gentrification of their timid zoo exhibit safe spaces] Relocated to a new cage. Strange scent. Sharky texture, taste of other panther dander in the air. These fierce cats dive whisker-first into the sand, into the leopard-spotted arms of Mother Nature.

Glitching rosettes make an artificial animal print. Botched gardening job marketplace for code farmers & seed hackers. I used long chains of ridiculous words to keep the curse from crossing the highway w/ all my treasured mortal contraband. I crossed my fingers and toes and hair, praying uptightly that my luggage-baggage hybrid cherished its carousel moment in a fluorescent aura'd concourse.

Build a wall of American babble! Tall words from the Bible--use thee & thine conservatively, beget a liberal nubile, sayeth unto airport security, 'break a non-stop leg.' Continuity of literal & figurative skeletal structure. Stick figures in the freezer, to microwave later in favor of full feature length meal. 5 courses. Gate 11C. 

You don't appreciate your mind until its gone. Neither do I.

I'm so blessed my mind came home & I fed it fish. I had sex w/ it and we listened to the radio's smoky echo. You have a filter and I doesn't. You have fiberglass between you. I have no barrier between worlds, physical or meta. My mind called the dj when the song was done saying fuck, you should be a bartender or somethin man, a microphone guru, a reversion therapist. Monday comes and I tell it to get a job. It writes poetry into a computer & tests it for lead and other poisons. Botulinum, oleander, plagiaristic ivy fibers.

Magically the karma juggles itself & I jack off to a higher authority while my mind watches. One thing is, today requires white male wasps to mention masturbation. I jack off. I jack off. I jackoff. Congratulate me. I can handle myself. Watch, mind-witches!

I won't debate magic. It has no captions. It's not smart enough to understand itself; magic is its own sexy assistant. How did the clowns become Republicans? They were the original tiny car people with so much parasympathy. They were bottle vegetarians, corn worshippers by nature, and the females' menstrual blood is blue, just like in commercials.

How did they become red-face black-blooded meat-worshipping anti-shamen in just eight years' time journey? How public-served the platter of media-built Femicrat hedonism, destroying all fragile male china egos on the tile floor?

First heart-boulder passes from my body like a kidneystone. An arduous journey through tollbooth nerves. Every micro-inch a toll, ever fibrous mile a scalpel dragged across the land, manifest surgery. Big pulsing emerald in your chest, treasured only a few months before inexperienced father orchestrated rage robbery. Birth-heart stolen but a new jewel crushed under the weight of your carbon inhale, waiting to be coughed up in the name of love.

Unpack your Samhain candy from its wrappers. Your treasured sugar weakness has got you through many job interviews, past your tollbooth of teeth so orgasmically. No exaggeration, sugar ten times sexier than cum. And no sweet baby candy lottery liability, never knowing what you'll get.

Give your candy flu to perimenarchaical children, banging your Westminster door/clock chimes. You think they have no idea how their skin feels against your eye. But they love every squirm of your gaze. Subconscious innocent level of a game called human nature 4. Play now. 

Tear through the ionized wind in your golf cart limo, open to clowns but occupied by detergent-white beachfront I-can-afford-to-be-eccentric look-at-me, but-not-too-closely privilege. Eccentrics are out early today, like the homeless. They lean against my denial, clowns tied to Salem circus tent stakes.

Children, you're not yet 3-D. Prince of yourself! Duchess of true evol future link asexual asylum homoerotic solution to one percent beasts v. 99 problem angels. Kings & queens of Darwinning, the -ism of the chosen, risen from templates only dreamed of in blogspots, only available through underground surgeon hand me ups in the past operating waiting birth defect peasant room. To coin a bitter phrase, these sacrificial angels come in SASEs. 

Lick the skin's torn zeitgeist envelope, from throat to inguinal triangle autopsy, a corner officer whistles at traffic flown against the coroner's octagon of stop. Stop unzipping in the news from a gunshot's inner untold ballistic behaviour. Bits of centipede coined on the sidewalk. Segments step off, mind the crack, untrained, deplaned, uber alles.

Brown November is a raw unloved nerve. A wonderland without production. Lilliputian & silver-leafed, mental angel snow not yet fallen on your marriage. A 30-day headache planted phantoms in uterine cortex, remembering the dawning of your estrogen, your incipient monsterhood. When I was 12 I wanted to be left-handed so badly I almost contracted incurable epilepsy switching right brain bulb on. This girl blinded herself w/ Drano in late adolescent spring. I drank a crystal mixture to end it all, Drano in November '88 election Fall.

Never forget. She is someone I'd like to be friends all over. Between with and without, I'd be her within. As long as I am without me forever. And him to future along, like space luggage.

Body Integrity Identity Disorder before Racial Dysphoria? We'll see at the next Mental Illness Olympiad. 

Illness around as long as brains. Brains came from cum inside and after eggs. I am channeling ee cummings for once. This is almost impossible to do. Thank you all combos of my triplicate code which I won't reveal to hackers uninvited. Undisclosed. Dislocated.

There were defects in the very first assembly line in Heaven and we can see them today, still on our roadways. Our visible growth plates so medium-sized our egos can hardly bear to look. The counted calories of evolution, the hatchmarks of how tall our generosity, our eggs so alone in their wide personal space berths.

Our HiQs and Mensa muscles are being destroyed by the print media low brow mogul bullying from inside publications that promote self-scrutiny and drunken consumerism. My mind is menstruating all over the map. Mouth down under drooling opiate necklaces, masses of platelets tip-toeing tectonically from great facial invagination. My lost tooth loses no uterine pulp. Pure, clean, genderless blood to the eyeball barrister, only a microscope jury reveals the deep XX impurity. Even hormones of god won't fix that!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Trans men & their liar bios. I can't be stealthy, I bleed from wherever all over the couch. Onto cheap squares of cotton sewn by children into the core of my being. All my emotions in that spillage. Never once cried until 2014 levee breakage leakage fractured eye socket bio. Made and broken in Taiwan bio, graphic alliterative anime bio. I'm not proud but I'm covered in egg. Humbled by boys I never knew as girls, as they know my ugly embarrassing ancient pronoun life w/ the most dishonest autobiographical deadname telling the story of a lounge act whore. With that name hunting me down everywhere eyeballs were? Storing data about my failed feminine attempts.

Enjoy it. Slurp it up, boy-bitches! You are not the enemy but you humiliate me anyway. And I'd rather be body-murdered than ego-shamed. Guess who'll kill anyone who uses 'butt-hurt' in a sentence-- the Governor of your own for-profit prison system. The more you trap yourself in your wonderland of hate the more you can pocket all the time and watch every chronic addict trapped in zipperspace, cyber solitaire aquarium, buttonhole prophet dimension. Still roaming in a black out, a planet foreign as a country on a cruise you never took from a port of call you never made to your mother about that recipe for noodles. Enjoy it. Slurp it up.

Edit me out of this place, Magic Carpet Cab Co. My address covered by your insurance, on your beaten persian pathway. No zeros, ones on this triplicity's civic search engine. My memory's a three layer lasagna for visual learners, or garage surf salary for the auditory special needs aka annoying other mothers' loin fruit recipe. Figure out this 3-line enigmatic stanza generator.

Skate away w/ me on the brown ice of post apocalyptic Thanxgvng. Magic carpet GPS delivered me to a doorstep vaguely sadistic, no definitive landmarks announce my homecoming, I ring a doorbell, a family answers & invites me in. I have two thumbs, an eye, a heart, maybe even a spade. Passing as human again.

I cut back on my meds, have a girl scout cookie, drug-choice of childhood. Fetal lemon bars sucked & pooped past homunculus umbilicus. Newly minted, chocolate smeared, news delivered in envelope skin next generation clairvoyant in that artificial manner. I laugh because once I foretold the news & now I'm supposed to respond.

I didn't have the psychic chromosomes, I had to write them in. My own liberties left a long empty line for character assassination. Or spontaneous religious combustion. I call my alter companion personality. My first amendment freedom fighter on a blastocystic level, founding fathers down to their cell walls. Exploding in print across the pond in Paris, then the most vicious Dear Jacques letter, sprayed w/ a perfume of gun powder, cauterized flesh.

The romance farted & died.

A "transgendered" luncheon I hardly remember w/ my lasagna brain. How many "transgendereds" have Jesus, have always felt Jesus, when I could only smell the death of man in any moldy Bible cobweb church pew tomb. I need to get home to my toolbox. Some assembly prevents suicide. Give me privilege or give me death-meth-math-mothballs-huge inheritance-thanks grandma.

Did Vin survive Juliet's nervous breakdown, or was it his all along? If I keep writing long elastic automatic assault paragraphs like this one we may find out before another mediapocaplyse distracts us from squirrel sunset leafblower corroborated horror story on a frontpage porch to the south, I read this whole life sentence & nobody yawned, nobody ranted, nobody posted how blessed on Facebook, brag about being horny again, off the SSRI nightmare circuit, you reflect the ideal orgasm candidate. Poster child for rubbing & rubbing & tugging & growing number. A vertical tear. A lateral wardrobe change, a skin costume graft & even Goodwill won't touch your social leprosy. 

I must be responsible for sounding the trigger alarms I know I will trip in so many pretty heads. You can't do that parallax twilight see/monkey saw zone life sentence episode. Season six forever. You have been warned, I expect no flowing of diagonal citizen crocodile cop tears. I expect lateral cooperation -- I am a student trapped in a professor's body.

Ghost was a blowjob queen. She boos & hoos all night about the chore. It's all ghost-poet gibberish, it comes out paranoid, a bouncing paycheck of vocab babble, vernacular tabernacle cackle. Walls surrounding american family life. Ding-dong! Edit the evolution. We must go faster for we should've been there by now.

Edit the elastic parameters of poetic justice, license platelets. No plasma gravy w/ art in our time. Dinner time! Come & edit the errors, enlarge the algorithms of success! Use exclamations for utmost urgency. What Chinese exclamations tattooed on the bud-tender's arm length? Beauty! Motherhood!

Beasts. Fairy tales told to knocked up teenage women of any plastic terminal number. I order a strain of chronic pie so potent. I order an ounce of perpetual crumbs, a stay at home calendar, lost before I could crack the packaging. Bonding with nature in synthetic fibers. Congratulations on the mists of your oblivion!

Stoneybrook the institute for the Study of Masculinities. More than one kind of man? The gun kind? The baseball kind. The preacher kind? The disappearing kind? The magician, Pope, king? That lean power hunger turned to fat in the business factory? Dad factory too(not as many safety regulations as mom's disputed suicide birthday factory) The 80% in Congress, the 99% of the 1%. Pacman minus sliver of pie story is his. We make his story pun at her expense? Or we pay her to be our friend/wife/prostitute for eternity? Blowjob dad dude babysitter lover, rose petal begrudging against wallet pocket bulge not rushed by blood, thirsty for penetration of mob mentality, not that bulge, oh no… I meant the distant bulge of the 11th dimension Y chromosome curiosity dictating pattern of human evolution…

Never ask me to believe you are the victims, victory speech troll venom. We all fucking win. Gender studies as a stanza--how's that working for ya? 

Inability to think thoughts that have any neural traction. Every thing must come by divine insight or be totally overlooked. Alzheimer's Eve. Making sense is something I never was good at. Song lyric bird nest alphabet soup endorsement from a high friend, in places we never ought to insert our espionage.

Friend request from a little fucker I haven't seen in a long time--let be fwend!! I was always your friend, mate. You let go of my smile, my hand-picked summer. I had to replace you w/ cherries. It sucked, so sour to the triskadelic heart valve twisting aperture into your fresh sushi mind. I love you, it's nothing more complicated than that. You are the one I would be if I were born in your place. Simple as that.

The Last Few Suppers of The Year bring poisoning. Ghost germs & vampiric bacteria won't die under acidic duress. So back up the bulwark they flow, oystering vomit valve in paroxysms, rewinding the last few suppers and dropping them in the return slot. What's that? Anachronism. Someone wrote this poem long after I did. Someone rewound a Pollack in the bathroom at an auction. Depreciation at its finest hourglass figure. Slash salary.

Itch from the auction last hourglass shower, undulating lemniscate of skin, it retracts claws, licks infinite landscape of cell growth in favor of laser expensive hijinx technique. Itch for the trigger, be your own undoing, the leaning lurching listing tower of Belle Reve. But the finger landed on a trigger in California…

San Bernardino cubicle terror. Radicalized accountants. Obedient wife & weapon between desert & ocean gap. Pay with your blood for being dickish american money monks. Keys to abandoned house--leave baby out of it! Bring more guns to focus, cameras to wear like journalistic mind insulation. And we got'em & their secrets dead too lying silent, never again tweeting like stool pigeons. Shit doves. 

Learn a lot from terror seminars. How to use "upsell" tactics. From shit-covered cross sections of wildlife to all Allah entitlements covered by extravagance insurance, you will appreciate at auction. Under [preferred god] beauty is no longer "feminine" Comedy is no longer "masculine" 

How we tell who we want to fuck? It's up for debate. Live scripted television chowder-headed chutney-faced debate. From this pool of infinite lemniscating genius figurines. Not a famous poet or photographer among them, though our most recent national embarrassment knows how to paint. He cleanses his karma with linseed oil. So far it's working. 

I know how to undo things.

I am a famous poet, a rocket scion test subject, I am someone who says 'I am' all day long, I am this, I am that…hear my voice in the next paragraph, like Wonder Mike in Rapper's Delight, spilling my guts, big bold automatic thought noodles. So no one accepts these empty bliss baskets

Blessing bags w/out socks, or whiskey. Sounds of cursing on the curb.

I was expecting an older gentleman!

I am an older gentleman.

NO!!!! Nooo. You're a lovely young lady!

And there go my radiance & confidence in matching foot-hurt steps to the Twilight's eerie anti-tune, zoned for horror but lying within deed restricted limits. I read for the Long Boat Key crowd, then knock myself out of the park, Hindu cushion, ersatz post modern foreskin…

…this foreshadows what's to come. Tarantula venom. A real toll for the burning bridge behind you and you pay with patience decades long, and you pay again with money, continuous wads, no lump sum for the body gods. You pay again w/ dignity, your guinea pig status hung low on the totem pole's scrotum. And you pay once more with the knife, good old time travel blade distorted shapes and cookie cutter scars for life. Faded memories meow from the Xmas void. Past presents, we ask and tell our parents for hours. Conjure future-shaped saint relatives.

I can't catch the slung shrapnel of arrows but I have a strange new forcefield now. Field of aroused sprouts, herbs & succulents. Keeps me immune to stink eye, beak-play, public execution, for unlawful carnal knowing, displayed in splayed tarantula stockade, cross-hatch crucifix unstunk by eye contact from this future of folklore that couldn't possibly walk in the flip-flops of Mesopotamia. 

Cradled callous in foreskin forcefield footwear, your keratinized journey kernel bursting open in vertical tears along the horizon, your cognitive counter-melody, your powerful & aroused human traffucking, leaving the garden lush, warm plastic snow in a Xmas globe. 

6-8-16

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

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